The Closer (5 page)

“No apology necessary,” he told her. “Better to be passionate about something than apathetic.” And he admired that about her, that she'd risked the bullying and ridicule to do something that she so obviously loved. That took courage, a fearlessness that was becoming more and more extinct.

“What about you?” she asked. “What are you passionate about?”

Griff blinked, stunned and struck dumb by the question. What was he passionate about?
Him?
Honestly, he'd never really thought about it. There were many things that he liked—baseball, for instance. Alabama football—Roll Tide Roll. Getting sucked into a good mystery novel. John Wayne movies. Carrot cake, tuna casserole and naps. But was he actually
passionate
about those things? In the same way that Jess was passionate about racing? He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

No, he wasn't, he realized with a sickening sense of self-realization he wasn't eager to explore. He was not. He was not passionate about anything.

He grimaced, deflated and alarmed as an unhappy insight revealed itself—dear God...he was boring. Had he always been boring? he wondered. Or had this been a gradual development?

His gaze slid to Jess, her tall body practically shimmering with an inner energy, with an unmatched singular vitality. She waited expectantly for his answer, genuinely interested, it seemed, in his response. And suddenly he couldn't bear to tell her that he didn't have any passions, nothing that excited him—it was too damn pathetic—and he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.

“Bull riding,” he told her, startled at the inventive lie. It was impulsive and reckless—words he was certain no one had ever used to describe him—and insane. He'd never ridden a horse, much less a bull. Clearly he'd lost his mind, but it was too late now. He'd said it.

Her smoky-gray eyes widened in surprise—obviously she'd already pegged him as boring and this purely manufactured news didn't quite jibe with her estimation of his character—and she arched a slightly skeptical brow. “Bull riding? Really?”

He liked knowing that he'd shocked her. It evened out the playing field a bit. “Oh, yeah,” he said, nudging the speedometer another five miles over the speed limit. What the hell, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. “Nothing makes me happier than climbing onto the back of a two-thousand-pound angry animal whose sole desire is to throw me off and put a horn in my gut. Talk about a rush.” Talk about bullshit, he marveled, amazed at himself.

While the suspicion hadn't completely faded from her gaze, an impressed smile had nonetheless turned her lips, making his ego high-five itself. “It sounds exciting. I hadn't pegged you for a cowboy.”

He'd just bet she hadn't. “I left my hat and boots at the house.”

“Yeah, you're not likely to have a lot of bull-riding opportunities in New York.”

Small favors, Griff thought, laughing softly. “Right.”

“It's a pity, though,” she continued, her keen gaze still observing him. “I'd have liked to see that.”

Panic punched his pulse more swiftly through his veins at the thought, then he stilled, belatedly discovering the brilliance of his lie. “You couldn't,” Griff said, feigning regret. “Rodeo clowns.”

One bullet dodged, he thought, wilting with relief, but he grimly suspected this would be the first of many.

5

I'
M
SORRY
. I
T
'
S
nothing personal, old friend. Rest assured, I'll give it back.

Payne read the note again, experiencing the same little burst of shock when his gaze landed once more on the notorious signature. It couldn't be...could it? He shook his head, unexpectedly pleased even as unease curdled in his belly.

The Owl, or to the very few who knew the legendary thief's real name...Keller Thompson. An old boarding school friend, Keller had been frighteningly quick, excelled in absolutely everything and had often known more about the subjects being taught than the teachers themselves. Between the eidetic memory and the genius-level IQ, he always worked several steps ahead of everyone else and had made it look easy. Probably because it was, Payne thought.

But even being a genius hadn't spared him his father's wrath. While the majority of the boys at Payne's boarding school had had mean-bastard fathers, it was universally understood that Keller's was the worst. His father had yanked him in and out of school all during the year, and when he'd returned, it had often been with poorly disguised bruises and the occasional cigarette burn. School officials were required by law to report the abuse, but if they did—and that was a big if—nothing ever came of it. And though Keller had never confided in him, Payne had always suspected that there was something much more terrible than beatings going on with his friend.

Despite his unfortunate history, great things had been expected of Keller, so it was a bit of a shock when he'd basically dropped off the planet after graduation. Payne had tried to get in touch with him several times during college but had only succeeded once. The conversation had been as odd as it was brief and, beyond that, they hadn't spoken since.

He'd heard about him, of course, and had known instantly that whisperings of a notorious thief, whose calling card was a single owl feather, was his old friend. Keller had always had a thing for owls—the smartest predator, he'd always said—and the precision, ingenuity and bold way he went about his thefts had had his name written all over them. Or at least they did to anyone who'd known him.

But knowing it and being able to prove it were two completely different things, which was exactly what law enforcement and special government agencies all over the globe had learned. Keller had never had a single charge brought against him.

Not one.

And if his old friend was sending him a note of apology it could only mean one thing, Payne thought grimly—he was after the bra. Why? Who the hell knew? But it was the only thing in Ranger Security's protection that could possibly interest him.

Oh, hell.

Though most of their missions went off without a hitch, there were the occasional few that experienced unforeseen but manageable difficulties. Nothing that his agents had never been able to handle, of course—they were the best, after all. But Payne had a terrible suspicion that Keller's interest in their cargo was going to involve
much
more than a “manageable difficulty”...and that problem was going to land right at Griffin Wicklow's newly hired feet.

He'd better warn him, Payne thought. Then he'd contact the others and bring them up to speed.

Old friend or not, Keller would play hell stealing something under their protection.

* * *

A
DMITTEDLY
,
MAKING
SENSE
of a one-sided conversation wasn't easy, but Jess had been able to glean enough information from Griff's increasingly scowling face and words like
thief
and
warning
to know that something was terribly wrong.

A pity, of course, because it had cut short her fanciful imaginings of his splendid, powerful body on the back of an equally powerful bull with long, curling horns. She'd mentally redressed him in boots, tight jeans, leather chaps and one of those Western shirts with the pearl snap buttons. And the hat, naturally. A white Stetson, its only embellishment a braided leather cord.

She would have never pegged him for a bull rider—it seemed too unpredictable a sport for Mr. Control—and she wasn't altogether convinced that he wasn't simply yanking her chain, but ultimately, who was she to judge? She doubted there were many people who would have pegged her as a race-car driver, even though she spent most weekends tearing around the track. To each his own, she supposed, and it was certainly fertile ground for her imagination.

As if she needed more encouragement. She'd been practically squirming in her seat since the second her sizable ass had landed in it. He made her nerves jump and her blood sluggish, which was a very curious feeling. Not unpleasant, per se, but...different. Aware. Of him as much as herself.

“Right,” he said. “Of course. I will not let it leave my sight.” A pause, then, “Even as it goes on the model,” he added grimly. “I agree, definitely the most critical time. In the interim, if you could send any information you have on him, I'd appreciate it. I'll go over it when we reach the hotel. We've got a couple more hours on the road before we stop for the night,” he added. His blue-green gaze slid to her, making her pulse leap as it slid over her breasts, neck. “Well, so far. No, not an issue.”

Oh, so they'd expected her to be an
issue,
had they? Jess thought, flattening a smile.

“Right, then. I'll be in touch later.” He disconnected the call and muttered a low, heartfelt oath that betrayed what she imagined was the smallest fraction of his irritation. Intuition told her it was a rare occurrence and, for whatever reason, she suddenly felt sorry for him. It must be miserable being that tightly locked down, that unable to freely express oneself.

“Problem?” she ventured.

“A complication,” he said, his voice tight. “Not a problem.”

He obviously didn't allow “problems” in his world. “What sort of complication?”

He was quiet for a moment, obviously debating the merit of confiding in her versus leaving her in the dark, which was no doubt his first impulse. He made the right choice, ultimately, which prevented her from delivering a blow to the side of his head.

He studied the rearview mirror, hesitating. “My boss was just given advance warning from an old boarding school pal—who happens to be a notorious-but-never-caught thief—that he's going to attempt to steal the bra.”

Jess had caught enough to know the majority of that, so she didn't linger on having her suspicions confirmed. Instead, she asked the most obvious question. She frowned. “Why warn us? What could possibly be gained?”

Griff thrummed a finger against the wheel, his body otherwise a statue it was so still. “Your guess is as good as mine. A warning gives time for preparation. Payne reckons it was for his benefit, because they knew each other.” He laughed darkly. “And he's so confident that he's going to be able to take it from me that he's assured my boss that he plans to return it.”

Jess blinked, mildly taken aback. “That does sound cocky. And illogical,” she added. “Why steal something if you plan to return it? That doesn't make any sense.” She felt her brow wrinkle. “Who is this guy again?”

He grimaced. “Someone called the Owl,” he said dismissively. “I've never hear—”

She gasped. Griff's keen gaze swiftly swung to hers and narrowed.

“You've heard of him, then?”

Still more than a little stunned, she nodded. “I have, actually. He was rumored to be responsible for taking the Star of Midnight.”

“Star of Midnight?”

“It's one of the largest sapphires in the world—around four hundred carats, if memory serves—and supposedly belonged in the Romanov collection. It vanished off the neck of an oil baron's wife at a party in Paris a couple years ago. One minute it was there, the next—” she snapped her fingers “—gone.”

“Gone? How could it have been gone? Wouldn't that many carats have been heavy? Wouldn't she have noticed?”

“That was what was so brilliant,” she said, turning more fully to face him. “He replaced it with a very well-done copy, one that was identical to the original in size and setting. Had he not attached a tiny owl feather at the clasp, it's doubtful anyone would have noticed the difference. A colleague of mine inspected it and said it was a remarkable forgery.”

“So it wasn't enough that he took it—he had to let the world know that he'd taken it.”

“That's the trouble with being a genius,” she said, her shoulder lifting in a negligent shrug. “What good is it to be clever if no one knows you are?”

He shot her a speculative look, a hint of incredulity and disbelief rounding in his gaze. “You almost sound impressed.”

That's because she was, reluctantly, at any rate. It was an odd sentiment to feel for a thief, she'd admit, but... “I admire the talent,” she said, and winced regretfully. “It's a shame that he doesn't put it to better use.”

He grunted, seemingly displeased, and looked away. “I wonder how much you'll admire his talent if he manages to steal your father's work.”

There was that, Jess thought. She smiled at him, anyway. “But he's not going to, is he? Because you're not going to let him.”

“Damn straight,” he said with a determined nod.

“See,” she said with a single, imperious nod. “Talent put to good use.”

He offered her another sideways glance that whipped her middle into froth. “I don't want you to worry about this. I'll take care of it.”

“I'm not worried,” she told him, her lips sliding into a grin. “If you can handle a bull, then an owl certainly shouldn't be a problem.”

And honestly, if anyone could keep the thief from taking the bra, Jess knew that it was Griffin Wicklow.

* * *

M
AKING
A
VALIANT
but appallingly unsuccessful attempt to ignore the fact that Jessalyn Rossi was naked in the shower—
naked
being the key issue, of course—Griff sighed through gritted teeth and redoubled his efforts to concentrate on the file in front of him.

Naturally, when he'd adjusted the plan to include a shared room—after all, she was under his protection now as well—he'd anticipated a little discomfort. Considering that he'd been semi-hard for the better part of six hours, he'd obviously been delusional when he'd made his original assessment. Because right now, between the raging erection and the images of hot, naked, wet skin, water sluicing between full rosy-tipped breasts, sliding in soapy rivulets over her ripe, bare ass—he jerked hard, swore hotly—he was more than a
little
uncomfortable.

He was freaking miserable, in the Best Possible Way Ever.

And she was absolutely off-limits.

He smothered a bark of ironic laughter, looked heavenward and shook his head. Just par for the course on this assignment, though, right? It wasn't bad enough that he'd been forced to travel with the single-most interesting and sinfully attractive woman he'd ever met—one who, impossibly, he wanted more than any other—fate had had to up the ante and give him a professional thief intent on stealing his cargo, as well.

And not just any thief either. A damn good one.

Though he'd initially scoffed at Jess's admiration of the Owl's talent, after reading the file and conducting his own search, Griff had to admit he was reluctantly impressed, as well.

If not in the act itself, then in the execution of it.

In addition to purportedly pulling off some of the most high-profile thefts, this Owl person was a master forger, as well. Monet, Renoir, Picasso. Not only did it take an obscene amount of skill to competently fake those artists—brushstrokes, lighting, scale—there was the scientific aspect to it, too. He had to perfectly match the pigments to the time the masterpieces were painted, appropriately aging the artwork so that it not only looked authentic, but carbon dated correctly, as well.

And then there were the heists themselves. Never carried out in secret—he almost always worked within a crowd—they had a flair of execution that boggled the mind, as though he was performing some sort of magic trick and had an audience to please. Griff's lips twisted.

Oh, right. He did. The Hooters, just one of his many online fan clubs.

And it wasn't as if he was some sort of Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. There was no rhyme or reason to his thefts, no theme. Though he'd stuck predominantly to Impressionist artworks early in his criminal career, he'd clearly branched out since then. Paintings, small statues, jewels, even a jade hairpin from the Ming dynasty. And now the Rossi bra. Nothing linked them and, in the absence of a clear connection, one could only assume that what ultimately tied them all together was the oldest, most basic motivator of all...

Money.

He was a freelancer. And if that was the case, then who had hired him to take the bra? And, more significantly, why in the hell would he return it? Did he plan to steal it for the payout, then take it back and return it out of some sense of loyalty to Payne? That didn't make any sense. It could potentially ruin him, or at the very least cost him a few clients and affect his bottom line. Griff blew out a long breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose, heard the chirp of his cell phone, alerting him to another text.

Shit
. Justin. He'd forgotten to call him.

Griff picked up the cell, fully anticipating another message from his half brother, but found one from his sister instead.
Just checking on you. Don't push too hard, okay?

It was easier to agree than to give her the I'm-fine argument, so that's what he did. Then, confident that Jess was still in the shower and there wouldn't be an ounce of hot water left for him, he steeled himself and reluctantly dialed Justin.