Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I shove that thought down hard. I’m here for information, not to catalog my ex-boyfriend’s body modifications.
Those eyes are the same, though. Brown so dark they’re almost black, quick and clever and seeing everything.
He’s always been handsome in that rakish, slightly dangerous way that makes mothers lock up their daughters and daughters climb out their windows. I used to find it irresistible. I used to find a lot of things about Liam irresistible, which is how I ended up hiding stolen diamonds in the Canadian wilderness instead of finishing my art history degree.
He sees me. His mouth curves into that familiar half-smile, the one that used to make my stomach flip and my common sense evaporate.
“Hails.”
“Don’t call me that.” I slide into the booth across from him, putting the table between us like it’ll help. “That person doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Fair.” He doesn’t argue. Just accepts it the way Liam accepts everything, like water finding the path of least resistance. “You look good. Really good.”
“I look exhausted because someone’s been leaving cryptic photographs on my doorstep.” I flag down the waitress, a woman in her sixties with forearms like a dock worker, and order a whiskey. When she leaves, I turn back to him. “You could have just knocked, you know. Instead of the whole mysterious stalker routine.”
“Would you have answered?”
Probably not. I don’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
He tilts his head, studying me. “You changed your hair.”
“You got a face tattoo.”
“Neck tattoo.”
“Is there really a difference?”
“About three inches and significantly more career limitations.” His grin is quick, disarming. The same grin that used to get us into VIP rooms and out of tight spots. “But you’re deflecting. Your hair used to be longer.”
“People change their hair, Liam.”
He leans back in the booth, infuriatingly relaxed. “You’re also wearing less black than you used to. More color. That green is new.”
I hate that he notices. I hate more that some small, traitorous part of me is pleased.
“Did you drag me to a dive bar in Red Hook to critique my wardrobe, or is there an actual point to this reunion?”
“Can’t it be both?” But his smile fades, and something more serious settles in.
“So,” I say instead, keeping my voice low. “You really think returning the diamond is going to make this go away? That whoever’s hunting you is just going to shrug and move on?”
“I think it’s better than the alternative.” He takes a drink from whatever’s in his rocks glass. “Running didn’t work. Hiding didn’t work. The only leverage we have is the thing they want.”
“And if they decide we’re loose ends once they have it?”
“Then we make sure the handoff is clean. Anonymous, untraceable. They get what they want, we disappear, everybody walks away happy.” He sets the glass down. “It’s not perfect. But it’s a plan.”
The whiskey arrives. I wrap my fingers around the glass and don’t drink yet, needing something to hold on to.
“Your plans used to involve more contingencies,” I say. “Remember the Beaumont job? You had backup plans for our backup plans. Flow charts. Color coding.”
“I didn’t have flow charts.”
“You had a laminated card.”
“That was a quick reference guide.” But he’s fighting a smile now, and god help me, I almost smile back. “And the Beaumont job went perfectly.”
“We had to leave through a window.”
“A planned window exit.”
“We were on the third floor.”
“And we stuck the landing.” He raises his glass to me. “Admit it. We were good together.”
Changing the subject and not wanting to admit just how “good” he was at everything, I say, “So you need me. You can’t find it without me.”
“The agreement we made.” His eyes hold mine. “Only you would know the location. Even if you told me now, described every landmark, I’d never find it. Remote Canada, unmarked terrain, five years of weather changing everything. I need you to take me there.”
I think about that frozen ground. The weight of the waterproof case in my hands. The way my fingers went numb as I buried twenty million dollars in a place no one would ever think to look.
“When?” I ask.
“Tomorrow. I’ve already arranged transport and gear. We fly into Yellowknife and drive from there.” He pulls out a phone—not the burner—and glances at the screen. “How much time can you get away?”
“My boss is closing the studio for the holidays. Two weeks off starting the twentieth.”
“Perfect timing.”
I laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “Yeah. Perfect.”
He’s watching me again, cataloging every micro-expression the way he used to watch marks. Which is why he notices when I check my phone for the third time in five minutes.
“You’re seeing someone.”
I don’t bother denying it.
“Knox.” The name feels strange on my tongue in this context, like I’m introducing two worlds that should never touch. “He’s . . .”
How do you explain Knox Bishop? Former Marine, head of security, a man who followed me through Christmas markets for months because he couldn’t help himself? A man who looks at me like I’m something precious and breakable and doesn’t know that I’ve been lying to him since the day we met?