The blonde wig itched like hell under the hot morning sun. It was only June.
Cora waited outside the county jail, hiding her identity behind a large pair of black sunglasses. Not even her cover or ninety-degree weather would keep her from her wearing her three-inch black pumps. As long as she wasn’t on a job, style prevailed over function.
Cleanup afterward had never been this messy, or guilt consuming, but if she was going to shovel shit for the grief she’d caused Vaughn, she was going to do it in style. The manila envelope in her hand started to crease with the sweat from her palm.
Twenty minutes behind the promised schedule, Vaughn Ayers stepped through the front doors, still in his now-wrinkled tux and shiny shoes. He carried his jacket over his arm, and his keys dangled from his pocket. The previous twenty-four hour stubble on his chin had now reached forty-eight hour status, scruffy and delectable.
He descended the few steps to the sidewalk, and started walking, the scowl marring his beautiful face.
Cora pushed off the brick wall, and followed in the same direction from across the street. A block later, she meandered through the crosswalk and met him at the curb.
“You’re quite sexy for a jailbird.”
His confused gaze met hers. Then his eyes widened.
She could’ve roasted marshmallows from his stare’s burn.
“You’ve got some damn nerve.”
“Please, let me explain.”
Vaughn glanced around them, clearly skeptical.
She repeated the same gesture, making sure no one watched them.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you in right now.” His glare was harsh.
One she deserved.
Collateral damage from one of her jobs had never been this intense, but at least she cleaned it up.
“They released you, didn’t they? You won’t be charged for anything. I made sure of it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What’s with this hair?”
“Vaughn, if I can—”
“You’re a thief?” His voice lowered to a savage whisper. “That’s not the Cora I knew. And what’s worse, you pin it on me.”
“I’m sorry for that, but there was no other way to complete the job without a diversion.”
“Diversion?” he barked. “Do you have any idea how much money that thing was worth? Felony level. First degree, which means serious prison time.”
“They know you didn’t do it. So, relax.”
“Relax?” His holler echoed off the concrete buildings. “Do you still have it on you? Or have you sold it by now?”
“Who do you think convinced them to let you go?”
“Me! Because I didn’t have it!” His jaw flexed. “Never mind. I don’t want to hear it.” Vaughn stormed off.
“I can explain everything.”
“I’m sure you can,” he threw over his shoulder. “Stay away from me.”
“It’s my job!” Cora’s declaration bounced off his back and slammed her in the face. The first time she’d ever said it aloud. After years of living in the shadows and functioning in whispers, damn, it felt good to say it out right.
He stopped, and turned his head. “Are you going to give me some bullshit line that it’s the only thing you’re good at? Because that’d be another lie.”
She put her hand on her hip, letting her figure do most of the work in her form-fitting pencil-skirt and sleeveless azure blouse. “Do you want to know the truth or not?” She waved the envelope at him, as if it contained the secrets to life. “I’ll buy you a coffee, and then you’ll never have to see me again.”
Vaughn faced her full on, shoving his hands in his pockets. From his glare, Cora assumed he’d tell her to fuck-off. He had every right.
Instead, he stepped toward her, slowly, deliberate steps clicking against the concrete from his leather soles. “Lord knows you can certainly afford a coffee now.”
“A recovery specialist?” He smirked. “So, you’re a high-end repo woman? Or this just another fancy bullshit name for a thief?” Vaughn gripped his coffee cup too tightly, and hadn’t taken a sip. It existed merely as something to put between him and Cora Castillo, the liar. Or was that Caroline Lake?
She opened the mysterious envelope and pulled out a report, slapping the paper down in front of him.
A color picture of the same necklace from Portia Conway glared at him from the report, underneath a header labeled, Holocaust Victims Redress Act.
“‘Brüger Project’?” he read. The further into the report he delved, the more the words blended together. “What is this supposed to be exactly?”
The blonde wig skimmed against Cora’s chin when she shifted in her chair.
Which was such a strange look on her. He didn’t like it.
“I’m not supposed to show you this, but I wanted to prove I’m not lying.”
Vaughn bit his tongue hard.
“I recover stolen property by the Nazis, and return them to the descendants of the original families. That necklace belonged to a wealthy Jewish diplomat in Austria, before most of his family was arrested and shipped off to Warsaw, where they were all gassed. The only one who survived was the granddaughter, who now lives in Washington State. That’s what I do. I give back what was stolen.”
He scowled. “You’re a government agent?”
She tried to hide a smile. “No. I’m a private contractor. Working on a government sponsored project, as part of this legislative act.”
“You’re telling me that Portia Conway owns property stolen from Jews by the Nazis?” Every word dripped with sarcasm.
Cora didn’t react. Just stared back with the most determined expression. The same one she’d worn in debate class. “Is it really that hard to believe?”
Vaughn shook his head, and pushed the paper toward her. “The reason behind all of this doesn’t matter. You’re hurting for money, you have psychological issues that fuel your kleptomania, or a revenge thing against a woman who wronged you…I don’t care. You used me to commit a crime, and had the audacity to allow that crime to be pinned on me.”
Her deep breath made her cleavage strain against her blouse. As pissed as he was, he could still appreciate a good-looking woman.
Too bad she was a con-artist.
“That part was not me. I try very hard not to involve anyone in my jobs, but this one with Portia Conway had no other alternative. I’ve spent months trying to figure out a way to do it alone, but it didn’t exist.”
He tilted his head. Trying to find the real Cora underneath all that synthetic fiber and jaded thinking.
“What?”
“When did you get like this?”
She reared back as though he’d slapped her. “Excuse me?”
“Heartless. Cold, with no regard of collateral damage.”
“I’m not heartless,” she seethed. “If I was heartless, I wouldn’t have used every favor card I have to make sure you were released. I would’ve let the cops think you stole those items, and let you rot in federal prison.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I admit, things didn’t turn out exactly as I’d planned. But I operate in a very gray area of the law. Laws that people like my father fought hard to create so these families can get the restitution they deserve. Laws that many other lobbyists have been paid a shit load of money to block. Which is why I’m here.”
“Here in Dallas?”
“Here in this coffee shop with you right now. Like it or not, you have to be aware that these jobs can get pretty ugly. Very wealthy and powerful people own these stolen items, and will go to every length to keep them. The second their names get splashed with the label war crimes and the paper trail on dealing with Nazis, they turn vicious.”
“Can you blame them? Anyone would hate getting that accusation thrown in their face.”
“My point is, Vaughn…this is dangerous shit. People have disappeared over stuff like this. Which is why you should do your best to steer clear of Portia Conway.”
“You think you’re the only one with friends in high places? Or low ones, for that matter?” He scoffed, and looked out the window.
Cars rolled by in an endless stream, with a handful of pedestrians strolling by, talking on their phones or texting. Concrete city full of fools, present company included.
What he wouldn’t give for just one day out on the ocean.
“I’m serious,” Cora continued. “The only reason they contracted me to recover these items was because they’d exhausted all other options in the courts, and Conway is a flight risk. The chance for those items disappearing now that she knows they’re after them is too high.”
Vaughn snapped his head back. “Items? Plural?”
That shut her up.
“What else did you steal?”
“That’s not important. What is important is keeping clear of Conway. If you run into any trouble, or her people contact you, please call me.” She reached into her blouse, the fabric pulling to the side slightly, revealing another sliver of her olive skin.
She pulled a business card from her bra, and set it in front of him.
Although this gorgeous woman just handed over her phone number, the taste in the back of his throat turned bitter. “That’s exactly what the detective told me this morning. If I had any contact from you, to contact them.” He pulled the man’s card from his pocket, and slapped it over hers.
The softness on her face turned edgy, and she sat very still.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call him right now.”
Her lips thinned, and the pulse by her temple raced. But her irises were apologetic. “I can give you many reasons. A greater good, providing justice for Holocaust victims and their descendants, the right thing to do…but you don’t care about any of those, do you?”
Vaughn shook his head.
Cora shrugged. “Then I can’t. Go ahead. Call him. The result will be the same for you. You’ll never see me again.”
The staring match ensued, the same one she’d used back in high school when she was proving a point. Her chin jutted out ever so slightly, and her nose turned upward. Those hazel eyes battling him for the first blink.
Damn, I must be crazy.
“What are you doing Friday night?”