The Closer (8 page)

“Excellent,” Payne said. “Per your request, I've arranged to have the handcuffs delivered. They should be there in the next few minutes.”

“Good,” Griff told him. “I want to go over every inch of this hotel and I'm not comfortable leaving the case in the in-room safe unless I'm in here, as well.”

“Good call,” Payne said. “It would be child's play for Keller.”

Griff sidled over and leaned against the bathroom counter. “You knew him well then?” he asked, more than a little curious about the relationship between his straight-arrow boss and the notorious thief and forger. Talk about strange bedfellows.

Payne hesitated. “I don't know if anyone has ever or will ever know Keller well,” he said. “But, out of our set at school, I think I knew him better than anyone else. His father was a real bastard. The old man routinely beat the shit out of him and, based on little things that he said then and I've had time to reflect on now, I think the abuse went further than anyone suspected. I've been looking at some of his earlier thefts and noticed a connection, one that I'm not sure many other people would be in the position to see. One that I'm not even sure is significant, but...”

“Oh?”

“Each one of those paintings, at one point or another, was part of his father's private collection.”

Griff frowned in confusion. “So he stole them from his father?”

“No, that's just it. They weren't in his father's collection when they were stolen. They'd been sold or traded off.”

“So why would he want them then? If he and his father had such a contentious relationship?”

Payne's sigh echoed over the line. “That's the million-dollar question, Griff. I don't know. I don't know that we'll ever know. But I do know this. Keller Thompson doesn't do anything without thorough cause and consideration. He would have evaluated every potential outcome and scenario before making the first move. And money isn't the motivator here—he inherited a sizable fortune when his father died. He's brilliant, he's charming, he's a natural leader.” He chuckled. “Hell, even his targets like him.”

“Do you? Still?”

“I do,” Payne said without the slightest hesitation.

“Even though he's a thief?”

“Yes,” he said. “Shocking, isn't it? I don't approve of what he does, but after you've spent six years in a dorm room with someone, you either love them or hate them. Keller and a select few others made that hellhole bearable for me. That kindness isn't easily dismissed.”

Griff knew exactly what he was talking about because it was the same with war. There'd been several times he'd gone into situations with soldiers not of his choosing and had come away with a different perspective. There was something about simply
surviving
that forged a bond, whether you actually wanted it or not.

“There's something else, too,” Payne said. “Did you notice that this is the first so-called job he's taken on in more than a year?”

He
had
noticed that. He'd chalked it up to either disinterest or financial security, but considering Payne's comment about Keller's inheritance, that was a moot point. He said as much. “What's your take on it?”

“I think he's come out of retirement,” Payne said. “The best I've been able to tell, he's been spending the bulk of his time at his place on Little Kennesaw Mountain.”

“Right on our front doorstep,” Griff said, an odd feeling swirling in his gut. “Is he from Georgia?”

“No, he's from North Carolina, but he sold the family estate right after his father died. He lost his mother when he was seven. Car wreck. That's when his father had reluctantly taken him in. And then promptly moved him out,” he added grimly.

Yes, it was sad and he couldn't help but feel a bit of regret for Keller's circumstances, but this history lesson didn't have a damn thing to do with their case. “Why would he come out of retirement?” Griff asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Payne told him. “But if he's done it to steal the Clandestine bra, I can assure you there's a good reason.”

Griff's irritation spiked. “Not good enough,” he said, unable to keep the low growl from his voice. “Can you get Charlie to research the registered guests in the hotel, particularly those on the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth floors? I'd like her to flag every man from twenty-five to forty and forward me their room numbers.” He'd already committed Keller's face to memory from the pictures Payne had forwarded. If he was in the hotel, he felt certain that he'd recognize him.

“I'll do it.”

“I'm also going to need a master key,” he said.

“Beau Morton is head of security for the hotel and he's aware of our circumstances. I'm sure he'd be able to help you with that.”

“I'll look him up, thanks.”

Payne hesitated again. “Listen, Griff, not that we doubt your capabilities, but we've been talking strategy here on our end and we're all of the opinion that the bra is most vulnerable when it's on the model, from the instant it goes on her body, onto the catwalk, then back offstage.”

Yes, he'd mentioned that before and Griff was in total agreement, because it was the only time the damn thing would ever be off his wrist.

There was another pregnant pause. “Because of this, we think it would be best if the bra never went onto the model.”

Griff blinked. Never went onto the model? But— “I don't see that scenario flying with any party involved here, Payne, least of all Jess.”
Shit
. “Er, Ms. Rossi,” he corrected.

“We can pull rank,” Payne said. “It's in our contract. Ranger Security isn't going to handle anything worth two and a half million dollars and
not
have total authority on protecting the cargo.”

Griff rubbed his eyes, wearily anticipating the riot he was going to have on his hands. No one was going to like this. Not Jess. Not Clandestine. Not Montwheeler. They were all going to be justifiably livid. And he was the lucky bastard who was going to get to break the news to them.

“Are you suggesting that we abort?” he asked. “That I return to Shadow's Gap?”

“That's not at all what I'm suggesting,” Payne assured him. “What I'm suggesting is an amendment to the plan.”

He wasn't certain he liked the direction this was going. “What kind of amendment?”

“We think it would be best if Ms. Rossi modeled the bra, with you as her escort.”

Griff laughed nervously, certain that he had misunderstood. “Come again?”

“Think about it, Griff,” Payne said. “The piece is at its most vulnerable when it leaves your wrist—when it goes into someone else's hands, onto the model. If it goes from your wrist directly onto Ms. Rossi, whom we're certain hasn't been compromised in any way, and you stay at her side from beginning to end, then we have a much better shot at thwarting Keller. His easiest ‘in' on this job is through one of the models. I'm sure he's already recruited an unwitting accomplice.”

He suspected Payne was right on all counts. Still...”And what if I can't get Ms. Rossi to agree?”

“She'll agree,” he said. “Her father has put too much work into the piece for her to refuse.”

There was that. She'd abandoned her own plans for the weekend to see this through for him. She knew what backing out altogether would mean for all parties involved. Payne was right. She would do it, in the end.

But not without a very vehement, prolonged and indignant resistance.

“Bring them all up to speed, but make sure that they keep the change of plans to themselves,” Payne continued. “Changing the strategy is moot if Keller gets wind of it.”

“All right,” Griff told him. “I'll see to it.”

But,
damn,
how he dreaded it.

8

H
E
WANTED
HER
to
what?
Stunned, Jess felt her eyes bug and her jaw drop. “Not no, but
hell,
no,” she said, shaking her head. “I agreed to come as a family representative, not to actually put the damn thing on and walk out in front of a roomful of people.” And the most notoriously critical people in the world, at that. Nausea curdled in her stomach and her mouth went bone dry at the mere idea.

There was no freakin' way.

“I understand your hesitation, Jess, but—”

She snorted. “You do, do you? You understand what it would be like to basically bare your own family jewels to what will eventually amount to
millions
of people?”

“I'll be right there with you,” he said, taking a step closer to her. “I'm going to accompany you from one end of the runway to the other.”

She arched an imperious brow. “In your underwear?”

He blinked, then swallowed. “Well, no, but—”

She shook her head again, cutting him off. “Then you don't know what the hell you're asking.”

“And you don't seem to realize that I'm not
asking,
” he said, his voice infused with a hint of steel. “I'm telling you that this is the only way we're moving forward.”

She sucked in a breath, her gaze swinging to meet his again. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm completely serious,” he said levelly, an implacable glint in his eyes. “This was not the original plan, I know, but it's my job to work with the facts as I know them, in the framework that I've been given.
This
is the new reality. It's too dangerous to put the bra on anyone else. How do we know that the Owl hasn't already recruited one of the models? Perhaps the
very
model?”

She stilled. He had a point, but—

“The only thing that we know for sure is that an accomplished thief with a flair for the dramatic wants to take the bra.” He stepped forward once more, his gaze lasering into hers. “What better time to snatch it than
during
the show?”

“What?” she asked incredulously. “You think he's going to swoop in like Tarzan, pop the snap and swing away with it?”

“Are you so certain that he couldn't?”

Not after reading everything about him, no, she wasn't. Jess dropped heavily onto the small sofa, hung her head and shoved her hands into her hair. “Why can't you just accompany the Clandestine model?” she asked. “Why does it have to be me?”

“Because I don't trust anyone but you,” he said, surprising the hell out of her.

She glanced up, caught his equally astonished expression before he smoothed it away. She opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “Well,” she finally managed to say, “be that as it may, you're forgetting one important detail.”

His brow furrowed with suspicion. “What is that?”

“It doesn't fit me.”

Confusion cluttered his brow. “I'm sorry?”

“The bra,” she said impatiently. “It was designed for a much smaller woman. One with a nonexistent rib cage and less—” she gestured awkwardly to her breasts “—junk in the cup,” she improvised.

He stared at her chest, his blue-green gaze momentarily glazing over, his pupils dilating with desire. He looked like a starving man who'd just been given a ticket to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Her nipples tingled in response and an answering zing echoed in the heart of her sex. And he was just looking at her. Not touching her, not licking her, not...

He cleared his throat and with effort dragged his eyes from her breasts to her face. “I'm sure that something c-can be done t-to accommodate you.”

“I don't want to be accommodated,” she said desperately. “I want to keep my clothes on!”

His sympathetic but resolved gaze tangled with hers. “I'll give you a minute to make a decision,” he said. “You are aware of the options.”

Case securely clasped to his wrist with the handcuffs that arrived only moments ago, Griff turned and walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, presumably to get a drink while she decided whether to ruin her father and their business, or cram her girls into a bra that was two cup sizes too small and sacrifice her modesty on a group of people who would, if they were feeling generous, call her a cow. She had a minimum of thirty pounds on those Clandestine models. The idea of walking out there, practically naked, with every single eye trained on her breasts, made her want to vomit.

Violently.

Granted, Griff's hot lingering gaze inspired a different feeling in her altogether—he made her feel attractive, sexy, desirable—but that's because he was a man and men loved breasts. She rolled her eyes, smothered a whimper. But women? Women were vicious. Women judged.

But how could she refuse, really? She imagined trying to call her father and share the news, tell him that the past six months of his life's work was for nothing because she didn't like the idea of wearing the bra for five minutes. She'd rather be called fat a thousand times over in every language known to man than to do that to him. He was her dad, her only living parent. Her family. She swallowed, heard the clink of ice into a glass as Griff made himself a drink.

She sighed, lolled her head back onto the couch and closed her eyes as the reality of her immediate future settled on her shoulders. Geez, she could use a drink, as well. Something strong. Like vodka. Or rum. Or good old-fashioned whiskey.

“Well?” he said.

She hadn't heard him approach, which was hardly surprising. For such a big man he made very little noise. She cracked one eye open and looked at him. “I'm still thinking,” she lied.

“Think faster.”

She scowled at him. “Don't tell me you've already got a new schedule lined out.”

He smiled and handed her a drink. “I've always got a schedule lined out.”

“What is this?” she asked, peering into the glass.

“It's lime soda.”

“Does it have a liberal dose of alcohol in it?”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and strangely intimate. “No, why? Did you want it to?”

She made a moue of regret. “Would have been nice,” she said. She looked up at him, noted the angle of his jaw, the sleek line of his brow, the purely sexy curve of his mouth, and released a breath. “I'll definitely need one tomorrow,” she said, feeling her stomach quake with anxiety. “Before I make my modeling debut.”

His gaze sharpened, then lit with admiration. “So you'll do it?”

“I will,” she said, heartened by his approval. She suspected it took a lot to impress Griffin Wicklow. “Dad would be heartbroken if I didn't see this through,” she continued. “He's put so much into it, has worked harder on this than anything else he's ever done.” She smiled wanly. “He's convinced that it's going to fill the family coffers and make Rossi Jewelry a household name.”

He watched her, the weight of his regard a near-physical thing. “And you? Do you think it will do that?”

She plucked a strawberry from the plate and took a bite. “Based on the upswing of orders we've seen since we were chosen to create the design, yes,” she said, nodding. “I do.”

“And is that what you want?”

No one, including her father, had ever asked her that, had ever asked her if she wanted the company to expand to the degree that this sort of exposure would generate. Her brother and sister, who didn't have anything to do with the business, had been overjoyed, and her father had been so swept up in the “Rossi legacy” that he'd neglected to factor in the way that this was going to change things. They'd have to hire more help, outsource the castings to meet demand, travel more, work more.

More, more, more.

No, it wasn't what she'd wanted. She'd wanted to continue their boutique, exclusive designs—create what she wanted, at her leisure, preferably from the comfort of her own home—and work on cars and race. It would all change now, she realized. Especially once she—a Rossi—modeled the piece.

“It's what he wants,” she finally said, indirectly answering his question. “And that's what's important.”

“What you want should be important, too.”

While she appreciated the sentiment—admittedly, it was nice to have someone on “her team,” so to speak—he was the last person who should be lecturing her about self-sacrifice.

Because he was the unquestionable king of it.

“You're one to talk,” she said, careful to keep her tone light. “You gave up your career—your whole way of life—before even letting your sister see if she was a match for Justin.”

It was a wonderful, wonderful thing. Purely selfless. Noble. The most honorable thing she'd ever heard of anyone doing for another person. She hadn't been lying when she'd said he was extraordinary. Because he was. And the kicker? The thing that genuinely, truly set him apart from everyone else?

He didn't know it. He didn't know how
good
he was. How much character he had.

In a world where personal responsibility was thin on the ground and entitlement the current battle cry of the masses, society desperately needed men like Griff. Men who were willing to step up and make the hard decisions. And from what she could tell, he'd been doing it since his father walked out all those years ago. Her heart ached for the boy who'd been lost, the one who'd had to become a man much earlier than time ordinarily dictated.

“That's different,” he said, the smallest hint of shock registering on his achingly handsome face.

“Oh, really? How so?”

He shifted uncomfortably, then looked away. “It was surgery,” he said, as though that explained everything. “I wasn't going to let her go through that when
I
was a match, when
I
could do it.”

“Let me ask you something, Griff. If Justin hadn't needed a kidney, would you still be in the military?”

“Who knows?” he said, lifting a shoulder.

He knew, she thought. He just didn't want to answer her. “Well, what else might you be doing?”

“I might not be doing anything,” he said, his blue-green gaze pinning her to the couch, clearly not liking the direction this conversation had taken. “I might be injured or dead.”

Her chest squeezed painfully at the very thought, but she recognized deflection when she saw it. “Okay, provided that Justin hadn't needed a kidney and you weren't injured or dead, would you still be in the military?”

He was quiet for a moment, a spark of something kindling in his gaze. Respect, maybe? Because she hadn't let him off the hook? Because she'd pressed when no else had? “Yes, I would,” he finally admitted.

She smiled knowingly, having scored her point. “So you put your family's needs first, right? Just like I'm doing.”

Faint humor lit his gaze, his lips curling into a rueful grin. “I guess that makes you extraordinary as well, then, doesn't it?”

Jess grinned and lifted a shoulder. “Beats the hell out of the alternative,” she said.

“Oh? What's that?”

“A fool.”

Another chuckle bubbled up his throat. “Trust me, Jess, you are nobody's fool.”

He was wrong, she thought, watching him from beneath her lashes. She was a fool for him. Already. And they weren't even halfway through the weekend yet.

* * *

H
AVING
FINALLY
CONVINCED
Jess that her modeling the piece was the only way forward, Griff knew that he'd need to present the new plan to both the Clandestine and Montwheeler representatives, and had requested an immediate meeting. Given what both companies had invested in what he would forever think of as “the damn bra,” he didn't anticipate any problems.

Jess had changed out of her traveling clothes and donned a black business suit and heels. Small ruby ladybugs glittered from her ears and she'd attached a matching brooch to her jacket. Admittedly, Griff knew very little about jewelry, but he liked the look of what she wore. It was classy but whimsical. It had come as no surprise that the design was hers, part of the
If It Crawls
collection her father had mentioned.

As they boarded the elevator, Marvin Gaye's “
Let's Get It On”
playing this time—what the hell was it with this music? Griff wondered—he felt compelled to reiterate the obvious. “They'll get on board. They don't have a choice.”

She harrumphed and slid him a knowing little glance. “You never saw
The Devil Wears Prada,
did you?”

“No.” He didn't see what that had to do with anything.

“They—as in ‘they' the fashion industry—thought Anne Hathaway was fat.
Anne Hathaway!
” she repeated incredulously. “Compared to Anne Hathaway, I'm a sasquatch.” She shook her head. “They're never going to agree to it.”

A sasquatch? Griff thought, blinking repeatedly, stunned at the comment.
Her?
Didn't she own a mirror? Didn't she know how lovely she was? How damn sexy? Was that why she'd been so reluctant to do this? he wondered, an odd tingling in his gut. Because she was afraid she wouldn't measure up? Because she thought she was, of all things,
fat?

Good Lord...it boggled the mind.

His gaze drifted over her body—the very evidence to the contrary—lingering on her plump, ripe breasts, the small indentation of her waist, the generous curve of her hip... He hardened again as need hammered through him, singeing his veins, blistering through reason and logic. He could take her right here, Griff thought. Slide those black slacks down over her womanly hips, lift her up, put her back against the wall and absolutely fuck the living hell out of her.

That's
what she did to him.