Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,100
he would’ve found them easily.
Maxwell pushed his upper body forward, looking frail and weak in the large bed. “What’s going on?”
“If this is about the break-ins,” Sylvia said, nonplussed, “the sheriff stopped by twice. He walked the perimeter and said some kids have been pranking their dispatch.”
The nurse stood and studied Clementine, lips pursed as she lifted the phone, likely to call the cops, but frowned. “The line’s dead.”
Dammit. There went any hope of this being a hoax. “Block the door,” Clementine repeated. “I have reason to believe a dangerous man’s in the house. Do not leave this room.”
The nurse nodded and Clementine turned to leave, but paused. “I’m so sorry,” she told Jack’s parents, the same meaningless words she’d uttered to Imelda, pathetic attempts to ease her conscience. There was no apologizing for this.
She rushed from the room, Sylvia’s concerned voice drifting after her. At least they were safe. That left saving the gold record and ending Yevgen’s threats once and for all.
Clementine’s only chance with him was the element of surprise. Lucien had trained her in hand-to-hand combat. They’d practiced weekly until his knee had started acting up. Elbow strikes to the back of the neck, the eye gouge, throat punch, nutcracker choke—she’d mastered it all. Her expertise hadn’t helped on the Monet job, but she was prepared this time. She knew what Yevgen was capable of, and she was expecting him.
She slipped down the stairs to the lower level, blood rushing in her ears. She paused, controlled her breaths. Steady, girl. She resumed her slow prowl. The early evening sun glowed through the patio doors, casting gold beams over the pool table and TV area. Nothing was amiss. Jack’s Elvis picture was still on the wall, still with the crack running through it. She’d planned to fix it for him. Instead she’d cracked his heart.
She fisted the knife handle and padded toward the hall while straining her hearing, listening for a noise, a clue…anything. A faint clunk sounded. Her adrenaline spiked. The noise had come from the sound room. Of course Yevgen was already there.
She snuck up to the closed door and adjusted her grip on the knife. Firm and steady. Time to end this maniac’s obsession with her.
But an arm circled her waist, a blade pressed to her neck. “Nice to see you, Clementine.”
Jack crammed five Elvi into his Tesla. Another twenty-odd followed in a few cars. He hadn’t gathered the platoons he’d hoped in his timeframe, but they’d found enough to make a stand against an intruder.
Alistair sat in Jack’s passenger seat, bouncing his knee. “You better not renege.”
“You better make sure nothing happens to Clementine or my family.”
Their deal had been simple. Alistair would help him mobilize as many Elvi as possible, explain that the gold record was being stolen from its rightful owner. Tribute artists were purists at heart. They wouldn’t tolerate disrespecting the King, or Jack’s granddad, who was responsible for the festival. In turn, Jack would give Alistair the gold record.
Not what the artists had signed up for, technically, but desperate times and all that, and Jack prayed he’d be handing his prized possession over to Alistair.
One of their traveling companions grunted. “Watch your hand, Ernie.”
“Your elbow’s lodged in my ribs.”
“I’m choking on your aftershave, man.”
“I’ll choke you if your hand moves another inch.”
Jack glanced in his rearview mirror and bit back a laugh, the maniacal kind. His Tesla had become a version of a clown car, crammed with bedazzled polyester, gelled hair, sideburns, and enough cologne to get high. He was in a fucking jumpsuit, too, all of them racing to save the people Jack loved. Definitely maniacal.
At least he’d reached Chloe before leaving. She’d promised to steer clear of the estate. The rest better go as smoothly.
His Tesla whizzed down the road, the train of Elvi-packed cars speeding in his wake. Trees and farmland zipped by.
Alistair’s heel bounced incessantly. “Ava ever disappear on you?”
Jesus. The last thing he needed was a heart-to-heart with the man dating his ex. “Does ditching me to sleep with you count?”
“I was always the better man,” Alistair said, less taunt in his voice than usual. He played with a loose thread dangling from his thigh seam. “But that was a shitty thing to do.”
If Jack wasn’t racing to the estate, he’d slam on the brakes. Alistair apologizing was as rare as a ploughshare tortoise. “It’s forgotten. When it comes to underhanded dealings, I expect nothing less from you.”