The Lady Is a Thief (18 page)

 
   
They both shook their heads. “No.”

 
   
She wheezed a laugh, but at least the watery
eyes slowly abated. She didn't want to even begin looking at herself. They left
Harry a few minutes later and went back to the line and then down an exit
staircase for employees. Their circuitous route through the park took a more
direct line to the gates and then out again. They didn't pause to sight see.

 
   
In the Mickey lot, they found a four door
tan SUV. Twenty minutes later and back on a highway, and so ready to go to
sleep, but they didn't have time for that.

 
   
“Pasadena?”

 
   
She said nothing. Her insides twisted, her
face hurt, her eyes burned, and her soul ached. The only bright spot in the
last twenty-four hours sat right next to her and she couldn't trust it.

 
   
She couldn't trust him.

 
   
“Yes, please.” She licked her lips and
reached for the water bottle again. “If I ask you a question, will you tell me
the truth?”

 
   
“As much as I am able.”
It wasn't an unfair answer.

 
   
“Why do you want the Buddha?”

 
   
“Because I want to return
it to where it belongs—the temple in Thailand.
It is a treasured piece
of their cultural and artistic history. It should go home.”

 
   
“And that's it?” She pulled her knee up to
her chest and stared out the window, not at him. She wanted to hear the honesty
in his voice—the man could play too many expressions, be too many people. He
was some kind of government spy or had been—at one time.

 
   
“That's it.”

 
   
“So if I promise to help you facilitate that
desire, can you give me twenty-four hours?”

 
   
“Kit…”

 
   
“Seriously, Jarod.
You name the place and I will be there in twenty-four hours. But I need some
time…and then I'll—-I'll help you return the Buddha to where it belongs.”

 
   
They drove another five miles before he
spoke. “Who are you protecting, Kit?”

 
   
“If I tell you, then I'm not protecting them
anymore.”

 
   
“Then tell me what you can…”

 
   
She cut a look at him.

 
   
“I told you, I would help you take your two
days and I meant it.
duMonde
is still out there and when he figures out we thwarted his little tracer, he's
going to get meaner.
So leaving you to fend for
yourself—that's not going to happen.
But I can look the other way and
not see anything if you need that, but I need you to tell me what you can so I
know what you need.”

 
   
“I want to trust you.” She really did.

 
   
“Then read me in. Tell me what you can and I
promise you, I will help you make happen, whatever it is you need to make
happen.”

 
   
He didn't touch her, but he didn't have to.
His presence in the car wrapped around her like a blanket and damn if she
didn't want to snuggle into it. She'd known him less than forty-eight hours—how
was it possible that she wanted to trust him?

 
   
“At sixteen years old I found out that my
mother was alive.” It sounded rather ridiculous in some ways. She wasn't sure
where else to start this story, though.

 
   
“And this was news to you?”

 
   
“Yes. For most of my life I thought she died
when I was born. But that turned out to be a lie my father told me to protect
me.” She hesitated again. Only two people in the world knew the truth about
what happened in those two weeks after her sixteenth birthday.
Her father, because he had to help her pick up the pieces.

 
   
“Why did he have to protect you?”

 
   
“Because she was—is a drug addict—cocaine,
alcohol, and pills. An aspiring actress when my father met her, they had a
whirlwind affair. He knew she indulged recreationally, but he didn't realize
the extent of the problem until she was pregnant. After she gave birth, she
used to forget about me—because she would be drinking or popping her pills.
When I was just a few months old, she apparently left to go on a bender and
didn't tell anyone I needed a babysitter. Daddy found me about twelve hours
later, screaming my head off in an empty house because she'd given the staff
the night off.”

 
   
She distanced herself from this part of the
story. Her father's nightmare—his face went gray when he told her about it,
anger and revulsion evident. “He divorced her almost immediately and had her
parental rights terminated—well, actually he told her that she could go into
rehab or she could get out. She chose to stick to her drugs. He didn't tell me
that part though.”

 
   
The silence stretched between them.

 
   
“Who told you that part, Kit?”

 
   
“She did.” She blew out a breath. “And my
grandfather—her father—confirmed it.” Her grandfather, the only other man who
knew her secret, the retired jewel thief with a dying wish that she would grant
if it killed her.

 
   
And at the rate they were going it just
might.

 
   
V
ery
little emotional inflection echoed beneath the words as she spoke about her
mother. Her relationship, tenuous at best, didn't survive that first meeting.
At sixteen, the pampered daughter of a wealthy diplomat and industrialist
probably didn't have the reserves to combat such profound disappointment. In
the years since, she armored herself against that memory.

 
   
It's what survivors did.

 
   
He didn't probe for more information about
her mother. The memory, a defining moment for her to be sure, also proved a
distraction. A truth hidden behind another truth—and he couldn't fault her. He
trusted few, that every instinct and shred of research he turned up on Lady
Hardwicke added fuel to the trust his gut already held for the woman aside—she
was right that he revealed his hand to get her to reveal hers.

 
   
By the time he pulled off at the first
Pasadena exit and found a quiet side street to park on, she stared out the
window. Slipping the car into park, he tapped her leg lightly. “Let's see how
your face is…”

 
   
She turned and he could almost feel the
weight of her gaze despite the sunglasses shrouding her eyes. Her right cheek
looked
burned,
the skin bright pink against the
cream—a circular stamp from where she'd rubbed the cream.

 
   
He didn't like it, but the skin didn't show
any signs of rupture or break. Reddened and uncomfortable, he was sure—but not
long-term threatening. He stroked the skin just below it. “Hurt?”

 
   
“No. It's sore—and a little raw. But I've
had worse sunburns while on holiday in the Mediterranean.” The small smile
didn't quite touch both corners of her mouth, but he let the little lie go.

 
   
“Eyes?”

 
   
She lifted the sunglasses. Her eyes were
bloodshot, red rimmed, and swollen. He grimaced. “We should probably get you
some cold cloths for that.”

 
   
“In a little while.”
She put the glasses back on and glanced at her watch.

 
   
The tick-tock sensation returned. Jarod
drummed his hands against the steering wheel. “Two hours.”

 
   
“I need twelve.”

 
   
“Three.”

 
   
Her lips pursed. “Nine.”

 
   
“Five.” He looked at her. “And that's
pushing it.”

 
   
“If you're going to trust
me with five why not twelve?”
Her hands clenched into white-knuckled
fists.

 
   
“If you want me to trust you—why don't you
show a little trust of your own?
duMonde
is still out there—he doesn't need one hour or twelve—he needs one second. One
second you're alone and unprotected to grab you, to shoot you…” He leaned back
in the seat. He couldn't force her to trust him. He couldn't hold her captive
either—no matter how much he wanted to tuck her away somewhere safe while he
dealt with
duMonde
.

 
   
Seventy-two hours to go from hunter to
hunted. Seventy-two hours to turn a professional challenge into a personal
vendetta. He left the field for a reason and this current emotional investment
clouded his judgment. Maybe he needed to back off, assign another agent—he
dismissed the idea before it could fully form.

 
   
“Five twelve Brewer.”

 
   
“What?” The odd response dragged him away
from the internal turmoil.

 
   
“We're five and five now so – five twelve
Brewer.” She didn't look at him with the last, exhaling it on a hard breath as
though saying it out loud proved far more difficult than she anticipated.

 
   
He stared at her. “We're six and four, how
are you figuring five and five?”

 
   
She pursed her lips. “You told me about
Walter Curry—point to me.”

 
   
“I found the radioactive isotope and got rid
of it for you—point to me.”

 
   
“I got us into the
locked
room and pulled the fire alarm to get out of the building—point to me.”

 
   
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his
mouth. He still wanted to know how she bypassed that electronic lock so
quickly. “I got rid of the tracer and got us a new car—point to me.”

 
   
She rubbed her chin.
“Okay,
seven and six.”

 
   
“Seven and six.”
The tension in his shoulders eased.
“Five twelve Brewer?”

 
   
“Yep.”

 
   
He reversed out of their parking spot and
programmed the address into his GPS.
“What's at five twelve
Brewer?”

 
   
“A place.”
Amusement punctuated the answer.

 
   
“So, now we're reduced to twenty questions.
Should I ask if we're there yet?” Another knot in his spine unlocked and he
leaned back in his seat and claimed her hand. She glanced at their interlocked
fingers and when he tugged it over to rest against his leg, she squeezed once.

 
   
“Actually, you're driving—so I should be the
one asking if we're there yet.”

 
   
“True.” He conceded the point. “So is it a
public place?”

 
   
She laughed. “Yes.”

 
   
The address just seven blocks from where he
pulled off the highway sat squarely in the middle of a tired strip mall. The
wrinkles of time and a losing battle with the elements pitted the blacktop with
potholes and crisscrossed the sidewalks with cracks. He parked right in front
of the storefront that boasted the number on its front door. A metal gate
barricaded the inside of the glass and no signs labeled the storefront
sandwiched between a pizza joint advertising five dollar pies and a salon
boasting ten dollar haircuts.

 
   
Putting the car in park, he waited.

 
   
“Come on.” She opened the door and slid out.
He shut off the car and followed suit. Outside the vehicle, he scanned the
empty parking lot, closed storefronts, and the intermittent traffic passing.
Kit stood on the sidewalk, waiting.