Wicked Intentions(27)

Zuckerman, the secretary, and Butts look at each other. There seems to be an unspoken agreement that someone’s ass is getting kicked, but no consensus on whose.

I take advantage of the pause in the conversation. “It’s late. We’re all tired. Why don’t we reconvene in a few days after Ms. Lane has had a chance to compile a detailed written report with her findings and our suggestions for how Metrix can further assist the Institution with its security needs? Mr. Zuckerman, you know how to contact me.”

Before waiting for anyone to speak, I lift Mariana to her feet with a hand under her arm and head for the door.

“One more question before you leave, Ms. Lane.”

Mariana and I stop and turn back. Zuckerman is standing behind his desk, patting his moist forehead with a folded handkerchief. “What’s with the drawing of the dragonfly?”

Fuck. My hand reflexively tightens around her arm. It’s a protective response, but she calmly shakes me off and even manages a small, mirthless laugh.

“Oh, it’s just an inside joke. When we conduct these high-level pen tests, we always pretend we’re some famous thief. Like a role-playing thing.” She jerks her thumb at me. “This one always pretends he’s Butch Cassidy. Wanted to be a cowboy when he was a kid.”

Zuckerman beams. “How fun! What does Mr. McLean leave behind, a toy pistol?”

“A plastic burro.” When all three men frown, Mariana deadpans. “Because he’s an ass.”

“Isn’t she a hoot, guys?” My grin is stretched so wide, I can’t feel my lips. “Well, we’re off. See you in a few days!”

I turn and drag her out the door.

At least I get a dark chuckle from her on the way out.



* * *

Mariana doesn’t speak again until we’re in the truck I rented when I arrived in DC. As soon as she slams the door shut behind her, she turns to me and snaps, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bury my knife in your thorax.”

I start the car, rev the engine, and put it in reverse. “Which knife? The stiletto in your back pocket, the Tanto in your waistband, or the utility blade in your boot?”

I tear out of the parking spot in the museum’s lot to the sound of squealing tires and growling female.

“How did you know I was going to hit the museum?” she demands.

“I bugged Reynard’s place the minute I walked in last week.”

She gasps, and I grin. “You mentioned DC and the world’s largest blue diamond. Two plus two equals four, etcetera. Yeah, you had a real interestin’ conversation after I left and you popped out of wherever you’d been hiding. If memory serves, you called me gorgeous. No, wait. It was better than that.”

I pretend to think, as if I haven’t been thinking about it for seven days straight. “Handsome? No. Magnificent? No—oh yeah! Beautiful.”

I glance at her. She stares back at me in silent fury, nostrils flared, hands clenched to fists.

“You called me beautiful, Angel,” I say softly. “I been called a lot of things by a lot of women, but that’s a first.” My grin shows up again, twice as big as before. “So naturally I had to follow you across the Atlantic so I could make you say it to my face. Ingenious the way you exited Reynard’s place through the Chinese laundry down the block, by the way. I’m guessing it’s all connected by tunnels?”

She bites the inside of her cheek. Her fingers flex. She’s itching to wrap them around the hilt of one of her knives and slice me up like deli meat.

“Reynard—”

“Is perfectly safe.”

“How do you know?”

“How do you think I know?”

Another growl. She’s starting to sound like a grizzly.

“Maybe for now he’s safe. But when I don’t show up with that diamond, the person who ordered me to get it is going to kill Reynard! And he’s going to take his time doing it, because causing pain is his passion!”

“I know it is. Been readin’ up on the guy. And imagine how angry Vincent Moreno would’ve been when you gave him a fake diamond.”

She shakes her head, blinking fast. “Whaaa…”

It’s so comical, I almost laugh.

But I don’t, because I know she’s one laugh away from making me and a colander have a lot in common.

“The Hope Diamond on display at the Smithsonian is a fake, Angel. Has been since the seventies, when it was stolen by an unidentified group of thieves who posed as tourists, then hid in a utility closet after the museum closed and rammed through the vault wall with a forklift pinched from the loading dock. They were never caught. There’s a lot of politics involved and something about a hinky insurance policy, but the upshot of the story is that the powers that be at the time decided it would be a financial and PR disaster for the Smithsonian if word got out that a smash-and-grab crew filched the Hope, so instead they put a replica in its place, and that’s what’s been on display for the last forty years.

“It’s right up there with KFC’s recipe as one of the world’s best-kept secrets. Only a handful of the bigwigs at the Institute knew about the theft, and all but two of them are dead now. Even Zuckerman and the secretary don’t know.”

I take a corner too fast, but Mariana doesn’t even notice. She just keeps on staring at me with big eyes and a wide open mouth. Finally, she asks, “How do you know?”

“Because, like I’ve told you before, I’m the shit, baby.”

We zoom through the dark streets, trees and streetlights flying past, with no noise for miles but the sound of the engine and the radio on low. After a pause, she speaks again. “How do you know about Capo?”

My sigh is extravagant. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m really good at my job before you’ll believe me?”

She slumps down in the seat, drops her face into her hands, and exhales a long, slow breath. It’s several minutes before she speaks again, and when she does, her voice is so low, I almost can’t hear it.

“So…basically…you just saved my life.”

“And Reynard’s,” I point out, trying not to sound smug and completely failing.

“But…” She lowers her hands and gazes blankly out the windshield. “I can’t go back empty-handed. If I return to Capo with nothing—”

“You’re never going back to him, Mariana,” I cut in, my voice hard. She stares at me, looking confused. “You’re gonna let your man handle this, you hear me? Now, do you need to pick up anything at your fleabag safe house before we head to New York?”

She makes a soft, incoherent noise of shock.

I take it as a no and stomp my foot on the gas, headed toward the interstate.

Headed toward home.





Seventeen





Mariana




I don’t know how long I slept, but when I awaken, morning sun streams through the windshield as Ryan opens the passenger door.

“C’mon, Angel,” he murmurs, hoisting me into his arms. “We’re home.”

I mutter a protest at being handled like luggage, but I’m so exhausted I give up without a fight. I sag against the broad expanse of his chest as he kicks the car door shut behind him.

He chuckles. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“And you’re dumber than you look,” I mumble. “Another crack about my weight and you’re a dead man.”

“God, I love it when you threaten me with bodily injury.”

My legs dangle over his arm as he walks across a gated parking lot to a squat, brick building with no windows on the first floor. In front of a metal door with no handle, he stops.

“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” he says to the door.

Bewildered, I lift my head and squint at him.

He shrugs. “So I love Mary Poppins. Sue me.”

The door slides open soundlessly, revealing a lighted steel box about five feet wide and eight feet tall. When Ryan walks inside, the door slides shut behind us. With a subtle clang, the box begins to descend.

“Do you live near the center of the earth?” I ask his profile.

“Yep,” he answers instantly. “That’s why I’m so hot.”

He slants me a grin. I close my eyes against its brilliance and tuck my head into his neck.

“Where are we?”

“I told you. Home.”

“No, where?”

“The Bronx. Ish.”

“Either it is, or it isn’t.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you, but in this case, there’s a little wiggle room considering we’re not talkin’ horizontal coordinates.”

The elevator stops, the doors open, and Ryan walks out into pitch blackness. “Raindrops on roses,” he calls out.

Overhead lights blink on in orderly rows, revealing a bachelor pad that has probably starred in every male’s fantasy of a bachelor pad since the term was invented.

High ceilings. Exposed brick walls. Polished cement floors. Lots of steel beams and glass surfaces, and a smattering of leather furniture. A television the size of a school bus hangs on the wall, along with black-and-white abstract art suggestive of nude women. Not a single throw pillow or bright color in sight.

“Raindrops on roses?”

“And whiskers on kittens,” he says, nodding.

I look at him. “Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens?”