Molly Miranda: Thief for Hire (Book 1) Action Adventure Comedy Page 5

  Nice.

  We let ourselves into a long galley kitchen. Besides the sound of the tap dripping in the old basin sink, the house was deadly quiet.

  I usually prefer to have some noise around when I’m on an assignment. Noise can cover any sounds I might make while I go about my business. But then again, noise also hides sounds I might want to hear while I’m, say, cracking a safe or something.

  I followed Rhys up two wide staircases with polished wooden rails.

  “Audrey said the paintings are in a locked storage room left of the small study on the third floor,” Rhys said. “Hopefully he hasn’t moved them since she moved out.”

  This house was enormous. If, by chance, the owner had moved the paintings, it would take hours to find them—or he could have moved them to a storage facility somewhere else. I didn’t even want to think about that.

  In spite of the long, dark hallway lit only by the windows at the very end, we found the room. Rhys leaned against the wall beside the door. I used a small flashlight to check out the door’s lock. Like almost everything in the house, the lock was old. Newer, modern locks are usually a lot more complicated than antique ones. It took me about a minute to unlock it using a bobby pin and a narrow metal tool I invented myself. And by invented I mean I bought it at the grocery store. It was just hanging out with the nutcrackers but I knew it would be useful when I saw it—with or without walnuts involved.

  I turned the knob and the door opened with a low creak. Success!

  “Molly,” Rhys whispered, “get in that room right now.”

  I looked up at him. His face was frozen and he was staring down the corridor. I looked over my shoulder and saw the shape of a large dog in the light at the end of the hall. Its eyes glowed and its snarls grew louder and deeper as it lunged toward us.

  I almost peed my pants. For reals.

  “Now, Molly!” Rhys whipped the door open and I slipped inside.

  Rhys tried to close the door behind us but the edge of it hit the dog’s head. It yelped, and it only made the dog’s growls scarier and angrier. While I pulled on the door, Rhys pushed on the dog’s snout with his foot. The dog twisted its head around and clamped down on the end of Rhys’s boot.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  He whipped a syringe out of his pocket, took the cap off with his teeth and jabbed it into the dog’s neck. The angry canine’s eyes slowly closed and Rhys’s foot fell from its jaws. The dog’s heaving shoulders slumped down and it fell to one side. Shoving the dog’s snout out of the way, Rhys pushed the door closed. He slid his back against the door and sat on the floor, catching his breath.

  He took off his gnarled boot and surveyed the damage. “Audrey’s buying me new boots.” There were two holes in his sock and only a few specks of blood around the tears. I didn’t see any blood on the floor either.

  In a best-case scenario, we’d get these paintings out and Albert Chandler would never know we were here. He might not realize the paintings had been stolen for weeks, even months. If, by chance, we left behind any evidence linking us to this room, the cleaning staff would most likely take care of it before anyone noticed the paintings were missing.

  In a worst-case scenario, Rhys would lose a foot, die of blood loss and someone would find his dead body being used as a chew toy by that dog out in the hall. Actually, losing Rhys along the way wouldn’t be that horrible…

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Audrey didn’t say anything about the Hound of Baskervilles living here!”

  Rhys glared at me. “That’s an English reference, not Scottish.”

  “Arthur Conan Doyle was Scottish, wasn’t he?”

  Another glare. Apparently having a foot mauled by a terrifying dog makes some people lose their sense of humor.

  “What did you just jab that dog with?” I said. “It’s not dead, is it?”

  “Unfortunately not!” he hissed. “A weak tranquilizer. That dog is huge. He’ll likely wake up before we’re even done here.”

  My shoulders fell. “Are you serious?”

  He nodded and put his mangled boot back on. “I hope you can climb.”

  I looked around. The room was crammed with boxes. At least thirty paintings of various sizes were stacked up against the walls. Dust swirled in the low light that filtered in from the window. I wasn’t a huge fan of the idea of climbing out that window with a painting under my arm, but it was better than being a snack for Cujo out in the hallway.

  “Are you okay?” I looked down at Rhys’s mangled boot.

  “I’ll live.” He pointed to a line of paintings on the wall. “You start on this side, I’ll take that side.”

  Using our flashlights we checked all the paintings in the room, trying not to move them too much from their original spots. The job would’ve gone a lot faster if we turned on the light, but we didn’t dare. I found the portrait of the terrier first.

  “Cute little thing,” I said, shining my flashlight on it. She was white and fluffy, with big black eyes and a little pink ribbon around her neck, sitting on a pink silk cushion, looking as regal as a Westie can. The painting was small enough that I could fit it under my arm.

  “Oh, dear. Look at this.”

  I looked over my shoulder. Rhys was holding up a large canvas. I aimed my flashlight at it. It was a painting of a nude woman, peering seductively over her shoulder with her full lips parted, her back to the artist.

  I raised my eyebrows. “That’s Ivy, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Is that the right painting?” I slid off my gloves and stuffed them into my pocket.

  Rhys looked closer at the signature in the corner of the canvas. “It’s gotta be. The date’s from six months before the divorce. It was done after she got that book published. This would cause a scandal.” He put the painting back down. “I don’t think she ever really lost her wild side at all. She just wants to hide.”

  “And destroy the evidence.”

  He nodded and looked at the window. “How the hell are we gonna do this?”

  There was movement from the other side of the door. Cujo was waking up.

  “If we don’t get out soon, that dog is going to tear up the floor out there—or just come through the door.” Rhys stared at the portrait and eyed the window. “We can get it out of here if we go at an angle. Shouldn’t be an issue. But we’re gonna have to put a hole in the floor to drill a mount for the climbing gear. There’s nothing in here to tie the rope to.”

  I stared at the window, thinking hard. “We can tie the rope around the portraits and lower them down. Then we’ll climb down. I’d say it’s about a thirty-foot climb, maybe forty. Easy.”

  “Okay.” He winced.

  I sighed. “What?”

  “I don’t … love climbing. But I’m fine. In fact, I’m very good at climbing. Hell, I’m an ace climber. I just prefer using the mount and climbing gear.”

  I grinned. “Are you scared of heights?”

  “No.” He laughed. “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He hesitated. “Yes?”

  I rolled my eyes. “We don’t have time. Let’s just do this.”

  He scoffed as I gave him one of the large garbage bags I’d brought in my kit to wrap around the paintings and protect them in transit.

  I tied the rope around the terrier painting, one loop around the long side and one loop around the short side—that way it wouldn’t slide out and crash to the ground. I lowered it out the window and slid it down the roof shingles and off to the side. I kept a close eye on it to make sure it didn’t bang into anything on the way down. I scanned the area around the manor, just in case any neighbors happened to be going for a midnight stroll, as I slowly released the rope from the window.

  Rhys hooked his rope up with the portrait of Ivy the same way and slid it through the window at an angle. He pushed it off the side of the roof and held tight to the rope. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and gently released the rope. It swun
g in the wind but didn’t hit anything on the way down.

  Heavy, frantic sniffing, growling and digging sounds came from the door, growing louder and louder. There was definitely going to be damage to the floor from that dog’s claws. So much for not leaving any signs of our presence. Rhys quickened his pace and I put on a pair of climbing gloves. Once the bigger painting was safe on the ground, I hoisted myself out of the window and started the climb down the side of the building.

  Keeping close to the wall, I reached for any bit of stone that I could grip. My heart pounded hard in my chest. I tried to avoid looking down. As soon as there was room under the window, Rhys climbed down after me.

  I reached for the ledge of a window but didn’t put much weight on it. My arms and legs ached and my fingers throbbed. I looked up to check on Rhys.

  “Nice ass,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Your tits look great from this angle.”

  I pressed my foot to a bit of brick jutting out and held onto the window ledge. I put a bit more weight on the brick and it crumbled beneath me in a cloud of dust.

  “You alright?”

  I held on to the window ledge for dear life as my feet scrambled to find another secure bit of rock.

  “Yup. I’m fine.”

  Sweat rolled off my chin as I made my way down a foot lower. I took a few deep breaths, exhausted from holding myself up by my fingers.

  “I’m gonna jump down.”

  “Okay. Just don’t land on the paintings.”

  I rolled my eyes. A “Be safe!” would have been nice.

  I slowly and carefully got myself turned around while holding on to a nearby gable. I’ve always been better at climbing than falling.

  I should have taken gymnastics in school like Mom wanted. Dammit.

  I pushed myself off from the wall and bent my legs. I came this close to landing on the Ivy painting and rolled two or three times. My forearms got a bit scratched up but it could’ve been worse.

  Rhys climbed down slower than me, taking his time to secure his footing before making each move.

  He really does have a nice bum.

  “I don’t mean to pressure you, but we gotta hit the road. Time’s a-tickin.’” Frowning, I tapped my wrist.

  “Have I mentioned that I don’t care for heights?” Clinging to a ledge, he stared straight ahead, his body rigid.

  “Yeah, I kinda figured. You’re gonna have to jump, Rhys. It’s only a few feet. You can do it.”

  “Bollocks,” he said, glancing at me over his shoulder. “That’s at least six meters.”

  “I don’t know how long a meter is compared to a foot.”

  Rhys sighed and got himself turned around halfway so one hand was gripping a window ledge and one edge of his foot was on resting on a lower window frame. He jumped, his eyes squeezed shut. He landed safely with bent knees, one hand on the ground. He stood up and smiled, looking very pleased with himself.

  We headed into the thicket behind Chandler House, each carrying a painting. From there, Rhys turned the security cameras back on and we began the slow, careful trudge past prickly shrubs and wet mossy undergrowth.

  Rhys stumbled over loose grass and mud, nearly falling over. Because of the awkward size, he had to hold the painting of Ivy Dixon in front of himself like a shield.

  It started pouring. I let out an exasperated groan, my stringy, soaked hair sticking to my face with rain dropping into my eyes.

  Rhys burst out laughing. “What are you so mad about?”

  “Why do you even choose to live here?”

  “It’s a little rain. You’ll survive.”

  “You could literally live anywhere in the world.” I stopped for a break under a tree. “Paris. The Bahamas. You could live in Italy! Uh, you could live in … uh, Sweden!”

  “Why would I live in Sweden?”

  “I don’t know! They have a strong economic climate!”

  The rain poured down even harder. Each drop hit every leaf in the trees around us. I looked up into the trees, just in time for a bird to come diving out at my face, screeching and cawing. I screamed and dove out of the way, whipping the canvas in front of my face. Rhys laughed loudly and shook his head.

  I frowned at him. “I hate Scotland.”

  * * *

  The next morning Rhys and I drove to Edinburgh with the paintings stowed in the trunk. He was quiet so I just slept, leaning my head against the window. I only woke up when we parked outside of a deserted golf course.

  I looked around. “This doesn’t look like Edinburgh.”

  Rhys turned off the engine and leaned against the car, checking his phone. I got out and stretched. The air was foggy and gray. I pulled my sweater tighter.

  A minute later a silver town car pulled up beside us. A man in a black suit and sunglasses got out and opened the passenger side door.

  “Good day,” Audrey said, adjusting her black, wide-brimmed Kentucky Derby style hat as she got out of the car.

  Rhys opened the trunk without a word and started unwrapping the paintings. Audrey crossed her arms over her chest and watched from the side.

  “These are the right paintings, I presume,” Rhys said.

  Audrey didn’t even blink at the risqué painting of Ivy Dixon. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  She nodded to her driver. He wrapped them back up loosely and moved them from his trunk to hers.

  “I assume everything went as planned,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, there was a rabid dog in the house we didn’t know about but other than that—”

  “It was fine.” Rhys threw a look at me.

  Oh, sorry! Didn’t realize the adults were talking.

  “Wonderful. My client will be thrilled to hear it. I’ll have your payment wired to you within the day.” She went back to her car. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Back on the road again, Rhys wove between cars on the highway as we made our way to the airport. The wipers squeaked as they waved back and forth across the windshield.

  “I’m surprised Ivy Dixon doesn’t have her own reality show by this point.”

  He smirked and kept his eyes on the road. “She’s too hot for TV. Maybe in fifteen years, after she’s butchered her face with plastic surgery.”

  “Do you know what Ivy will do with the painting of her once she gets it back? Would she have it destroyed or hang it up in her house?”

  He glanced at me. “Does it matter?”

  “If I looked like that, I would consider hanging that painting up.”

  “Let me know if you ever get a portrait done. I’ll come by your place and check it out.”

  I laughed out loud and shook my head. “You are never seeing my apartment. Creep.”

  He grinned. “Never?”

  “Never ever.”

  We arrived at the airport. Instead of finding a parking space, Rhys stopped at the front entrance. I got my suitcase out of the back seat.

  I leaned down and looked through the window. “Uh, I guess this is goodbye.” I shrugged. What the hell do I even say to this guy?

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Have a good flight.” And then he sped away, the tires screeching.

  My first flight was from Edinburgh to London. All this traveling was taking a toll on my body and brain. I could barely remember what day it was, let alone how long I’d been in the United Kingdom.

  I waited at Heathrow for my flight back to New York. My eyelids felt heavy and I fought to keep my head upright in my seat.

  Must not fall asleep. Some creep will take my bag. Must … not … fall…

  My phone vibrated in my pocket and my eyelids flicked open. There were two emails waiting for me. The first was from Audrey, letting me know my money had transferred successfully. The second email was to my personal ‘Molly Miranda’ account, sent to me from my Betty Bruce email account a minute before.

  What the heck is this?

  To: mollymiranda

  From: bettybruce

  Subject
: no subject

  Molly,

  As soon as you get home, you will wire every penny of that $500,000 you just received from Audrey to the transit number in the attached document. You have one day to do this. If you don’t cooperate, I will flag your name in the FBI database and make sure they know who you are and what crimes you have been involved with.

  Have a lovely trip home. I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.

  Your pal,

  Rhys

  That son of a bitch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Molly?”

  My head jerked up and I scanned the room.

  Where the heck am I?

  Ah. Right. The living room sofa. Of course.

  Nate peered down at me, coffee cup in hand. His hair was messy and he had a good amount of stubble along his jawbone. God, he was pretty. I slid back down into the sofa cushions. “What?”

  “Why are you sleeping out here?”

  “I got home late.”

  “I know. I heard you.” He smiled. Oh, that smile.

  “Sorry about that.” I pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over myself.

  Nate sipped his coffee. “But why are you out here and not in your room?”

  I peered up at him.

  Because I decided I couldn’t go to bed until I figured out what to do about Rhys and the fact that he’s stealing half a million dollars from me. No big deal. Somewhere in there, I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch. What’s the difference? Leave me alone!

  I pulled the blanket up to my chin. “One of the neighbors was yelling. I could hear it through the wall.”

  “Oh, I didn’t hear anything.”

  I closed my eyes again, exhaustion tugging at my whole body.

  “How’s your aunt?”

  “What?”

  “Aunt Grace?”

  Ah, shit. Right. That ol’ (made-up) dame.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Good, glad to hear it. I was worried because you didn’t text me back.”

  “I didn’t get a text,” I mumbled. “I think something is wrong with my phone.”