The Family Jewels Read online

  No, she’d taken the wallet because, as crazy as it seemed, she wanted to take a piece of him with her. Something she could look at on those days when she felt nothing but defeated and remember how wild and alive she’d felt in his arms, dancing around that room, matching wits with him.

  She glanced behind her again before tucking her forefinger beneath the flap and tearing open the envelope. With a quick tug, she freed the silky card inside and read the single line of text.

  Keep it. It was worth every penny.

  -J

  Her pulse clamored wildly as she held the note to her chest. It was vague, but intriguingly so. One thing seemed clear. He wasn’t angry at her, and that relieved her mind way more than it should. But his words could be translated so many ways. Did he mean the dance was worth every penny? Or their time together? Or the fact that she’d unintentionally flashed him her cookie when she’d landed?

  Whatever the case, there was no question that she’d spend hours --maybe even days-- trying to decode his message, and wouldn’t that be a fun distraction. But whatever he’d meant, she’d clearly left an impression, and the thought warmed a place inside her that had been cold for far too long.

  “There’s a deuce at table four for you,” the hostess said as she tottled past, toward the kitchen.

  Sadie nodded absently and tucked the card into her apron. Obsessing over a man she’d likely never see again wasn’t going to pay the bills.

  Guilt stabbed at her as she realized while she was all gooey and giggly over some stupid flowers, her sister was prepping to get her feeding tube. It was time to drill down and focus. She’d work tonight and then head straight home to work on a new plan of action. Waiting until the fifteenth was out, so that left only one alternative as far as she could see, and that gave her two days to prepare.

  She was going to hit Hannigan on poker night.

  5

  “I’m all in."

  Alistair pushed in a stack of purple chips and four of the five men at the table groaned.

  He'd been doing it all night, like a fiend. The constant pressure and aggression was taking the fun out of it for most of the guys who'd come more for the booze and camaraderie than for the game. That clearly wasn’t the motive for Alistair, though. Once the chips were on the table, his eyes had gone glassy and all that chatter he seemed so fond of faded to silence.

  Because Alistair Hannigan had a serious gambling problem.

  Jake had long suspected it when he’d last vetted the man’s finances. While Alistair was still very wealthy, there had been a steady decline of liquid assets over the past few years in spite of an increase in revenue. That meant he was bleeding money somewhere that couldn’t be accounted for. As Jake watched the other man scoop in his winnings with trembling hands, he knew for certain that Alistair himself was the leak.

  Another flaw to exploit.

  The thought thrilled him to no end. Recently, his carefully orchestrated plan that had been years in the making suddenly felt like a lifetime. Anything he could do to advance the timeline was fair game. Especially now that he also had Mike and the NYPD breathing down his neck.

  It was time to make a move, even if it was a little risky.

  With the estate staff having already been sent home for the night, and the host’s attention fixated so intently on the action, if ever there was a chance to make something happen, tonight was it. Now to be patient and not force the issue. He needed to make sure Alistair was thoroughly distracted before slipping away.

  The next two hours dragged by as Jake bided his time. He'd just folded pocket kings --the winning hand-- to Alistair’s nines, sacrificing a twenty thousand dollar pot when he made his move, letting loose with a string of curses and pushing his chair away from the table.

  "Deal me out, boys. I need a drink after that one."

  As Alistair gloated, Jake moved toward the short sideboard that held a decanter of thirty-year-old single malt along with a bucket of ice and a neat stack of rocks glasses. He plunked a couple of cubes into his glass and splashed three fingers of amber liquid over it, gaze trained on the hallway a few feet away.

  "I'm going to hit the loo," he muttered, satisfied at the half-assed chorus of grunts that greeted his announcement. He set down his drink and stepped out into the hallway, careful to stay as quiet as possible, one ear cocked. When he reached the bathroom, he flipped on the light switch and closed the door, but didn't go in. Instead, he continued silently down the hall, taking a moment to peer into each of the darkened rooms as he passed. Just as the blueprints had shown, the wing was comprised mostly of bonus rooms. A small library, followed by a den and then what appeared to be a massage room. Still no sign of anyone on the premises.

  He reached the top of the grand staircase that led to the main floor and took a quick glance down. The place was cheerily lit, and not a creature stirred there either. Time to make his move.

  He passed the wide staircase and made his way down the opposite corridor toward Alistair’s office. If the door was unlocked, he could be in and out in two minutes or less. If not, he’d have to take time to pick the lock. He’d been practicing almost daily, but the more intricate mechanisms still took up to five minutes to crack. His plan had been to spend this visit doing more recon so he would know what he was up against, but with Mike and his team sniffing around, the time for pussyfooting around had passed. It was now or never, and he’d just have to hope that lady luck was on his side.

  He reached the office door and palmed the knob, saying a quick prayer.

  “Come on, ya fucker,” he murmured under his breath before turning his wrist. To his relief, the knob gave way without pause and he blew out a long sigh. Halfway home.

  He pushed the door open slowly and stepped into the room. Unlike the rooms down the opposite wing, this one was only partially darkened, with the rest bathed in moonlight pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling window that took up the length of the back wall.

  He skirted the perimeter of the office until he reached Alistair’s desk. Popping a squat, he powered on the computer and reached into the pocket of his trousers to pull out a thumb drive.

  He plugged the drive into the input of Alistair’s computer and set to work, entering the information he’d been given by a hacker associate who had instructed him on how to bypass password protection. He wasn’t sure if his tech expert would find exactly what he was looking for on the hard drive of this particular computer since Alistair also spent a fair amount of time in his Manhattan penthouse, but regardless, this little drive was also programmed to upload a bug that would allow Jake’s private investigator to read and/or intercept any incoming or outgoing emails from any account Alistair had ever logged into from this machine.

  His attack was two-pronged. Get Hannigan to invest all his liquid assets with Jake on his shell corporation, and then use the intel he gained from his emails to sink him the rest of the way. Hannigan loved to brag about any and every thing. Surely he had a friend he told about all the shady dealings he’d made. The ill-gotten emails wouldn’t hold up in court or anything, but they didn’t have to. Alistair would be tried by the court of public opinion. He’d never get another job in his field and no one with either cash or caché would ever associate with him again.

  So long as he was left in financial and social ruin and Jake’s father was cleared of wrong-doing, he didn’t much care if Alistair spent a day in jail. Being a broke nobody would be a fate worse than death for a man like Alistair.

  The light on the mini-drive went green indicating that the download was complete and Jake unplugged the drive and glanced at his watch. Less than five minutes. So long as he headed back now and no one had needed the john, he should be in the clear.

  He made to stand but a movement in his periphery caught his attention, and he froze in place. Maybe one of the dogs roaming the grounds?

  Motionless but for the turning of his head, he peered out the massive window, every nerve-ending firing off at once as his brain processed what
he was seeing.

  Twenty yards away, kneeling beside a neat row of azaleas was Sadie Van Bergen, Waitress/Countess of Bavaria. This time, she was dressed as a stocky maid, but even crouching, that dancer’s posture and swanlike neck were dead giveaways.

  He stared, brain abuzz at this new turn of events. What the hell was she about? Nothing good, that much he knew, but that didn’t stop his heart from thrumming with a dual rush of adrenaline and anticipation. Which was bonkers because her presence meant one thing for sure.

  She hadn’t given up on Alistair at all.

  She’d just changed her plan of attack and was either about to rob him now, planning to rob him later, or already had and was on her way out.

  Son of a bitch.

  He watched as she looked around before scurrying across the lawn toward the back of the house and out of sight.

  He stood and padded quickly out of the office and back toward the poker room, mind reeling. Sadie had definitely thrown a wrench in his works. Time to do some damage control.

  "Good God, man, this place is bloody massive,” he said to Alistair as he stepped back into the room. “That bathroom is big enough to put a bed in it.”

  Perfect thing to say apparently, because the peacock preened and strutted, making sure to share with the table exactly how many dollars the estate had set him back.

  It was Jake’s own perverse sense of humor that made him delight in saying, "I do appreciate the meal and the game, but something I ate isn't sitting well with me, I'm afraid."

  "I'm sure it was nothing you were served here," Alistair muttered, looking at the other men for confirmation. They all nodded like the bobble-headed suck-ups they were, but Jake raised his brows and lifted one shoulder in a non-committal shrug.

  "I can't say for sure, but the shrimp did taste a little off." He waved a hand like it didn't matter either way, and pushed the rest of his chips toward Alistair. "Either way, I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow. Hang on to these and just record my stake since I'll be back next week...if that's all right with you?"

  He was down fifteen thousand dollars, and Alistair and the rest of the men were all in happy agreement to let him return for another week of losing.

  Even if he never returned for it, fifteen thousand was a small price to pay in order to skip out early and make sure he didn't lose any of the ground he'd gained.

  Because no matter how sexy, ballsy, or damned intriguing she was, he wasn’t about to let some Sadie take this from him.

  Sadie stared at the estate in the distance and peered at her watch once more. Ten fifty-three and, as expected, the last of the servants was long gone. She’d given herself more than enough time to ensure that none of them would come back for a forgotten cell phone or misplaced house keys.

  She rose and grabbed the black leather satchel at her side, and scurried from the copse of trees she'd been hiding in to cross the expansive lawn. Alistair had two dogs, Gus and Lito according to their nametags, both of whom began to bark at the movement but quickly changed their tune when they caught her scent.

  "Hey guys," she whispered as they ran in her direction. Didn't matter that they'd already run this drill twice. When two-hundred-pound Rottweiler’s came barreling at a body, it was hard not to get a little nervous. Her already pounding heart beat double-time until they slowed in front of her and began to lick her outstretched hands.

  "Hello there, big fella, how's your night going? Your asshole daddy playing poker, I hope?"

  The dogs kept licking away, drenching her fingers in slobber until she reached into her pocket and pulled out two, meaty rib bones.

  "Have fun," she whispered and tossed them a few feet away. Her fair-weather friends followed the food and she jogged unimpeded the rest of the way to the house.

  She wiped her hands on her pants, and donned a pair of black gloves, the only real nod to her profession. The rest of her was frumped out in a servant’s shapeless housecoat with padding underneath for effect and her powdered hair in a bun. On quick inspection, she could pass for forty-five and definitely looked like she was carrying an extra thirty pounds around the middle. As much as she loved the freedom of movement and the way a stretchy pair of black pants and a fitted top made her feel like a stealth ninja, this was far safer. If Alistair happened to catch her in the house, she was screwed either way, but at least if one of his guests bumped into her when they left the poker room, they likely wouldn't look twice at her.

  She lowered her bag onto the ground, sidling up to the kitchen window. It was far enough from the poker room that she wouldn't be heard if she made a little noise, which was precisely why she’d picked it. She rooted through her bag and pulled out several tools: Glass cutter, wire cutters and a suction cup. She pressed her finger to her ear again, using her headphones to amplify any area ambient noise, but heard nothing alarming. If the dogs had gotten Alistair’s attention with their initial barking, there was no indication of it.

  She flipped on the glass cutter and settled it against the window. With breath suspended, she began to cut. This was always the scariest part. She knew she hadn't forgotten anything, knew that it should go off without a hitch, but every time she breached the exterior of a house --whether by using a duplicate key or through a window or balcony-- she couldn't help but flinch and wait for the alarms to blare.

  All was silent, though, as she worked slowly and meticulously, cutting a perfect, tennis ball-sized circle into the glass. When there was only an inch between the end of one line and the beginning of the other, she paused and laid the suction cup against the circle, pressing softly until it held. A moment later, she completed the circle and set down the cutting tool.

  Again, she paused to check her watch, relieved to find she’d only used up three minutes. She was making great time. At this rate, she'd be home and counting her money by midnight. Maybe she'd even have a glass of wine before bed to celebrate.

  She re-focused on the task, holding a hand to the window before giving the suction cup a sharp, steady tug.

  It came free without incident and she couldn't help a little fist pump of adulation. Next came the wire cutters, and she palmed them in one expert hand as she reached through the hold and felt for the wires she knew were there. It took some doing, but she finally located the one she needed and held her breath as she clipped it.

  Again, silence reigned.

  All good. Time to get in and then, hopefully, get out. She packed everything she'd used back into her bag, and then hitched it back onto her shoulder. She pushed open the window with a mighty shove, pausing to take a steadying breath.

  You got this, kid.

  She rubbed her gloved hands together and grabbed hold of the sill, using it to hoist herself into the window and onto the marble countertop. The place looked like a freaking showroom, bypassing warmth with straight up glam. All white, from the gleaming travertine floors to the cabinets, the only color was the bottom of the high-shine copper pots hanging from a rack that circled above the granite island.

  She shimmied to the edge of the countertop and dropped lightly to her feet. Then, she pulled a large stone from her bag and laid it on the floor along with the circle of glass, which she crunched underfoot. She eyed her handiwork with a nod before turning back to the window. It was a quick matter of taking out a tiny soldering iron to fix the wiring at the window and then roughing up the edges of the glass in the pane to make it look like some vandals had just tossed a rock through it.

  The longer it took for Hannigan to realize he was robbed, the better.

  She packed her gear away and padded slowly from the kitchen into the foyer and eyed the wide staircase. The poker room was up and to the right, tucked in the corner of the west wing. Luckily, Alistair’s bedroom was down the opposite hallway. She slunk up the stairs and made the seemingly endless trek down the hallway, not daring to breathe until she was inside the dimly lit bedroom. Once there, she worked quickly and efficiently.

  Just like she’d figured, Alistair was careless with hi
s trinkets in the way only a person who thought they had an endless supply of them was. His walk-in closet had an entire shelf dedicated to watches and cufflinks. Rather than take them all, she selected the best of the Rolexes from the back row and then rearranged the rest to hide the space.

  Next, she chose two pairs of diamond cufflinks from the dozen there, easily worth five grand apiece. She paused then, eyes lighting on a crooked painting on the back wall of the closet.

  People were so predictable. She moved toward it with a sense of purpose, her hands trembling with a fresh rush of adrenaline. Could be anything in that safe, and she couldn’t wait to--

  "Good evening, Countess."

  The voice was so familiar, the accent so distinct, she didn’t need to turn to see who was behind her.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, heart slamming so hard, she wondered if it could take the abuse.

  Christ, who was this guy, Nostradamus? Criss Angel? Beelzebub himself? How was it that he seemed to catch her over and over again? It couldn't simply be a case of right place, right time…

  She wouldn’t let herself travel down that rabbit hole right now. What mattered now was talking her way out of this mess. A part of her wanted to just throw caution to the wind and tear ass out of the house to her car. Her instincts were telling her that he wouldn’t physically hurt her if she tried. He could’ve done that the last time he found her up to no good. If she could get past him, maybe...

  But she couldn't afford to roll the dice on a maybe. Sure, could be that hitting a woman wouldn't sit well on his conscience, but that didn't mean he wouldn't do it. And even if he didn't want to hurt her, he definitely wanted something.

  The question was, what?

  Slowly, she shifted her now sweaty fist to the front of her uniform and slipped the cufflinks and the watch between the buttons of her housedress and into the waistband of her underwear.

  She turned and stood stock-still. "Good evening, Mr. Callahan."