The Lady Is a Thief (16 page)

 
   
“Crowds.
Early morning opening hours.
Backstage
area.”
He ticked off the items. “Harder to track you there and security
won't let them in with guns. So it buys us some time.”

 
   
“To do what exactly?”
She hadn't thought she really needed his help right up until he used the black
light to illuminate the greenish fingerprints glowing on her skin. A shudder
raced up her spine.

 
   
“To neutralize the tracing
element.
If it's a standard tracer, it's got an eight day half-life.”

 
   
Her heart sank. “Eight days?”

 
   
His hand covered hers—it wasn't the first
time he'd gone for the comforting gesture, but she really appreciated it this
time. “It's going to be fine. Now that we know it's there, we can get it
removed.”

 
   
“You're extremely casual about all of this.
Run into radioactive isotopes on a regular basis do you?” She tried for
flippant, but her tone sounded harsher than she intended. Jarod stroked her
wrist with his thumb, rubbing soothing circles over her pulse.

 
   
“Actually, I do. Skin contact for less than
forty-eight hours won't have any lasting detrimental effects.”

 
   
The steel bands caging her chest squeezed.
“And longer than forty-eight?”

 
   
“As far as I know, most standard tracers are
safe for the half-life that they're assigned. You might get a headache or some
nausea—”

 
   
“Or a severe lack of
appetite?”
She was not a hypochondriac or an easily spooked—but
radiation? That freaked her out and she wasn't ashamed to admit it.

 
   
“You weren't hungry on the flight out from
New York. Stress is more effective at killing an appetite than a tracer is.”

 
   
She twisted sideways in the car to look at
him. The gentle caress of his thumb helped, her pulse stopped racing like a
filly fresh out of the gate at the Derby. “And how the hell are you a
fifty-year-old man that Sophie knows?”

 
   
“I told you, I am familiar with hiding in
plain sight.”

 
   
She waited and when he said nothing else,
she reached over and pinched him.

 
   
He gave her an amused look. “Yes?”

 
   
“That didn't answer my question.”

 
   
“No, but you've had enough truth from me for
today. I gave you a secret. It's customary for you to give me one.” How he could
be
so
relaxed as they cruised through ever thickening
traffic she couldn't fathom. His gaze occasionally flicked to the rearview
mirror, but she didn't imagine he saw much because he wasn't reacting.

 
   
“Does Sophie know that you're—well—that
you're you under the Walter Curry?”

 
   
He shook his head once.

 
   
“Does anyone know?” She fished for more
information. She knew she did it, but damn interesting.

 
   
“One other and now you.”

 
   
“That's it?” Okay, a larger secret than she
expected. She blew out a breath and looked down at their joined hands.

 
   
“Yes. I am hoping you will choose to keep
the information to yourself, but I won't ask you to.”

 
   
“I have no reason to expose you.” She
wouldn't promise not to. She lived in the real world where leverage could reduce
fallout. She glanced behind them, studying the various cars. Why so many were
thronging into Anaheim so early, she didn't see the point. She'd never been a
fan of amusement parks.

 
   
“No sign of a tail yet.
But he may not need one.”

 
   
“Because he can just track
my face.”
She gritted her teeth. Invasive bastard, he grabbed her face
at the airport for more than just a threat—he'd done it so he could follow her.
Did he plan to beat the location out of
me and, barring that, let me go with the hope that I'd run after it?

 
   
“Kit?”

 
   
“No, Jarod. I am not answering that
question.”

 
   
“
duMonde's
had people killed to get his hands on that Buddha. He had Sophie attacked,
twice, and kidnapped. His men shot
Pietr
.”

 
   
She didn't flinch at that revelation. She'd
been there. She saw them in the aftermath,
Pietr
worn
to a frayed end and Sophie still and pale in the hospital. That they'd managed
to work it out bolstered her faith in the human species, but it didn't change the
fact that she couldn't answer.

 
   
It wasn't only her secret.

 
   
“Who are you protecting?”

 
   
“Myself.
My company.
My family's reputation.”
He followed a stream of other
cars steadily into an oversized lot. They parked in the Pluto lot and he
glanced at her duffel.

 
   
“Anything you need from that?”

 
   
“Other than a wardrobe
change and some makeup?
No, I'm fine.” She refused to look at her own
appearance in the mirror. Instead, she pulled out the ponytail
holder,
finger combed her hair back, and fixed it up again.
Based on the various outfits on the crowds beginning their walks to the tram,
her shorts and t-shirt blended right in. Jarod and his casual business wear on
the other hand... Before she could say anything, he pulled a solar shield from
behind her seat and spread it out across the window. Most of those who parked
when they did were already gone, rushing off to their happy place.

 
   
Jarod unbuttoned his shirt and stripped down
to a dark tank top underneath. He sported one large tattoo on his left shoulder,
some Native American symbols and squares. The muscles in arms rippled with
every gesture. He toed off his shoes and reached behind him for a pair of
flip-flops and when his hands went to his belt, she unbuckled to watch.

 
   
Despite his large size, he slid out of the
dress pants. A pair of black boxers hugged his thighs and did nothing to
disguise the semi-erection he sported. He twisted in the seat and dumped the
pants and button down in a bag and pushed them under the passenger seat. Next
he pulled out a smaller bag and a pair of khaki shorts. He slid those on and
she bit her lip when he thrust his hips up to pull them over his ass.

 
   
He buttoned them up, pulled the tank top out
to hang over the top of the waistband and slid his sunglasses back into place.

 
   
“Holy crap.”

 
   
“Thank you.” He grinned and opened the car.
She fumbled with the door handle and scooped up her purse to follow him. The
aviator glasses, with their steel rims, the tattoo, and the ripped muscles on
display in his arms and legs gave him the look of a very dangerous surfer.

 
   
But he didn't even look like the man who
drove the car.

 
   
“How do you do that?” She circled the car
and took the hand he held out to her. The car alarm beeped as he set it and
they set off across the blazing parking lot, already warming under the
California sunshine.

 
   
“Attitude.
Over
half of all perception is based on how a person walks, talks, and delivers
their body language cues. It's also partly the clothes and the style of dress.”
He nudged her between two cars and they walked over to the other lane to avoid
oncoming traffic. “People see a tattoo and they make a snap judgment. The rest
of their impressions will follow that first snapshot. The same can be said for
a suit—or a pair of thousand dollar Jimmy
Choos
.”

 
   
She understood the theory. Dressing for
success was not just a mantra, but a truism. Whether a potential employee
seeking a job or a woman on a first date, how she dressed and carried herself
made an impression. That impression offered the foundation for all other
expectations.

 
   
“And you learned how to do this to recover
stolen art?”

 
   
“No, I learned how to do this to assassinate
people and gather intelligence.” The calm, almost casual way he said the words
sent a cold chill down her spine and a spark of electricity from her nipples to
her sex.

 
   
“Okay, that shouldn't be sexy.” She meant
that more for
herself
than for him, but he gave her a
half-grin and nodded to the crowd, time to table the conversation for a more
private venue. Children danced in place, chattered and smiling parents and
grandparents indulged them. They likely wouldn't be in another ten hours, but
for now, the cluster of humanity surged with anticipation.

 
   
His face relaxed from the shrewd, assessing
mask he normally wore. Instead, a smile came readily to his lips and he glanced
at her frequently. When the tram arrived, he guided her onto a bench in the
center, while he took the outside position. A college-aged boy slid in next to
her and bumped her leg. Jarod wrapped an arm around her shoulders and looked at
the kid until he scooted over, leaving a five-inch divide between him and Kit.

 
   
She didn't laugh, but it took some effort.
An interesting ferry ride, the kids grew even more excited as the boat chugged
across the lagoon and then they were park side and the mad dash inside began in
earnest.

 
   
It might be early on a Sunday, but the
crowds swarmed.

 
   
“There must be hundreds of people here.”

 
   
“Try thousands.
Nothing
safer than a crowd.”

 
   
Rather than remove his arm from her
shoulders, he kept her close, particularly as the throngs tightened at the
check in. He followed her through the purse search line and then to the
turnstiles. Inside, he slid his hand down her arm until their fingers
interlaced and they strolled through the shops lining Main Street.

 
   
He bought new shirts—a Donald for him and a
Daisy for her. She rolled her eyes, but changed obediently. When he held up the
mouse ears, she balked and he kissed her nose. Her heart flip-flopped at the
casual intimacy of the gesture. They picked up sodas and French fries and fed
most of them to the birds while the first parade of the day played through.

 
   
Their path took a circuitous route. They
paused for pictures in a couple of places and he accepted the photo pass card
from the photographer. She couldn't figure out where they were going or what he
searched for. They watched a show in front of the castle, rode the carousel,
paused for photographs with life sized chipmunks, and waded through a thick
crowd heading into the self-proclaimed adventure area.

 
   
When he pointed to the log ride, she stared
at him.

 
   
“Do you have any idea what that water is
going to do to my hair?” It may not be styled or looking particularly elegant,
but with her curls, that kind of moisture could turn her hair upside down.
No, thank you.

 
   
“Trust me.” He led her up the ramp and then
they stood in line for nearly fifteen minutes as it inched forward. At a break
in the line, a man waved them to the express route even though they didn't have
tickets. Jarod held her hand as they walked past the others in the standard
line and when it curved away from them, he pressed a hand to the wall and the
wall swung inwards like a door.

 
   
She had no time to gape before they walked
inside and down a short flight of stairs to a small room with several computers
and a middle-aged man dressed in Bermuda shorts, a red Hawaiian shirt and pair
of loafers.

 
   
“Jarod.
Good to see
you.” The two men shook hands. “And this is?”