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"Heads up," Gwen's voice said, through the tiny electronic bud in Avy's ear.
Avy moved to the crack of the powder room door and watched, eyes narrowed, as her new friend Dave dropped something—definitely not a vitamin--into her drink.
And here she was dressed like a sure thing, too. She'd known that Dave Pomeroy was a smug jerk and a thief, but she hadn't realized that he was also this much of a creep. How charming.
What are you up to, you bottom-feeder?
She backed silently away from the door and flushed the toilet, along with her brains and any vestiges of guilt over what she was doing and how she was doing it. Dave Pomeroy had something that didn't belong to him, and as a full partner of ARTemis, Inc., stolen art recovery specialists, Avy intended to get it back.
She'd have preferred to do a clean break-and-enter, but security was tight here--no getting onto Star Island without the owner of the real estate. The likes of Shaquille O'Neal and Gloria Estefan wanted to enjoy their exclusive beachfront Pleasantville without security breaches.
So out of necessity she'd targeted Dave at the Clevelander, that famously rockin' South Beach institution which hands out complimentary drinks, earplugs, aspirin and, er, tiny raincoats for men upon check-in.
She'd rather have arrived on the island the way Gwen had, using a dive tank and fins, than let Dave practically hump her leg before inviting her home with him. But every job had its downside, didn't it?
Avy considered her next move as the cold metal of the 9 millimeter strapped to her left thigh came into contact with the skin of her right one. Given the rufie, her first instinct was to pull the gun on Dave, demand the priceless bronze he'd had stolen, and walk out.
But she thought better of that idea, since if Dave turned ornery he could decide to press charges for armed robbery. Considering the hot art, it was doubtful . . . but it wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility.
Avy grimaced. Law enforcement didn't always take kindly to her methods of repossessing things for their owners. She figured it was mostly envy on their part—she had no red tape to deal with and a fat commission at the end, while they had that whole law-and-order thing going on without much reward. She'd made more money in five years of art recovery work than her U.S. Marshal father had in his lifetime.
She'd taken her occasional slaps on the hand--plenty of agents on the art recovery team had. But she wasn't going to risk prison. So Avy settled on Plan B: No cops, a little dramatic flair, happy ending.
She closed her eyes for a moment and channeled girliness and stupidity and availability—which was the biggest illusion of all.
Okay, go.
She pulled open the door and sashayed out to Dave in the ridiculously high, clear-plastic heels that were part of her costume. "Wow," she said breathily. "This is some place you've got here." She cast a look of awe out at the private beach, the infinity-edged pool and the 45-foot, state of the art Cigarette boat rolling in the waves.
Dave dragged his gaze up from her chest and gave her the drugged Daiquiri with an oily smirk, displaying too many yellow-brown teeth.
She was repulsed by the hair product in his sparse fringe, the diamond in his earlobe and the sweet reek of his cologne. She wasn't sure she could bear him touching her again.
Just business, Ave. Not personal.
"Drink up, darlin'," he urged, swirling the ice in his snooty Scotch, an expensive, aged Laphroiag. Dave evidently had better taste in Scotch than he did in furnishings, but it gave him breath like moldy Bandaids. She moved away.
"Drink up," he repeated. "I got a whole blender of those Daiquiris with your name on it."
Do you, now? Well, I've got a toy surprise with your name on it, buddy. But Avy manufactured the most vacant smile in her repertoire and giggled before taking a "sip."
"How's that taste?"
Like anticipatory revenge. "Mmmmm. Perfect."
Dave eased his bulk over to her and slid an arm around her shoulders while Avy tried not to shudder.
"Steady," Gwen said into her ear. It was nice having company—usually Avy worked alone.
Dave didn't have a clue, but Gwen and her equipment were installed in his own boat, completing Survey of Art Recovery 101. Her final exam would be her very own solo job.
Avy shifted uncomfortably as the air-conditioning vent in Dave's floor blew a blast of cold air up her skirt.
He grinned again and tightened his arm around her. Dave had sticky fingers on more than one level. Their moist heat seeped through the thin fabric of her belly-baring top and she wanted to molt out of her own revolted skin and leave it behind with him. But that wasn't possible, so she stayed still. Not personal . . .
Her mind departed the scene as he squeezed her. Art recovery was personal for her, and had been since a cold night in Boston when she'd been a clueless museum intern, robbed at gunpoint, tied up and locked with her two co-workers in the coat-check room while three million dollars worth of art walked out the door.
She still remembered the shock of the easy ambush, the vulpine faces of the thugs, the fear, rage and guilt . . . the smell of musty wool and stale sweat and urine in the dark. One of the night guards had wet himself when a gun was held to his head.
They'd all three spent the rest of the night in the coat-check, and when Avy got out she'd resolved never to be that helpless again.
She didn't feel fear any longer. She refused. |
