Confidence Tricks (29 page)

Poppy lowered herself to the couch—surprisingly comfortable—and smiled. “A gimlet sounds wonderful.” And it did, even though she had no idea what it was.

The skittering of tiny nails on expensive hardwoods filled the room. It made sense now that the dog was white. Any stray hairs would blend.

“Hello, Jasmine, baby,” Cindy cooed. The only time she seemed comfortable was when talking to the dog.

“Is she named after the tea or the Disney character?” Poppy asked casually, grabbing a women’s magazine from a carefully arranged arc on the coffee table. It promised to teach her how to
Catch a Man between Your Legs
, but that was silly. She already knew how to do that—it was called a flying scissor kick.

“Oh. Um. No.” Cindy was having a hard time deciding on a syllable.

“She’s such a sweetie,” Poppy cooed, her voice raising several octaves. She reached down to pet the dog, its fluffy white fur like cotton balls underneath her fingers. Jasmine bore it patiently but was clearly tolerating her out of form rather than kindness. At least Gunner’s emotions—full of bite—were real. Bea and Jenny had immediately taken to the little dog, and he’d taken to them right back, thank goodness. Asprey might be willing to shove the poor thing back in a cage at the pound, but that just showed how skewed his version of the world was. All it took was a good home and some consideration to show Gunner’s good side. Just like every other scrappy mongrel roaming the streets.

“Do you give her free rein over the apartment while you’re gone, or do you kennel her?” Poppy asked, forcing herself to focus on the task standing literally in front of her.
The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can move on.
“I can’t leave Gunner alone for a second or he gets into my shoes. I don’t know what it is about him and Jimmy Choo, but I suspect the two of them have a love affair going on behind my back.”

“Oh, I let Jasmine have the run of the place.” Cindy moved in the direction of the kitchen, throwing open a set of french doors—all in white, of course. “She’s a surprisingly good guard dog. She might not look like much, but if she suspects anyone is here without my invitation, she’ll bark long and loud. Once, my cleaning woman came in when I wasn’t home. Jasmine cornered her in the bathroom until my next door neighbor, Mrs. Partridge, heard the commotion and thought someone was dying. She’s really sensitive to loud noises.”

“The dog or the neighbor?”

Cindy gave a nervous laugh, thawing a little. “Mrs. Partridge. I had to give her a key to the apartment so she can come over and calm Jasmine if she gets too worked up.”

Good to know.
Poppy absorbed the information like a sponge. Guard dog, guard neighbor, and so far, no painting in sight.

“Where
is
your dog, by the way?” Cindy asked, looking around as if she’d somehow missed his entry.

“Oh, I remembered how he didn’t get along with Jasmine and decided to leave him with my boyfriend today.”

Where had that come from?
Technically, Bea had to work, so Gunner
was
with Asprey, but that was taking the whole half-truth-is-better-than-a-straight-lie thing too far. She needed to get a grip on herself. And soon.

“Aww, that’s so sweet. I love a man who’s good with animals. Does your boyfriend like dogs?”

“Not really. But I think Gunner is growing on him.”

“I wish I had that,” Cindy said.

“A boyfriend who’s willing to dog-sit?” Poppy crossed her legs and tried to look unconcerned, even though her whole body flushed with heat. “I’m sure you’ll find one someday.”

“No…just one who makes me light up like you do.”

The fire blazed higher. She needed a distraction before she blew her whole cover.

“Do you mind if I…” She let the words trail off and looked toward the hall.

“Of course. Bathroom is the second door on the right.”

Poppy waited until Cindy got swallowed by the massive french doors leading to the kitchen, thankfully followed by Jasmine, before she got up. Moving swiftly, she headed in the direction of the hall, her legs only wobbling with every other step.

The hallway spread out long and wide, with rooms leading off every few feet. Most of the doors were closed, which probably meant that they were bedrooms or offices—hardly big enough to showcase a piece of art like the kind Asprey had described.

“Giant. Splotchy. Unless she’s got an entire museum in there, it shouldn’t be hard to find.”

She’d assumed the painting would be in the living room, based on the size of the thing, but so far it was nowhere to be seen. Where else did one hang an enormous piece of colorful art if not the living room? Was it even here?

She pushed open the bathroom door for form’s sake, taking in the blank walls, metal accents and white plush bathmat at a glance. The light in there had to be amazing for doing make-up—and for obsessing over pores. She thought of the bathroom she and Bea shared, with their tweezers out on the counter and little notes they wrote to each other on the mirror in lipstick and eyeliner, and shuddered. No way could she live under a microscope like this.

The next room was some sort of guest bedroom, evident by the fact that there was a splash of color in there, though mostly in shades of muted gray and slate blue. No artwork, though, unless you counted the framed black-and-white photo. She peered closer and made out a signature with a pair of giant sloping As. The picture looked expensive.

The next room was a sleek, modern-looking office furnished with a huge frosted-glass desk that probably showcased fingerprints like crazy. On the other side of the hall stood Cindy’s bedroom, which didn’t look at all like a human female lived there. Where were the discarded clothes and dirty panties balled up in a corner? Where were the spots of spilled nail polish on the carpet? How did a person move through life without making any marks?

There wasn’t enough time to explore Cindy’s house further, so Poppy hightailed it back to the living room. Cindy stood next to the couch, a martini glass in each hand, one of them emptied almost to the bottom.

“I guess I was thirstier than I thought,” she said, forcing a laugh and thrusting the full glass toward Poppy. “This is okay, isn’t it?”

Poppy sipped at the drink—lime and pine trees and antiseptic, the upper-class version of gin and juice—and forced a smile. “Yes. Delicious.”

“Oh no. I meant that I had the doorman buzz you up. You probably just wanted to drop off the wallet and go home. I sometimes forget that people—”

“Are you kidding?” Poppy asked, taking a deep drink and smiling warmly at Cindy, trying not to notice how warmly the woman smiled back. Cindy was nice, if slightly awkward. That complicated things. “You’re doing me a favor. This is exactly what I needed. I don’t know very many people in town, and it’s nice to get away from all the unpacked boxes at home.”

“I should give you the number to my organizer.” Cindy shot to her feet, what remained of her drink sloshing all over the floor in the process. Jasmine chose that moment to skitter around the corner of the couch, sliding in the turn with the kind of expertise it took NASCAR racers decades to perfect.

“No, Jasmine! Bad precious!” Cindy reached for the dog, but Jasmine was too fast, angling her body to evade capture while she lapped hungrily at the mess. Cindy slipped and landed on her butt, her legs skewed in what had to be the least ladylike position she’d ever adopted in her life.

Poppy thought about helping Cindy up, but there was such a look of misery on the woman’s face that the only thing to do was make a fake lunge for the dog and crash to the ground next to her, which she did, a telltale rip on the back of her skirt adding a splash of authenticity.

Jasmine glanced calmly at them both and continued lapping.

“I’m so sorry—I’m such a mess when it comes to things like this.” Cindy sniffled, struggling to right herself. Poppy put a hand on Cindy’s shoulder, refusing to let her up. The poor woman wasn’t cold or standoffish like Asprey had suggested. She was lonely.

“You think this is bad?” Poppy giggled. “You should see what lengths Gunner will go to over a little pâté.”

Cindy sniffled. “Really?”

“Really,” Poppy said firmly.

Cindy’s smile was small, tentative—but real. Poppy’s stomach twinged.
Guilt.
She felt it every con, even with Todd. There were a few times over dinner when she’d caught Todd staring at her—not with lust but with sadness. She didn’t blame him. No matter who you were, it would be depressing to know that you were out with a gorgeous, empty woman who only wanted you for your money.

Cindy grabbed Poppy’s hand and gave it a squeeze, tentative but warm. “I hope you don’t think I’m a total idiot—I’m just not used to people, to women, coming over to hang out. You know, here. At my house.”

Jasmine barked loudly, the sharp raps echoing through the apartment so that the sound magnified about ten times. No wonder Mrs. Partridge protested the noise.

“Oh dear. How much of that did she drink?”

Poppy looked around, her own glass now empty. “I think she polished off mine too.”

Cindy let out a giggle before clapping a hand over her mouth, almost as if trying to press the sound back in. “Poor Jasmine has a weakness for gin.”

Poppy got to her feet as elegantly as she could in her tight skirt, one hand holding the rip together, the other helping Cindy up. “Is Mrs. Partridge going to come yell at us?” she asked conspiratorially.

Cindy giggled again. “Probably.”

“Then we should go make more gimlets. You know, in case we need the liquid courage.”

“I like that idea.”

Their bonds of friendship now forged in the kind of steel crafted from high-priced liquor, Poppy followed Cindy to the kitchen, a huge, oversized space that was obviously where she the bulk of her living.

She didn’t get much beyond taking in the warm tones and fresh-baked bread on the counter before she stopped, her head spinning. There, on the far side of the attached dining area, hung the world-famous painting Asprey had assured her was a one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

White canvas. Big painting. Splotches—most of them red and blobby. Even though she knew it was technically a forgery, it was the closest she had ever been to real art, the first time she’d come face-to-face with the kind of object people would risk their lives for.

And all she could think was,
ten million dollars for that?

“How did it go?” Asprey let go of Gunner’s leash, unable to suppress a smile as he bounded across the hangar to whine and paw until Poppy lifted him up. For the entire time they’d been waiting, the dog had let out a sigh and moan every five minutes, awaiting his mistress’s return.

“Me too, little buddy,” he’d said more than once, throwing a scrap of leftover pizza to the dog. Food was a poor substitute, and Gunner knew it. “It’s just not the same without her, is it?”

Poppy had changed out of her Lucy Higgenbottom clothes and into her cowboy boots, this time paired with striped tights and an oversized off-the-shoulder tunic. Even though Asprey strove to be detached and uninterested, he loved that tunic, the way the slope of her shoulder was unbroken by anything but the play of light and the promise of silk against his tongue.

She plopped to the chair opposite him, the dog in her lap, completely oblivious to the effect she had on him.

“The painting is there,” she announced coolly, doing her best to avoid meeting Asprey’s eyes. That was her thing now. Avoidance. “But it’s inaccessible.”

“What do you mean inaccessible?” Graff asked. He hovered behind Asprey’s chair. He’d been hovering there all day, paranoid and full of angst and driving him crazy.

“I mean inaccessible. Stuck. Impossible to get at.”

“What?” Graff repeated.

Asprey twisted in his seat. “Sit, Graff, and calm down. Yelling at her isn’t going to help.”

“He can yell,” Poppy said. “It’s better than taking nothing seriously.”

Asprey slapped on the most dazzling smile he had in his arsenal and leaned back in his chair, nonchalant and uncaring as he had never been before, even though his heart felt like lead. After everything they’d been through, he was still a big, fat nothing in her eyes.
 

“Life is so much easier when you let someone else carry the weight of the world,” he said. “You both should try it sometime.”

As predicted, the blasé statement made Graff let out a strangled semi-roar. Poppy just narrowed her eyes and pulled out a notebook and pencil. With a deft and sure hand, she mapped out the floor plan of the apartment, pointing out key areas of interest.

“It’s a pretty basic layout, longer than it is wide. Living space is near the entry, and most of the rooms are down a hallway to the right. To the left is the kitchen, which is where you’ll find the painting.”

Asprey sat up. “Wait a minute—the kitchen?”

“That’s what she said.” Graff tapped on the drawing. “There aren’t any windows in that room?”

Poppy shook her head. “Just a tiny one above her dining area. Apparently the entire room was remodeled around the painting, so the only way it’s getting out of there is if you bring a chainsaw—which Mrs. Partridge will be sure and object to, I can tell you that.”