21
999 Words
I don’t tell him that her mother was killed in a car bomb explosion when Juliet was a child. I have a feeling that’s not something she’d want me to share. I also don’t share her years of homeschooling or her intensely sheltered lifestyle before she was sent away at thirteen to a boarding school in Vermont for the children of the ultra-rich. It seems her rebellious streak kicked in then, because as soon as she left her father’s household, she got into near constant trouble.
Immediately after graduating at eighteen, she was arrested for shoplifting. The charges were dropped—daddy’s influence, no doubt—but whoever was in charge of daddy’s security team neglected to scrub her fingerprints from the police database.
A mistake I’d never make, but a lucky one for me.
After her arrest, the FBI file ends. They don’t have her alias listed, or any current known address. Neither does Interpol or the NSA, and they know everyone. Which means she did an excellent job of covering her tracks.
Which means she’s even more impressive than I thought she was.
“Huh. So why she’d target you for the diaper job, then?”
My lips lift into a smile. “Apparently, she and her two sidekicks only steal from bad guys. Somehow, I ended up on their list.”
After a moment of silence, Declan says, “That explains it.”
“What?”
“Why you like her.”
“I don’t follow.”
“She’s a do-gooder. That’s your particular brand of Kryptonite.”
“How the hell would you know? You haven’t seen me with a woman since I took over for Liam.”
“He told me.”
I grit my teeth. This should be interesting. Annoying, but interesting. “What exactly did he say?”
“That the only time you’ve ever lowered your guard in your life was for a woman who was so in love with someone else, she died to save him.”
“She didn’t die,” I say through a clenched jaw. “And I saved him.”
I can’t see it, but I know right now he’s blowing smoke rings and waving a hand dismissively in the air. “Details. The point is, she was a do-gooder. Selfless. Generous. This one’s the same.”
“She’s a thief.”
“A philanthropist thief,” he corrects, sounding smug. “Who only steals from bad guys and donates the take to charity. I mean, if that’s not the definition of a do-gooder, I don’t know what is.”
When I stay silent too long, Declan says, “I know you’re sitting there trying to figure out how to argue with me, which is a problem because you also know that I’m right.”
“Actually, I was just picturing your slow and painful death by poisoning.”
“Psh. Poison’s a woman’s weapon. You’d just shoot me point-blank in the face.”
“A tempting thought. I’m hanging up now.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me you’re glad I survived our little run-in with the Serbians?”
I deadpan, “I’m thrilled,” and jab my finger against the End button on my phone.
He calls me back five seconds later. “Got a call from my buddy at the department. Feds are at the scene now.”
“Good. Have them give me everything they’ve got as soon as they’ve got it.”
He mimics a pirate’s accent. “Aye, aye, captain.”
“Declan?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t ever say that again.”
“You don’t like it? It originated as a British Royal Navy nautical term meaning ‘Yes, I will do as you command.’ As opposed to the more generic ‘I understand’ in response to an order, which doesn’t implicitly connote obedience. Because, you know, the military’s real big on obedience.”
“I do know. I was in the military.”
His tone turns thoughtful. “That’s right. I always forget. Probably because I can’t picture you taking orders from anyone. I bet you got disciplined constantly, right?”
I mutter, “I should’ve shot you on sight,” and hang up on him again.
I sit thinking for several long moments. When my stomach grumbles, I realize I haven’t eaten anything for hours. I head to the kitchen to get something to eat, but stop in the living room, my ear c****d.
I hear the sound again. It’s a low thump, like a blow against a wall.
It’s coming from the corridor that leads to the guest room where Juliet is.
A few seconds later, I’m applying my knuckles firmly to the door of her room.
There’s a pause before she opens up. A pause in which I find it surprisingly difficult not to start pounding my fist on the wood and shouting. Then the handle turns, the door swings wide, and there she is.
Red-faced, disheveled, and breathing hard.
Behind her, the room is a wreck.
I let my gaze wander around the overturned furniture, the artwork hanging askew on the walls, the bed stripped of sheets. A nightstand has been dragged underneath an air vent on the ceiling on one side of the room. The window coverings lie in a crumpled pile on the floor.
I fold my arms over my chest, lean my shoulder against the wall, and say mildly, “I see you’ve been redecorating.”
“I was looking for cameras.”
“And trying to find a way out.”
“Yes.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I discovered that. Thank you.”
We stare at each other. She’s so lovely with the color high in her cheeks and her eyes ablaze with anger. I want to reach out and stroke her face, but know I’d only get slapped for the effort.
“You said you believed I’d keep my word.”
- Writer
