Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,8
David family was clueless to their painting’s worth. Lucien’s exhaustive research had traced the unsigned Van Gogh over the decades, eventually learning the David family had acquired it through an estate sale, neither party aware of the artist’s name. Maxwell’s father owned it now. He’d hung it somewhere in their gaudy mansion, unaware of its value. But others might have sniffed out its worth and location. Her rival, Yevgen Liski, could have sniffed it out, a prospect she’d rather not contemplate.
Lucien: Go slow. With a long con, gentle and gradual is the best way to earn trust. Once you have that, you’ve already won. And if you’re feeling off, if you need out or need to talk, I’m just a call away.
Of course he wouldn’t chastise her. Not Lucien, the man who’d played cards with her the nights she couldn’t sleep for fear nightmares would tear through her fourteen-year-old mind. He’d also taught her how to ride a skateboard and take down a man twice her size.
“You’re in my seat.”
Her thumbs froze, a second from typing a reassuring reply. She knew that voice. She’d heard it whisper her name and had replayed the memory on repeat all night. It was a voice that should not be here.
Tensing down to her sandaled toes, she turned and her mouth dried. Jack didn’t look sweaty today. The man was dapper and clean shaven. He was close enough that she could smell his fresh scent, like spicy icicles swelled with sunshine. So crisp and so real, and he shouldn’t be anywhere near this town or this diner. What the hell was he doing here?
“If I’m sitting on this seat, then it’s mine.” Snarkiness calmed her some.
He tilted his head slightly. “Hello, Clementine.”
The end of her name smoothed into a song, and her pulse crooned in reply. “Why are you here?”
“I live here.”
“In the diner?”
He chuckled. “In Whichway. But you don’t. You…I’d remember.”
He wasn’t forgettable, either. Not the way his helter-skelter hair contrasted his tailored slacks and slim dress shirt. Hello muscles. Heat clawed her neck. Her armpits threatened to mutiny. The air conditioner must have crapped out, and she needed to ignore this unwelcome attraction. No matter the excuses she’d made yesterday, revealing her name had been a moment of abandon. Now Karma was giving her the middle finger. “You’d been driving for an hour when I stopped. I assumed you lived elsewhere.”
He stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. The effort pulled at the expensive-looking wool, revealing strong thighs. “I had several meetings, none of them in town. And I still don’t know why you’re in my seat.” He frowned like her occupation of his supposed seat pained him.
“Would you like me to move?”
“Definitely not.” A long swallow later, he claimed the stool beside her.
Exactly where she’d hoped Maxwell David would sit. Unless…
They must be friends, probably met for coffee or drinks. Watched the odd sports game. If he was anything like the Maxwell David she had researched, Jack was an egotistical, selfish man. Considering the town’s size, they probably worked together, big boss types who sat in their ivory towers while laying off long-time employees, ruining families and lives. Just to fatten their pockets.
The prospect made resisting his appeal easier, and his appearance wasn’t altogether inconvenient. Making nice with Jack could ingratiate her with Maxwell. Unfortunately, the man at her right had proven he could short-circuit her wiring with nothing but a handshake. Something that couldn’t happen again. If he was friends with Maxwell, she would use him to connect with her mark, then ensure they stayed out of handshake distance.
Easy as pie. Or easy as the apple turnover heading her way.
Imelda placed the pastry in front of her. “Anything else, honey?” Clementine shook her head, remaining silent as she assessed this new wrench in her plans.
Imelda smiled at Jack. “The usual?”
“I’m feeling a little wild today. Let’s go with the strawberry.”
“Strawberry, it is.”
As Imelda left, Clementine was accosted by another familiar face: Jasmine Jones. Unfamiliar panic curled its fist around her lungs. The town’s Elvis coordinator approached until the only Whichway-ian who knew her alias was sharing oxygen with the only Whichway-ian who knew her real name. Could this morning derail any faster?
Don’t call me Samantha. Don’t call me Samantha.
At least, not until she’d untangled this mess.
Jasmine eyed Clementine’s breakfast. “I see you’ve made friends with Whatnot’s famed apple turnovers. One bite, and you’ll be hooked.”
One more minute in this diner and she’d officially blow her cover. “So I’ve heard.”