Author's Note:
This is a novella that will appear in four parts, two chapters each. It's the third in a loose chain that is my ode to 1980's pulp trash novels. You don't need to read the award winning
Out Of The Past or Love On The Run
(both on this site) to enjoy this story, but if you'd like to that's the order. I hope you enjoy, and comments/ratings are welcome.
Summary:
Kerry Allen is a jewel thief on her last job: she must steal a rare diamond from a country auction and entrap her enemy. Turning him over to Interpol she will remain free of prison. Her godfather sends her a smart-alec hitman and an intractable sex god, Henry, to help her. But this is more than Kerry's last score: it is her chance to avenge her mother's death, and put her greatest danger behind bars. When the sparks fly between Kerry and Henry, can they keep their eyes on the prize long enough to survive?
Chapter One
This was going to be the job of a lifetime, if Kerry Allen did it right. In just two weeks her life would change forever. She would publicly retire at the top of her game, secure her underworld legacy for all time, and vengeance would finally be hers. There was just one thing in the way of her final score as a master thief; she didn't speak a word of French. Well, not unless "croissant" counted.
She spoke four languages, only one of them a Romance language, but Romanian was nowhere close to French. And there in snooty Paris no one seemed to give a shit she spoke English, German, Japanese, and Romanian with total fluency. She didn't speak French so they treated her like a moron. She had a French title through her mother, but every time she'd been through Paris her few friends there spoke English, and her mother had fled France and left every last drop of her culture behind. It seemed the blood counted for little when her tongue didn't conform.
That was why she was taking a huge risk recruiting a partner. Partners were nothing but trouble for thieves, hell her last was the reason she was in fucking France, which she hated. The food was good and there was softcore porn on TV, but the attitudes were driving her crazy. Some of that she knew came from her mother's attempt to keep her daughter separate from her homeland, but there just never seemed to be anything in France for her but a dark past. She fully intended to die alone and happy in New York City and let her cousin Alain take the damn title. He had the right snootiness for it.
Take the little café she was in, she thought. She'd had to play charades to get a pack of smokes and a cup of coffee that was normal. Why they thought the first three tries she'd wanted a café Americano was beyond her, watered down espresso was not Kerry's idea of a good drink. A good Kona blend that could strip paint, now
that
was coffee.
She wore a red flower in her brown hair just as she'd told her contact. Due any moment was a man who would be translator and aid in the tricky score. She'd asked for someone who could handle himself on the streets, but clean up enough to look good in a tux. Someone that spoke French like a native and had enough IQ points to follow directions and get himself out of any tight situations he might get into when she wasn't around.
So far the only customers to come in after her were a laughing couple, two old men, and one group of middle aged women, all locals, laughing and talking in speedy French. Kerry signaled again for a refill with exaggerated motions and wondered if she could use Rosetta Stone quickly enough to get by.
The café door opened, bells jangling, and a god walked in. Tall and built, his hair was blonde, pulled back into a short ponytail two shades lighter than his small goatee. With his tan and relaxed manner, were they at home she would have pegged him as a California surfer, an all-American boy grown into one hell of a man. She sat up straight hoping he was the man her contact had sent. If her translator/goon/assistant was also hot, perhaps she'd have a fun diversion for the next two weeks.
Sex in her line of work only worked out with fellow underworld movers and shakers. Men who understood everything was temporary, nothing was real but shiny jewels, gold, valuables, and cash. She usually preferred the older, bookish types, but this was a man any woman would be fool to pass up. He likely wasn't much of a deep thinker, but probably a good time in bed, the perfect wham-bam-thank you-sir candidate.
He looked around and his eyes lit on her. Smiling she waggled her fingers and he came over, moving like a jungle cat surveying his territory.
"
Bonsoir, j'espère que vous n'avez pas attendu longtemps. Je suis Henry, Georges m'a envoyé.
"
She blinked at the fluid French. His voice was deep, his accent wasn't native Parisian, but it was a damn good imitation. Her mother's had been flawless and though she didn't know the language, Kerry had a perfect ear for accents and this was a transplant, American. Not a true native speaker, he could still pull it off as few people had ears like hers. She caught the names Henry and Georges, and Georges Depardieu was a retired fence, her contact in Paris whom she had asked to hire an assistant for her.
She stood and took his hand, one eyebrow raised. "Didn't Georges tell you I don't speak a word of French?"
"I'm sorry. I'm Henry Williams, Georges sent me but didn't tell me exactly what it is you need."
He was indeed American. His accent was strange, a hint of something southern and something tougher, like New York overlapping Georgia in his baritone. Mmm, she thought. She liked American boys. She liked America. Growing up on English food she'd come to love the land of excess where good burgers were never more than twenty feet away in any city, and Thai, Mexican, and Japanese could all be found on the same block. Sure, her native country had all that, but it didn't have peanut butter and that was a deciding factor.
"Kerry," she said, surprised he'd given his own surname, not common in their line of work. "Have a seat and we'll talk."
He sat and the waitress came over. They had a hurried conversation in French and Kerry put her hand on his arm interrupting. For a moment she couldn't speak, a tremble went through her at the hard feel of his bicep beneath his shirt, a tremor she only got when hot ice was dancing on her fingertips. Stunned for a moment she finally shook it off and forced a smile. "Would you ask for another coffee with a little cream?"
He smiled and did so, but there was a strange look in his eyes as if he had felt the same jolt she did. The waitress left, throwing a look back to Henry suggesting she was having the same fantasy of him wearing nothing but cream that had entered Kerry's mind, and Kerry shot daggers at her. Not that she ever cared about any lover's other lovers, but she couldn't afford her employee being distracted.
"So, tell me what it is you need."
"The job is simple. I need a translator to help do recon. You need to blend in with high-class people, do you have a problem cutting your hair or shaving? Anyway, it helps if you have experience with security. I just need a second set of eyes and ears, I do the top story work alone. You'll help translate anything I need, and when it comes time for the final deal you'll back me up in some tough negotiations. It pays fifty thousand, American. You'll get five now if you sign on, ten when we start, and the rest when we conclude business. I'll pay all your expenses, and you tell no one about this, black ops only."
His coffee was set down gently as he stared at her, and the waitress slammed down Kerry's coffee, spilling it. A large splosh of black un-creamed coffee hit her white leather skirt.
"Bloody hell!" Kerry yelled and shot to her feet. The waitress just smirked and Kerry resisted the urge to yank her by her black ponytail to the ground and kick her several times with her Jimmy Choos."I'll be right back," she said to Henry and stalked off to the bathrooms.
Lucky for her leather was hard to stain, but she carefully cleaned off her miniskirt and inspected for any discoloration. When she was satisfied her red cotton top and white leather skirt were stain-free, she emerged and ran into a man.
"Pardon me, luv," he said in English with a much heavier British accent than her own.
