Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three (29 page)

Sam caught her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I love you too, Aunt Hannah.”

Her aunt caressed her cheek before standing. “I’ve got a hundred cowboys to feed. I better hop to it.”

When her aunt disappeared into the house, Sam pulled out her phone. She dialed before she could second guess herself, heedless of the early hour.

*

April—Early Morning

Chicago, Illinois

J A C K

Jack watched the
sun rise over Lake Michigan, the dark, turbulent waters stretching out as far as the eye could see. He jogged along the water’s edge, breathing in the crisp spring air like a balm before he picked up the pace, sprinting fast toward Navy Pier, the still and silent Ferris wheel a shining white beacon in the distance. Jack was so focused on his goal, he nearly missed the vibration of the mobile phone in his shorts’ pocket. Getting a phone call at dawn was rarely a good thing, so he slowed to a halt.

His heart stopped, then jolted to a frenzied beat when he saw Samantha’s face on his phone’s screen.

“
Tesoro
—is everything okay?” he asked immediately, getting straight down to brass tacks.

“I just discovered you’ve been spying on me for months, Jack. So define what you mean by ‘okay,’” Samantha responded, her whisky-singed rasp raising the goosebumps on his arms.

“
Tesoro
,” Jack closed his eyes, relieved to hear her voice after so many months. “Before you tear my head off, understand that I only wanted to know that you were okay. I didn’t want to pressure you into speaking to me until you were ready—”

“Oh, I’m ready to speak alright,” she replied. “I have about ten different names I want to call you first—”

“Call me those names in person,” he suggested, gripping the phone like she might slip away any second.

“I intend to.”

“Are you here? Can I see you?” Jack asked, swinging around to look at The Whitney’s
beaux
-
arts
architecture in the distance, their penthouse visible over the trees of Grant Park.

“I’m not there, Jack.”

“Are you in Texas? I’ll fly down,” Jack offered, his heart beating hard and fast at the prospect of seeing her again.

“You haven’t exactly been invited, Jack.”

She sighed. “I’m too tired to even begin to translate that.”

“Let me see you and you won’t have to.”

“How long did you have that file on me, Jack?” Samantha asked instead, her voice tinged with a hurt she tried and failed to hide. “How long were you holding it over my head?”

He closed his eyes, pushing a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t holding it over your head,
tesoro.
”

“Weren’t you?” She waited a beat. “How many things have you been lying to me about, Jack?” This was it. The moment he’d been waiting to confess.

“My father gave me the file over Thanksgiving, but I didn’t read it until Jaime was shot in Rio.”

“So when we were together, you didn’t trust me, but when we were finished, you decided to come clean?”

Jack sighed. “I didn’t want anything else between us. I know I made a mistake. I should never have accepted the file from my father—much less read it.”

She said nothing.

“Samantha—”
I miss you.
“I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Silence stretched between them like miles.

“Don’t hang up,” he murmured. “I fucked up. I lied; I
know
that—I just want to make it right,
tesoro
. Tell me how to make it right.”

“You asked me if I’m okay,” she said after a moment.

“Are you?”

Jack heard a little hitch in her breath, like she was deciding whether to answer or not.

“Not even a little,” Samantha admitted quietly. “But I’m hoping you can help me with that.”

Jack’s heart expanded around the constriction of his own misgivings. Samantha so rarely discussed her feelings, much less her vulnerabilities. “Anything,
tesoro
. Anything I can do—just ask me and I’ll do it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” She paused. “Can you come to Texas?”

“Of course,” he answered, his heart feeling like it would burst with relief and happiness at the prospect of seeing her again. “Got any plans for lunch?”

Sam laughed in spite of herself. “You’re awfully eager to see a woman who fully intends to chew you out, Jack.”

“You can tear strips off my hide for all I care,” he replied. “Just do it while I’m holding you.”

April—Evening

Israel Museum, Givat Ram, Jerusalem

R O X A N N E

N
estled under a
beautifully-lit dome reflecting like the moon over the pool of water surrounding it, the Israel Museum was a spectacular backdrop for the evening’s soiree honoring the recent restoration of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Rox moved smoothly through a cadre of Israeli politicians, military leaders, businessmen, private collectors, and international power brokers. She recognized many for their nefarious dealings in the underworld. Like a who’s who of well-dressed criminals and movers and shakers, circulating and drinking vintage dry champagne as they chatted and milled amongst ancient religious artifacts that glowed eerily under the spotlights.

The event was being held in a building appropriately named the Shrine of the Book, a striking juxtaposition of architectural styles—a pristine white dome that looked as if it was floating over jet black basalt walls, structured in precise and opposing geometrical shapes. White-coated valets served hors d’oeuvres on sterling silver platters as live orchestral music filled the air like a subtle perfume.

Rox cut a
swath through the glittering crowd, drawing eyes and murmurs of admiration and curiosity. She wore a striking organza top with long layers separated to reveal black, silk cigarette pants and Christian Louboutin heels that could have easily doubled as weapons. She had painstakingly darkened her skin tone to pass for someone more Mediterranean this evening, donning a straight raven wig that Cleopatra herself would have envied, her dark eyes shaded mysteriously with kohl, her lips nude. It was a clever trick of the eye and manipulation of perception that she preferred over trying to blend in. Standing out in a striking outfit with incredible hair and a darker skin tone created an overall effect that distracted away from her actual features. If pressed, no one would be able to recall details accurately. They’d just recall the way she seemed to float past, the cool, desultory way she’d held herself.

Tonight, she was on one mission: to find out whether Lucien Lightner was on the market for weapons, and if he was—who might be foolish enough to sell them to him. Avi was certain the culprit was a man named Uzi Dichter, a political mover and shaker who was also a high-ranking member of Taas, Israel’s premier manufacturer of high-tech weapons, from advanced guided missiles to heavy tank and artillery weapons. Basically, one of the elite lords of modern-day warfare. Rox did a pass-through of the party, careful not to let her eyes linger on any one person too long as she sipped the crisp champagne, pretending to admire the scrolls she was truly too distracted from to really consider.

“How’s the hobnobbing with the Jewish elite,
neshama
?” Avi asked through the earpiece she had hidden under her hair.

“Ironic,” she murmured, hiding her words with a sip from her glass.

“How is that?”

“There are more heavy-arms manufacturers, drug traffickers, and money launderers hanging out here than at a whorehouse,” she remarked
sotto voce
. “Do they think being seen supporting the restoration of biblical manuscripts will improve their chances to get into heaven or what?”

“Spoken like a true gentile,” Avi replied with a laugh. “Israel is a holy land full of contradictions.”

“I know I shot my chances to get into God’s good graces a long time ago,” Rox answered, spotting the urbane Uzi Dichter leaning against the bar as he ordered a drink and chatted with a man a good foot shorter than he. “I see our mark now,” she told Avi in a low voice.

“I almost feel sorry for that stupid bastard.”

“Do you really?” she asked, finishing her champagne before she set the glass down.

“The way you look tonight? Almost,
neshama
—
almost
,” Avi purred into her ear.

Rox circled past her mark like a whisper, as languorous and ungraspable as a plume of smoke, leaving the alluring scent of Lily of the Valley in her wake. She watched Uzi Dichter in the reflection of the glass case, holding one of the priceless papyrus scrolls as he turned to look at her, his gaze curious at first, then predatory. He excused himself from the man to whom he was speaking, approaching her from behind. She smiled indolently, pleased that he’d fallen so easily for the bait. She’d read Dichter’s file carefully, seen images of his first wife, who was lost to a tragic illness—a woman he’d clearly adored. Rox made sure to resemble her tonight. That was the thing about pulling off a con; so many incorrectly assumed that it was about having confidence during improvisation. In truth, if a con artist was good—
really good
—they rarely left much to chance. The first rule of a good con was to target a weakness or a desire, preferably both. And what was more seductive than resonating with a memory of great intensity, a redux version of a paradise unrealized?

As Roxanne watched Dichter, she pretended to study the scroll. Second rule of the game: Always make the mark come to you. Gathering valuable information required getting under someone’s skin, but to do that effectively, that person had to be willing to be charmed and seduced in the first place.

“It is said that the Dead Sea Scrolls contain an ancient treasure map of gold and silver caches hidden throughout Israel,” Uzi Dichter said from behind her, his voice deep and lilting.

“Have the treasures been found?” she asked, glancing up at him, pretending to be caught unawares by his approach.

“Spirited away or lost to the annals of time, I’m afraid,” he murmured, his eyes moving over her appreciatively.

“What a pity,” Rox replied, her eyes sparkling with interest and excitement. “I do so love a good mystery with a happy ending.”

“So you’re an optimist,” Dichter replied, grasping a champagne glass from a passing waiter and offering it to her.

“More of an opportunist.” Rox accepted the glass with a smile. “Are you a collector?”

“More an admirer of beautiful things.”

She took a small sip of the bubbly. “Come teach me, then,” she said, slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow. “About beautiful things.”

Dichter took the bait, winding her around the room past exhibit after exhibit, his knowledge of the pieces expansive, his descriptions of the artifacts noise intelligently delivered. Rox made the appropriate utterances, her touches frequent and deliberate, her gaze direct and meaningful. She monopolized his time with focused and individualized attention, making him feel that he was fascinating to her, his confidence rising the more she charmed him. Eventually, Rox lured him outside near the gardens as the museum’s curator called for everyone’s attention, getting ready to deliver the evening’s address.

“I’m afraid we’re venturing outside my area of expertise,” Dichter told her teasingly as they stood in the sultry breeze just inside the building’s courtyard overlooking the gardens. “I can’t entertain you with stories about the landscape, my dear.”

“Good thing I’m not interested in that,” Rox said with a small smile. She slid her hands up his arms slowly, her movements fluid and unhurried.

“I don’t even know your name,” Dichter told her, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and beguiled.

She pressed her body closer, brushing her thighs against his as she drew in the spicy richness of his cologne. It was a shame she’d have to hurt him. He was attractive in a way, with warm eyes and an indolent smile, though his true nature lay unexpressed just beneath his skin.

“Does it matter?” she whispered, breath silky against his ear. “I’m bad for you either way, aren’t I?”