He’d been as open with her as he could be. He hadn’t confessed he’d stolen Mr. Hawthorn’s oxygen tank during Jack’s week of being “cool.” The rat hand job was an embarrassment. His brush with crime and moment in jail shamed him to his core. It still baffled him that fitting in had been important enough to him that he’d dropped his morals and had hurt an old man just to feel part of a group. Clementine had marveled that Jack had forgiven and hired Darrin and Dale. How could he judge others when he’d been just as heartless?
No. He didn’t want to tell Clementine about that. But he wanted her, more acutely than he’d ever wanted a woman. A normal, no-strings affair would be tough to fit into his unforgiving schedule. And nothing about Clementine would be no-strings. She affected him, deeply. Every real detail she’d shared about her past had felt like a hard-earned reward. If he had to guess, he’d say she didn’t reveal herself often, if ever.
He closed his eyes and tried to relax into his mattress. A muffled clang sounded, and he tensed.
The nurse? His father? Chloe awake and scared? Anxiety tightened his stomach. It wouldn’t be Colonel Blue. That old boy never left his bed, his arthritic joints happier pillowed by the cushioning. Jack’s overtired brain could be the cause, but his chance of sleeping would be nil without checking on his father.
Too sweaty to bother with a shirt or socks, he padded out of his room and down the hall. Chloe’s room was quiet except for a song drifting out. He’d suggested she sleep to music, a trick he’d used as a teen, to focus on the notes and lyrics instead of upsetting thoughts. He hoped it lulled her the way it had him.
Their parents’ room was silent. His mother still slept there often, but after the previous night’s drama, with the nurse coming for her and waking Chloe, she’d decided to stay with her husband in the nanny’s old suite. It was on the main floor, at least. No stairs for his father to climb, but it was sequestered from the rest of the house. If Chloe woke up scared, no one would be close by. Probably why she’d concocted the window story.
He’d just make sure his father was okay…and maybe pour himself a finger of whiskey. A nip to take off his edge, quit worrying about random sounds and the nagging thought that today was the last he’d see of Clementine, who had a habit of running away from him.
He held the banister as he descended the stairs. Moonlight filtered through the windows. The chandelier absorbed it, refracting blue-black diamonds across the foyer. The cool, polished marble felt refreshing on his bare feet. He held his breath, listened for sounds. Nothing. He passed through the kitchen and den, down the long hall that led into the former nanny’s quarters.
He poked his head into the room and exhaled. His father was sound asleep, as was his mother, who was on the floor. On a mattress on the floor, but she was sleeping beside Blue. Jack had ordered another bed for the room. It wouldn’t arrive for a week.
Their night nurse noticed him and startled, pressing her hand over her heart. Agatha mumbled something about Jesus and shuffled toward him. She dragged him out of the room. “Almost scared me half to death.”
He crossed his arms, suddenly wishing he’d put on a T-shirt. “I heard a noise. Wanted to make sure he was all right.”
“He’s fine as long as he doesn’t catch you in here. You know he didn’t want you staying over.” Even whispering, Agatha’s tone commanded attention. At five-foot-nothing, thin as a rail, she could intimidate. Exactly the type of nurse he wanted caring for his father.
He hunched lower and quieted his voice further. “So you didn’t hear anything?”
“Not unless you count your worrying. Think they heard that in Canada.”
He chuckled softly. His mind really was getting away from him. Lack of sleep wasn’t helping. Listening to his father puke his guts out last night had also taken its toll. There was no way he’d have heard his father tonight, across the estate from this section of the house. The nanny’s wing had been designed for privacy.
He scratched his chest. “Guess I’ll be on my way.”
Agatha patted his shoulder and resumed her reading position by Maxwell’s bed. Jack watched his father a moment, happy to see him peaceful. He dragged himself away and headed for the library, drawn by the whiskey in their wet bar.
Outside of the Monet disaster, Clementine had never fumbled a job. Not even her first heist. Lucien had been with her that day, watching that she followed his instructions.
Glide, don’t walk.
Stop and listen.
Move as quietly as a whisper.
If the Hulk busted into the David’s home, he’d be more whisper-like than Clementine.
Breaking into the estate had been child’s play. She’d parked in a deserted barn a mile away, then hiked up to the house. Thanks to Whichway’s nonexistent crime rate, the Davids didn’t set their alarm. Clementine had used their massive bathroom earlier, ensuring the window was ajar. Unfortunately, she’d neglected to move the scale that sat nearby.
She may have been dressed in black, “sneak socks” fastened over her shoes, gloves on, hair tightly secured. The uniform didn’t keep her from stepping on the scale’s corner. A loud crack had rung as it slammed back to the floor. Silent as the Hulk.
She waited long enough to ensure no one stirred, then slipped into the foyer and down the spiral staircase. Although dark, her headlamp illuminated her way. No need to stop and get her bearings. Exactly why she didn’t break into homes without scoping them first. She knew where she was going. She wouldn’t fumble again.
She reached the last stair, strode toward her target, and her light skimmed over a photograph. She hadn’t noticed it while following Jack to his sound room earlier. She’d been too busy freaking out. The image stopped her in her tracks now. It was a harmless photo—one of Jack dressed as Elvis, performing on stage. He looked younger, his shoulders not as broad, the cut of his jaw softer, but the devilish look in his eyes was all Jack.
Bold Jack. Good with his hands Jack.
Uncharacteristic tears sprung to her eyes.
Heists were never personal. She might date a man, make small talk and get to know him, but a barrier always existed. The past week with Jack: running, talking, meeting his reptiles in his fabulous shelter, spending today kissing, talking with his sister and mother and learning about his tough teen years…it had gotten very personal.
The awareness gave her heart a fierce tug. Thank God she’d ensured Jack was at his own home this evening. If he was here, she’d be tempted to slip into his room, strip out of her sneaky clothing, and crawl into his bed. Learn him. Touch him. Feel real and known.
Unrelenting desire shook her, and those tears threatened to fall. Pretty much the worst timing to cry. Clenching her jaw, she adjusted the long tube latched over her shoulder. The forged canvas was rolled inside. That was why she was here. Not to fantasize about impossible things. She swiveled away from the picture. Too fast.
Smack went her tube into the photo. Down it tumbled.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The carpet absorbed most of the sound, but she stared at the cracked glass, razor-like air nicking her throat. She strained her ears and listened. No sounds replied. Sweating like a rabbit at a wolf gathering—why was this house so damn hot?—she rehung the picture. They would notice the two cracks. Nothing to be done about that. But they wouldn’t notice the forgery she planned to slip into the Van Gogh’s frame.