Wicked Intentions

25

“Hotels never do,” I interrupt. “Security cameras are always trained down, toward doors and hallways. Any thief worth his salt would know that.” Though I’m still mad as f**k, I can’t help but smile. “Her salt.”

I can tell by the cop’s expression that he’d really like to throw my ass in jail, but he must’ve already decided I’m just some dumb lackey Angeline used to make her play.

A lightbulb goes on over my head. “Wait. You know who she is, don’t you?”

He takes off his cap and scratches his head. Sounding weary, he says, “I can’t comment on that.”

Connor scoffs, “Oh come on! You wouldn’t have even let me in this room if this was a real interrogation.”

He scowls. “No one ever said anything about an interrogation!”

An odd combination of elation and anger electrifies my skin. “She’s hit this hotel before?”

He looks back and forth between Connor and me, then obviously decides he might as well tell us, because he sighs heavily and starts spilling his guts.

“No. But I’ve got a friend in Interpol. Called him as soon as I was notified by Prince Khalid that his safe had been broken into while he was asleep. I knew it had to be a pro if he—she—could get past the armed security personnel posted outside the door and the biometric thumbprint scanner on the safe, and also be quiet enough not to awaken the prince or his bride for however long it took to finish the job.”

He makes a face. “Though admittedly the prince is known to imbibe more than what could be considered a reasonable amount, and his wife said she fell asleep to a white noise app because of all his snoring.” He turns to Connor. “Have you heard of Brain.fm? The princess claims it’s very relaxing—”

I shout, “Cut to the fuckin’ chase, man!”

He stares at me for a moment. “Let’s just say this woman is on pretty much everyone’s most wanted list.”

I demand, “What’s her name?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Who knows? She’s got fifteen known aliases, probably plenty more that aren’t known. Been doing big jobs for a long time. Jewels, mainly. The occasional piece of art. Never been caught.”

I scoff, “How could a thief who looks like a supermodel never be caught? She stands out like a fuckin’ neon sign!”

“If you saw the Interpol file, you might think differently.”

“Disguises?” Connor sounds doubtful.

“Up the wazoo. Eyewitnesses describe her as anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. Five foot four to five foot ten. Blonde, redhead, short black hair, dreadlocks. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes. Walks with a limp. Walks with no limp. Has a lisp. Has an Irish accent. French. Italian. Spanish. You name it. She’s no one. She’s everyone. She’s impossible to pin down. Apparently she’s known in criminal circles as The Golden Hand. But my Interpol friend says law enforcement calls her the Dragonfly.”

Thinking of her gorgeous naked body trembling under my touch, I murmur, “Because of the tattoo.”

The officer looks at me sharply. “Tattoo?”

“The dragonfly on her left hip.”

His brows slowly rise.

I realize too late that this is new information to him. In spite of my gaffe, a flush of something like pride heats my neck.

If law enforcement doesn’t know she has a tattoo, that means none of her marks have ever reported it. And if none of her marks have ever reported it, that means none of them ever saw her naked.

Goddamn. She was telling the truth about never having one-night stands!

I instantly forgive her for everything.

“No,” says the officer. “It’s because she leaves a drawing of a dragonfly somewhere at every job she pulls off. It’s her calling card. The one in Prince Khalid’s suite was scrawled on the bathroom mirror with his wife’s lipstick.”

“She wants everyone to know it was her,” I say.

Connor adds ominously, “Or someone.”

We lock eyes. I know him well, and right now I know he’s thinking Angeline’s calling card isn’t meant as a taunt to the police. It’s not an ego thing. It’s a message.

But for who? And why?

Watching my face, the police officer chuckles. “Don’t take it personally, Mr. McLean. She’s duped some of the most sophisticated security personnel on the planet. She’s a professional thief. The best in the business, by all accounts.”

Connor claps his hand on my shoulder. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. “Besides, I’m sure she thought you were real cute.”

“f**k off,” I say cheerfully, because I wasn’t a one-night stand.

The officer who was holding Angeline’s shoe is now holding her red dress, retrieved from the floor. He’s fingering it with his brows pulled together. “Got something here, chief.”

“What is it?”

The officer removes a Swiss knife from his black utility belt, snaps open the blade with his thumb, and works it against a seam in the waist of the dress. The fabric gives way easily. He removes a small metal object, winking in the light. Looking surprised, he holds it up.

Connor and I say in unison, “Handcuff key.”

The chief looks at me as if for confirmation. “She sewed a handcuff key into her dress?”

“In case she was apprehended and had to escape from cuffs.” I shake my head, more impressed by the second. “It’s fuckin’ brilliant.”

Another officer standing next to the television console opens the small beaded handbag Angeline left behind and dumps its contents onto the wood surface. Sifting through it with the tip of a pen, he catalogues his findings out loud.

“One rake pick. One tension wrench. One torch lighter. One folding tactical knife. One metal shim. Four plastic zip ties. One unmarked hotel keycard, possibly a master. And one lipstick.”