Honor Among Thieves Read online

  “Where’s your dad, Molly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Another lie,” he mumbled. He looked at Paul. “This is a waste of time.”

  “I wish I knew where he was,” I said. “But I don’t. I can’t tell you information I don’t know.”

  Not that I would tell this psycho if I did know where Dad was hiding.

  “Thing is, someone in your family killed someone in my family,” Ezra said matter-of-factly. “So we’re going to even the score. If it’s not your dad, who should it be?” He smiled. “Your stepfather? Your sister? Your mother?”

  I stared at him and clenched my shaking hands tight under the table.

  “Leave them out of this,” Rhys said. “This has nothing to do with them.”

  “Take us instead,” I blurted out without thinking.

  Rhys looked down at me. “Pardon?”

  “You have at your disposal two world-class thieves. If you need anything done, we’ll do it.”

  Rhys looked down at me. “Can we talk about this first?” he said quietly.

  “We’ll do you a favor. But once we’re done, you will leave us alone,” I continued. “That’ll be it. That offer is more than fair, considering we didn’t actually shoot anyone.”

  Ezra and The Muscle stepped outside for a moment to discuss the offer.

  Rhys was, let’s just say, not into the whole idea.

  “Why did you say that?” He was gesticulating with his hands a lot. “God knows what they’ll get us to do for them!”

  “They threatened my family, Rhys. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Not that!”

  “What’s the big deal? We do one assignment for them, and we’re done,” I said. “They won’t be hunting us anymore.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I’m not sure we have a choice but to believe that.”

  “And what about your dad?” Rhys shook his head. “They’ll still be looking for him, even after we’re done.”

  Paul snickered. “Don’t worry about Dean. He’s like the hide-and-seek champion of the world.”

  Ezra and The Muscle returned and retook their seats.

  “Deal,” Kenneth said. “This job, and you will never hear from us again.”

  “How do we know you’re not going to just use us and then shoot us?” Rhys said, looking pretty pissed off about the whole thing.

  “You don’t,” Ezra said, smirking like an asshole. “But I guess that’s just the chance you’ll have to take, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I should really start collecting frequent flyer miles,” I said. “I feel like I’ve spent the last six months either on a plane or at an airport.”

  Rhys and I were settled into our seats, waiting for takeoff. The guy across the aisle from me was having trouble getting his suitcase into the overhead storage bin. Several annoyed passengers were queued up in the aisle behind him. But more importantly, his butt was really close to my face.

  “I don’t know why we couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, when we could’ve gotten first-class seats,” Rhys said, watching as the man’s butt got closer to me.

  “Hush now,” I whispered. “People who fly coach don’t like to be reminded that first class is a thing.”

  My eyes wandered around the overstuffed cabin. Ugh. So many people. Someone with a cold, sneezing on everyone and everything, their germs spreading from passenger to passenger. Someone with a baby that would likely scream and cry half the flight. Someone watching Paul Blart: Mall Cop on their iPad without headphones.

  These people are monsters.

  The man across the aisle finally sat down after another passenger suggested he turn the suitcase slightly to get it into the overhead bin. Funny how shapes work.

  After liftoff, I handed Rhys my bottle of water and a sleeping pill. “Down the hatch.”

  Rhys raised his eyebrows. “Already?”

  I waited for him to laugh at his little joke, but he didn’t.

  “Really?”

  Rhys shrugged. “I thought we could watch something together or play a game of cards or, I dunno, talk?”

  “You want to sit on a plane surrounded by awful strangers and talk?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “Okay.” I dumped the sleeping pill back in the bottle and slid it into my travel bag. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Rhys opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Politics?”

  “Ew. No thank you.”

  “Interesting news from the fascinating world of science and technology?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t think I’d have anything to contribute.”

  Rhys frowned. “Seen any good movies lately?

  I sighed and put my head back on the seat.

  Oh, no. This is the part where we both realize we’re not supposed to be together, because crime is the only thing we have in common.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “Tell me something about yourself that I don’t know.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I tell you something you don’t know about me.”

  Rhys thought for a moment. “My favorite kind of ice cream is vanilla.” He shrugged. “I realize some people would say that’s pretty boring, but I like it.”

  I nodded. “That’s a good one.”

  “Quit stalling.” He smiled sweetly.

  “Okay. Umm … I like reading true crime books—biographies and stuff.”

  “My favorite book is The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. I even wrote a paper on it in university,” he added.

  I paused. “Sometimes I think about going back to school, but I have no idea what I’d be doing if I wasn’t doing this. I don’t like anything that much.”

  “Sometimes I think my family knows I’m lying to them on a regular basis. Whenever I think about it too much, I hate myself for it.” Rhys sank down in his seat a little.

  I scooted down in my seat to be at the same level, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I rarely feel guilty about my job. But I sometimes feel bad for not feeling more guilty. Does that make sense?”

  Rhys nodded. “Yeah. I get that sometimes too.” He slid his hand into mine, entwining our fingers together. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

  I snickered. “Pfft. I met Danika, ya know.”

  “I mean it,” he said. “I would go on and say a few more cheesy things, but we’re in coach.”

  I forced myself to smile, trying to hide the panicky feeling in my stomach.

  What I should have said: “You are so sweet and brilliant and charming and I don’t deserve you.”

  What I did say: “I have to pee. I’ll be right back.”

  Locking the bathroom door behind me, I took a few deep breaths, squeezing and relaxing my fists a few times. I looked at myself in the little mirror above the sink.

  You deserve to be loved. You deserve to love. He loves you. Why can’t you say so back? Why is this so hard for you?

  * * *

  After a very long flight to Milan, we checked into our hotel. Since a bunch of major fashion shows were happening that week, the only hotel room we could get was close to the airport instead of near the city center and, well, this is going to sound snobbish, but it wasn’t the type of room we were used to staying in.

  “There is a very large insect staring at me from the shower,” Rhys said while in the bathroom, yelling through the door.

  “He’s watching you pee.” I laughed.

  Rhys chuckled. “He seems rather impressed with what I’m working with. He just gave me a thumbs up.” The toilet made a loud clunk as he flushed, and the pipes groaned as he washed his hands.

  I grinned at him as he opened the bathroom door. “Well, who wouldn’t be?”

  He pushed me backward onto the bed, the frame creaking under our weight. As Rhys and I lay on the lumpy mattress, I stared at the cracked ceiling abov
e us. Rhys’s head fell gently against my shoulder, and moments later he began snoring.

  My right arm fell asleep under the weight of Rhys’s chest, but I managed to pull my phone out of my pocket with my left hand and did some assignment recon with the help of my old friend: social media.

  Ezra had sent us to Milan, the fashion capital of the world, to track down his fashion model ex-girlfriend who refused to give back the ring he’d given here a few months before, even though they’d broken up.

  “If you gave her a diamond ring,” Rhys had said in our meeting with Ezra and The Muscle, one eyebrow raised, “it sounds like she’s your ex-fiancée, not ex-girlfriend.”

  Ezra rolled his eyes. “Ex-girlfriend, ex-fiancée, whatever. Does it matter?”

  “How do you know she has the ring with her in Milan?” I cut in, hoping to avoid any snippiness between Rhys and Ezra. Like there needed to be even more tension between us.

  “We searched her apartment in LA,” The Muscle said. “It ain’t there.”

  “Plus,” Ezra added, “she was photographed yesterday in Milan with that damn ring on her finger. It’s in all her stupid Instagram pictures. People still think we’re together because she’s still wearing it.” He sat back in his seat and shook his head. “She needs to move on.”

  I’d forced myself not to gag. Yeah, she missed out on a real gem.

  As I scrolled through the Instagram posts from Jazz Washington—yes, that’s her name—I realized Ezra was right. Every recent photo of her featured an enormous rock on her ring finger. And there were lots of recent photos to choose from. And a lot of people were seeing these photos, since she had half a million Instagram followers. She had even kept photos of her and Ezra on there—Jazz and Ezra eating brunch. Jazz and Ezra at the beach. Jazz and Ezra at their engagement party, surrounded by friends and family.

  Dude, pretty sure that means you were engaged, not just dating, ya jerk.

  Not that I had much experience with ex-lovers and Instagram, but I was fairly sure most people deleted photos of their ex from social media after a breakup.

  Is it possible this poor girl doesn’t know she and Ezra have broken up? Oh god. Did he send us here to break up with her for him? That weasel!

  One photo in particular caught my attention. It was from a party in LA the month before. Jazz snuggled up to Ezra as she was taking the group selfie, a batch of unusually attractive girlfriends behind them. The friends are all looking at the camera, Jazz is looking at Ezra adoringly, her long eyelashes almost slapping him in the cheek, her wavy brown hair framing her round face and falling over her shoulders. Ezra, however, is looking up at one of the friends behind them, his eyes locked on to her ample cleavage.

  Ugh.

  I did some research on Jazz. All the most recent news articles were related to her appearances in Milan at fashion shows and her blossoming career, but nothing related to her relationships.

  Okay. Ezra sucks. I’m a professional burglar, not a professional relationship ender. Big difference, scumbag.

  Rhys and I spent the next day playing tourist around the city. We toured the Leonardo da Vinci Museum of Science and Technology (“See, science is fun!” Rhys said, pointing at things like a frantic little kid), the Cathedral of Santa Maria Nascente (or as I called it, “the super creepy-looking church”) and just walked around the oldest parts of the city.

  After a yummy early supper and a glass of wine at a little café, we took a taxi back to the hotel. I was about to unlock the door to our hotel room, but Rhys grabbed my hand first and gently pressed me up against the door. I giggled, fiddling with the lock on the door behind me, trying to get the keys to function.

  But then the door opened from the other side, and Rhys and I tumbled inside. I squealed as I fell, landing on my butt, the gross hotel carpet not doing much to soften my fall. Rhys managed to grab the doorframe and stay upright.

  I looked up from the floor and sighed. Margot, Rhys’s go-to miracle worker for costumes and makeup, looked down at me, crossing her long, slender arms over her chest. She reminded me of a praying mantis in so many ways.

  “You’re late,” Margot said in her indistinguishable accent. She slid her big, dark sunglasses down, looking at us over the top of them. “Oh, I see.”

  Rhys helped me up and adjusted his shirt. “Sorry Margot.”

  “We got lost,” I chimed in. “All the signs around here are in Greek or something.”

  Margot frowned at me. “I do not like jokes.”

  I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stood, her thin lips a perfectly straight line across her serious face. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  If you’re ever feeling a little too confident, a little too good about yourself, I recommend you make your way to a runway party.

  I’m the shortest person in this room by far.

  Rhys and I squeezed through the crowded room of models, designers, photographers, journalists and socialites. A disco ball threw spots of blue and purple light on the walls and floor while dance music with heavy bass pumped from the DJ booth at the back.

  We found an empty spot where we could have a look around. I recognized several of the party-goers and had to force myself not to stare at the celebrities in attendance.

  They look so real!

  I watched Rhys scan the room, his eyes partially hidden behind a pair of glasses with a thick white frame. Margot had really outdone herself this time, giving Rhys a fashion faux hawk, eyeliner and the tightest slim-leg jeans I’ve ever seen. I liked the skinny pink tie and navy blazer she’d picked out for him, though.

  “Stop pulling at your crotch,” I hissed moments before we headed into the party. “You’re undercover as a journalist, not a pervert.”

  Rhys frowned and tugged at a belt loop. “You don’t understand. My boys need their space.”

  This party was such a horrible cliché. Glamazons in high heels towered over the rest of us mere mortals as they danced in the crowd. Short skirts, mini dresses and the traditional “smoky eye” look from one end of the room to the other. Nearby, a middle-aged man tried to shield his young model-esque friend while she snorted a bump of coke off a tiny spoon from a tube necklace. Great.

  “I don’t see Jazz,” Rhys said from the safety of our surveillance spot, nodding to a tall blonde woman about fifteen feet away. “She looks familiar, though.”

  I looked up at Rhys. “That’s Heidi Klum.”

  “Huh.” He shrugged and kept scanning the room as a bead of sweat ran down the side of his wine glass. He smiled at me. “You look incredible. Very cool.”

  My tummy went warm. We were literally surrounded by the world’s most beautiful women, and he was looking at me like I was a goddess.

  “I’m convinced Margot hates me,” I said. “She keeps putting me in increasingly ridiculous outfits.”

  Margot’s take on the Little Black Dress was a little too S&M for my taste: boxy, black, studded and very short, barely reaching mid-thigh, and snug at the neck. Margot had been annoyed when I asked if she could quickly sew on some sleeves to hide my gunshot wound, but she did as I asked, glaring as she stitched.

  Rhys touched my bare back, which was only covered by a few strips of shredded leather. My wig was a severe pin-straight black bob with bitchin’ bangs, and Margot had really piled on the black eyeliner, smokey eyeshadow and deep red lipstick.

  “I don’t know,” Rhys said, his eyes lingering on my butt. “I think you look like a badass goth chick.”

  I smiled up at him and winked. I scanned the room, hunting for our target, Jazz Washington.

  I froze when I saw another familiar face in the crowd—Xander Rose, hitting on a model who was young enough to be his daughter. Gross. He didn’t stick around for much longer, so I felt a bit more relaxed as I watched him and his young friend heading for the exit.

  Rhys put down his empty glass. “What if Jazz doesn’t actually show up?”

  I shrugged. “Ezra assured me she ne
ver misses a post-runway party.”

  Fifteen minutes passed. Still no sign of Jazz. Twenty-five minutes. No Jazz. At least people weren’t bothering to talk to us. Thirty-five minutes. Finally, after forty minutes, Jazz bounded into a posse of dancing models and shook her hair around wildly. Her party dress of choice was a black micro-miniskirt and a gold bikini top. I guess when you’re Jazz Washington, you can wear whatever the hell you want when you’re off the runway.

  Rhys leaned over to me. “Do you see what I see?”

  Through the mass of people around her, the strobe lights bounced off the skating rink perched on Jazz’s perfectly manicured ring finger.

  Rhys grabbed my hand and pulled me into the throng of people dancing, a few feet from Jazz and her friends.

  I never really know what to do with my body when dance music is playing. I read that you just spell your name out with your butt, but what do you do with your arms while you do that? I think I’ve got the butt thing down, but my arms always end up going into orchestra conductor mode.

  Rhys didn’t really bother with dancing much. He mostly just swayed behind me, pressed himself up against me, cupped my bum and kissed my neck. Rhys + alcohol = handsy. Not that I minded.

  Jazz happened to look over to us for a second, and I grabbed my press lanyard, held it up and pointed at her. She made an “Oh!” face and nodded enthusiastically. Rhys was too busy making out with the side of my neck to realize I’d made contact with the target. I grabbed his hand, and we followed Jazz outside, where we could talk a little easier.

  We found a rooftop patio where people were hanging out, drinking red wine and smoking. We shimmied through the crowd to a little bench and sat together.

  “I’m Wren, this is Arlo,” I said. “We’re big fans. We write for a fashion blog, and we’d love to do a quick interview with you about your career.”

  I wish I’d come up with names beforehand instead of just using the names of my Brooklyn hipster neighbors.

  “Oh, cool!” she squealed. “What blog?”