Thieves Like Us

“
You scared the hell out of me
.”

She hadn’t expected to hear that admission, and his quiet statement held more power than if he’d yelled it. “Um . . .” She swallowed.
Um, what?
She wasn’t about to apologize for saving her own life. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, you can’t help it.” He watched her closely, the low light enough to cast a gleam on his eyes, giving them an intensity she hadn’t noticed earlier. “You don’t panic in a crisis, and you don’t wait for someone to save you.” His gaze roamed her face, as if memorizing the details of each feature. “Last year, when I first listened to you tell us about how you escaped the drug dealers in Colombia, I admired your self-reliance and determination.”

“You did?”

He nodded slightly, almost to himself. “I don’t anymore.”

“What?” She set her fork aside, forgetting about her risotto. “Why not?”

“Because it’s hard to admire what scares me to death. You’re risking your life.” His voice was low, almost grave. “I need you to stop it.”

Her gaze kept drifting to his mouth, distracting her with the memory of what it felt like to be kissed by those lips. His gaze wandered, too, lingering on her mouth, her hair, even her breasts, leaving tingling sensations everywhere it touched. Shadows moved along his jaw as muscles tensed. “Stop making me crazy, Janet.”

She shook her head as if she were confused about what he meant. But she knew. She was starting to feel a little crazy herself. . . .

This title is also available as an eBook

Also by Starr Ambrose

Lie to Me
Our Little Secret

Available from Pocket Books

Pocket Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Starr Ambrose

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

First Pocket Books paperback edition December 2010

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Cover illustration by Craig White

Manufactured in the United States of America

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

ISBN 978-1-4391-8129-4

ISBN 978-1-4391-8130-0 (ebook)

To Stevie,
who gave me the idea

Acknowledgments

For advice on things I didn’t know and couldn’t get away with making up, thanks to Patti Shenberger and Nick Anderson.

Thanks to Jim and Ariana for reading early drafts.

As always, thanks to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for unending patience and support, and to the wonderful people at Pocket Books, especially Danielle Poiesz, who does her best to make me look good.

D
umping the world’s worst husband called for more than a celebration. It required a symbolic act. Like hocking her engagement ring.

“You know what this is? It’s poetic justice.” Janet Aims admired the tasteful display of diamonds twinkling in the window of Portman’s Jewelers as if she were buying, not selling. “This is where Banner bought the stupid thing in the first place. I found the receipt.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll buy it back,” Ellie pointed out. “I don’t think jewelry stores do that, Jan, especially high-class places like Portman’s.”

“They buy estate jewelry. This ring is now part of the Westfield
estate,
which ought to be enough to impress anyone in this town. I just have to suck it up and be a Westfield one last time.”

She shifted to get a better view of her reflection and finger combed the hairs that barely covered her ears. She wasn’t used to the short haircut yet, but she liked it. It was all part of the new Janet. New haircut, new condo, and new marital status—single, with no dazzling diamond ring to remind her of the biggest mistake of her life.

“Do I look rich and influential enough?”

Her friend laughed. “You were born rich and influential. You can do rich and influential in jammies and bunny slippers.”

“Not Westfield rich. It’s a whole different class of wealth.” She gave Ellie a significant eyebrow wiggle. “One you’d better get used to.”

“Jack’s a Payton, not a Westfield.”

“Payton, Westfield, what’s the difference? They all connect to Elizabeth Payton Westfield, and it doesn’t get any richer than that, at least not in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.” She pulled a white box out of her purse. “Come on, I’ll take advantage of my status one last time and show you how the rich folk throw their weight around.”

Ellie snickered. “You demonstrate. I’ll take notes. You know, it would almost be worth telling Banner what you did with his big, expensive ring—just to ruin his day.”

“Since that would require speaking to him, no way. But I like the sentiment.” She paused to give her friend a quick hug. “This whole mess has been easier having your support. You’re the best.” Taking Ellie’s hand, she pulled her inside the store. “Let’s do this.”

Ellie walked fast to keep up. “I’m glad you’re in such a good mood. I have to ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

“It involves Rocky.”

Damn!
That was
not
what Janet wanted to hear. She turned, ready to accuse Ellie of taking advantage of her excitement, when a voice behind her said, “Mrs. Westfield! Welcome to Portman’s. How may I help you?”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Janet hissed to Ellie before replacing her glare with a smile. She turned toward the man behind the counter. She didn’t know him, so he must have recognized her from newspaper photos—the wife of the accused. One more reason to hate Banner.

“Hello, Mr. . . .”

“Portman. William Portman.”

“Mr. Portman. I’m Miss Aims now.”

He flushed. “Of course, I’m sorry.”

Letting him feel a little embarrassed might work in her favor. She placed the small box on the glass countertop and opened the white silk lid. “Do you remember this ring, Mr. Portman?”

He smiled as soon as he saw the large diamond flanked by two smaller stones. “Oh, yes. A beautiful piece. We designed the setting exclusively for—” his smile slipped and he cleared his throat. “For Mr. Westfield.”

“Yes, you did. So you can understand why, as beautiful as it is, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Hmm, yes.” He pursed his lips and frowned, apparently unsure of the protocol when acknowledging one’s association with a known criminal.

“How much can you give me for it?”

Portman looked even more uncomfortable. “Miss Aims, Portman’s doesn’t accept returns on used jewelry.”

“Used?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Portman, this jewelry belongs to the Westfield estate. Do you, or do you not, deal in estate jewelry?”

Janet saw his gaze dart across the room to a tall display case labeled, “Estate Jewelry,” then shift quickly away. “Yes, but those are heirloom pieces, crafted by well-known artists. They have historic value in addition to their intrinsic worth.”

“I see.” She smiled sweetly. “And my ring was crafted by—whom did you say?”

“By, um, us.”

“By Portman’s Jewelers. A name with a longstanding reputation for fine jewelry. One would hope it was well deserved.” She nearly winced at her own arrogance, and reminded herself it was for a good cause—getting rid of the last trace of Banner Westfield. “As for its value, well, I am in possession of the original receipt for this ring. The price was quite impressive. I would hope that a diamond ring costing as much as my BMW would be worth what my husband paid.”
Whoops
—the BMW had been Banner’s idea, too. The car would have to go. Maybe she should make a list.

Portman turned an interesting shade of dusky purple. “Portman’s Jewelers is competitively priced. The price on your ring was fair. Your diamond is of exceptional quality, Miss Aims.”

“Of course it is. Heirloom quality, you might say. And it does come with a rather interesting history, doesn’t it?” If one were interested in high-profile criminals charged with drug running, money laundering, and attempted murder.

Janet picked up the ring box, admiring the brilliance of the stones. “I had many compliments on the ring. I’m sure you could sell it again. Or even reset the stones. The large one must be quite valuable on its own.”

Portman took the ring from the box, allowing the diamond’s facets to catch the bright overhead lights. Tiny arrows of color shot from its surface as the smaller diamonds twinkled beside it. “I don’t know.” He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “It would be highly irregular and against store policy.”

Janet felt a surge of excitement. If he was waffling, she had him.

“My father still owns the store, you know,” Portman continued. “Going strong at seventy-six. He doesn’t care to make exceptions to the rules.”

She knew just how to handle this final hurdle. “Oh yes, Lewis Portman. I believe my mother-in-law, Elizabeth Westfield, knows him well.” Janet inserted herself back into the Westfield family temporarily, hoping Elizabeth wouldn’t mind. She seemed to like Janet better than her own son these days, anyway. “She’s purchased so many lovely pieces of jewelry from your store over the years.” She paused deliberately. “The Westfields have always been good customers.”

“That’s true.”

She waited while he thought about the possibility of offending a long-term customer. A
wealthy
long-term customer.

“I couldn’t give you anything near what Mr. Westfield paid for the ring.”