Chapter 2

TWO

F ake. Real. Definitely real.

Worth more than the open bar tab here tonight…

Emma scanned the crowd, seeking her target. Her background as a geologist made scanning and evaluating every piece of jewelry second nature. The majority of gemstones on display at this ridiculous show of prestige and money were mostly authentic, although she spotted several pretty good fakes among the emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and, of course, diamonds.

She navigated the room filled with Washington's elite with practiced ease. Her name wasn't on the guest list, but she’d snuck in and only realized her mistake once she'd seen the ocean of conservative designer dresses and tuxedos. She’d made it past layers of security and could probably swipe more than half of the beautiful jewels adorning those in attendance, but the one thing she couldn’t do was blend in.

The biggest fake in the room was her.

Keep going. Don't get distracted. Dad's life is on your shoulders .

Adjusting the strap of her dress—not designer, and certainly not in the somber monochrome tones favored by this crowd —skirted the far edge of the room, hoping to stay invisible. That was a joke, considering she looked like a bumblebee amid zebras.

She had to find Congressman Athens now before she was escorted out.

Anxiety ate at her, not just because of the fact she didn't fit in here—hell, she didn't fit in anywhere—but her father was missing.

When she’d turned eighteen, she’d left her mother in London and moved to the States to live with him. She’d even taken his last name and gone by her middle, hoping for a fresh start. After all their years apart, they’d grown close, and he’d helped her get into college. With her geology degree in hand, she’d gone on to find legitimate work, leaving the criminal world behind.

And then everything went to hell when someone had slipped that ring into her bag without Emma knowing it. Her mother, probably, who was one step ahead of Scotland Yard and had shown up on Emma’s doorstep, begging for her help. A detective named Bastian and a select group he’d picked to help him were hot on her trail. The others in her gang, too.

Torn between her loyalty to her mother and her new life, Emma hadn’t known what to do.

And then she’d met Truman.

She’d assumed it was by accident. Now, she knew he’d used her. While she’d fallen in love with him in the brief few weeks they’d been together; it was only an undercover mission for him.

Bastard.

No matter how much she’d tried to convince him she wasn’t part of her mother’s gang and had no idea how the royal ring had ended up in her bag, he’d looked at her with those depthless brown eyes and arrested her. Cold, flat. Emotionless.

It wasn't every day that a woman experienced the most intense orgasm of her life, only to have the man responsible for it point a gun in her face five minutes later and tell her to get on her knees with her hands behind her head.

Shaking her head to erase the memory, she found a gal staring at her with a bit of concern on her face.

"Are you all right?" she asked. She was a few inches taller than Emma, even more so because of a pair of three-inch heels. A simple linen sheath dress clung to her curves, and the only piece of jewelry she wore was a set of small pearl earrings. She’d lost one of her false eyelashes and reminded Emma of a doll she’d had growing up that a nasty boy named Tolo had ruined. First, he’d pulled off the doll’s lashes, then shaved her head.

“Fine,” Emma said, using her best American voice. “Lovely party, isn’t it?”

"I heard you're a criminal. Is that true?"

Emma froze. The Bradshaw diamonds had disappeared, and her father was missing. Congressman Athens was her only hope to find him and those jewels.

She sized up the woman, wondering how much she'd had to drink. Wondering if she could lure her away from the crowd, distract her somehow. She had to do something because if she gave her up, everything would go to hell before Emma could blink. “I imagine this room is full of them, don't you think?" She gave a wink, hoping to convey a casual friendliness. “But no, I'm not. "

"Are you friends with Brigit or Michael?"

She was not drunk, but she was too inquisitive. It was time for her to leave. Her stomach sank, but it was better to walk out of here free and clear and find another way to contact Athens than to end up in jail.

“Neither, actually.” She fiddled with her purse. "I'm a jewelry designer, and I was hoping to impress Congressman Athens’ wife with one of my designs. The couple are friends with my father, and he wanted to set up an official meeting for me. I'm a grown woman, and I don't want to lean on my father’s friendship with them—I want to do this on my own, you know?"

"You don't have to tell me about overbearing fathers. Mine is… Well, you don't wanna hear my life story." The woman eyed her dress. "Is that chiffon?"

Emma looked down at herself. “Um, nylon, I think.” She was much more comfortable in jeans and T-shirts. While she had an eye for detail when it came to designing jewelry, fashion eluded her. "Honestly, it's the only dress I own."

“I’m Zara.” The woman held out her hand. “And you are?”

“Emma Grant,” a male voice said from behind her. A familiar, deep bass that shivers down her spine. “I’ll handle it from here.”

Emma whirled.

Since that night at her loft nearly two years ago, she’d done everything in her power to forget him, to figure out why their past affair, as brief as it had been, was the most passionate she’d ever experienced. To erase the unforgettable marks he’d left on her heart.

The way her pulse tripped all over itself, and the fact she wanted to lick her lips at how handsome he was in his perfect suit suggested she had failed at all three.

The rest of the room faded away: the sounds of laughter and tinkling glasses, the band, the lights, and even the floor under her feet seemed to disappear, leaving her off balance.

“Truman.” Her voice came out breathless, and she mentally swore at herself. Get a grip ! She’d known this was a possibility, but she’d prayed she could slip in and out without running into him.

Looked like she’d failed at that, too.

Anger and something else flared to life in the pit of her stomach.

“Emma." His dark eyes locked on her, studying her with the same intensity that she did a gemstone. "This is the last place I expected to see you.”

She wanted to ask him if she haunted his dreams. If he felt guilty for ruining her life.

If he ever missed her.

She stuck her clutch under her arm, noticing Zara had eased back but still watched them with an amused expression on her face. "Reunion over. I need to go.”

When she began to walk away, he stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “I heard about your release. A few days later, you show up amongst the elite of Washington, DC. I can only imagine what a playground this is for you."

"Playground?" As soon as the word left her mouth, she realized what he was insinuating. She lowered her voice but kept it loud enough for him. “I’m not a thief. I came here to talk to Congressman Athens.”

His face gave nothing away—completely cold and detached—the expression she’d never seen until that night in her loft. Before that, he’d always been smiling, always looking at her with warmth in his eyes. “Why?"

She tried to mirror the detachment back to him. “None of your business."

She sidestepped him again, but he moved with the speed and grace of an antelope. "The congressman? An odd choice. Outside of his gold cufflinks, he’s lacking anything of value.”

“You’ve seen him?”

Curiosity flashed behind his carefully controlled facade. “He’s camped out with the president.”

Turning abruptly in that direction, she hit one of the partygoers. Champagne splashed over the top of the flute the woman held, drenching the front of her sequined dress. She gasped, and Zara stepped in before the lady could yell. “The ladies’ room is this way.”

Zara pushed the woman toward the exit, and Emma took the opportunity to slip between two others to zero in on Athens.

But then pulled up short. Seated with the president, the congressman, and the entire table, were surrounded by security.

Truman sidled up next to her. “Tell me why you want to talk to him. Maybe I’ll help you.”

“My dad…” She bit her lip. She could not trust him. "It's personal, and I don't want your help."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. Go ahead. Let's see how far you get on your own, Ms. Party Crasher."

Dammit. Damn him. She weighed her options. She had no doubt he could land her a meeting with the congressman. His charm was as effective as his intelligence. He liked a challenge, a conquest. That's all she should've been to him.

But if she left right now, how would she manage to plead her case to Athens? If someone had kidnapped her father, time was of the essence, and it wasn’t as if she could go to the FBI and explain her theories without them disregarding her due to her record.

Plus, the FBI knew she was Catherine Owens’ daughter.

Thanks to Truman and Ian Bastian, her mother was in a London prison. Although her dad was an upstanding citizen, Emma now had a record, and law enforcement would simply laugh her off. They believed her father had stolen the diamonds and made off with them and wouldn't entertain any other possibilities.

But she knew her dad. It's why he’d left her mum when Emma was little—he was no criminal and couldn't keep looking the other way as Catherine pursued her lifestyle. Her mother had risen from the middle-class working girl he’d fallen in love with to a wanted international criminal in the space of the time it took Emma to celebrate her sixth birthday.

Truman pulled her out of her revelry. "What about your dad?"

It sucked being alone. Sucked not having him, or anybody else these days, to talk to. How different it might've been if she could've brainstormed with someone who understood her family background, who knew how decent of a guy her dad was. He’d wanted to take her with him when he left for the States, but after another gang member threatened his life at the order of Catherine, he had no choice but to abandon Emma.

He’d sent letters and postcards, but they’d moved around so much she only received them once in a great while. Her mother wouldn't allow emails or texts—they were too easy to intercept and follow. Occasionally, a book would show up about geology, volcanoes, oceans, and other things Emma loved. She knew it wasn't her mum or any of her crew leaving them for her under her pillow, so it had to be her dad.

"Emma?" Truman's voice probed her thoughts. "Why do you want to talk to Athens, and what does it have to do with your pa?”

His British roots rarely showed unless he was stressed or using his accent to charm someone. What was it about British men that made women's panties wet? Or maybe that was just her. “You won't believe me.”

He brushed a finger over her wrist, light as a feather. "Try me."

She jumped. Don't fall for it. Although their relationship had been brief, she'd been with him long enough to know that he used every tool he possessed to get what he wanted. Softening his voice and touching her as if he cared was just a means to an end. “No.”

Decision made, she did an about-face, shoving him out of her way and striding straight into a thick group of revelers. Let him try to follow her. She was getting out of here, and she would regroup once she got back to her temporary place.

After being here and seeing all of these posh assholes, she realized it was fruitless to ask the congressman for help. He was hobnobbing with the president of the United States, for God’s sake. His friendship with Charlie Grant gave him nothing—no power, prestige, or road to the White House.

“Not so fast.” Truman intercepted her, took her by the elbow, and escorted her toward the bar. “We’re not done yet.”

How had he skirted the group and got ahead of her? She pressed her lips together to keep from screaming in frustration.

Although, maybe causing a scene would be better than letting him drag her around. She could claim he was hurting her, and then, while all eyes were on him, she could slip away.

Across the way, Dr. Brigit Kent was keeping track of them. Beside her, her mountain of a husband, the next man who would be the Director of the CIA, glared at her. “Great,” she growled at Truman. "You're causing a scene and upsetting the bride and groom. Take your hand off me. Now.” She jerked out of his grasp.

"It's always the hard way with you, isn't it, sunshine?”

She wanted to smack the condemnation and smugness from his face. "I have nothing further to say to you. You ruined my life, and now you need to get the hell away from me."

"I did my job. You lied to me about who and what you were. What did you think I would do when I found out the truth? Turn the other cheek and all that other bollocks?"

So like him to use the nice version of bullshit. She let her British accent surface, laying it on thick. “It doesn't matter how far you run from the East End, Truman, you’ll always be a poor little lad in your head.”

He bristled. “I’m nothing like that churlish boy.”

“And I may be Catherine Owens’ daughter, but I’m not now, nor was I ever, part of her gang.”

He rocked back on his heels. “You had the Queen Mother’s ring in your possession.”

"I explained it to you when I was on my knees, and you were threatening me with a gun in my face. I was set up . God, you're an idiot. For all your supposed brilliance, you blew that one."

In more ways than one . She didn't need to say it out loud; it hung between them like a live wire, ready to electrocute whoever touched it first.

Behind his eyes, she saw him chewing over her words. He still didn't believe her but was looking for something to latch onto. Something to use as leverage.

For what? That's when it hit her—he wanted something. Something vital that he believed she could provide.

"I know about your father and the Bradshaw collection,” he said.

Her pulse skipped this time with a new crash of emotions. “He didn't steal those diamonds, no matter what they claim. I think he was kidnapped or forced to take them for some reason. I have to find him."

"Why don't you think he stole them?"

How could she explain in a few sentences about her dad and make him understand? “Because he was nothing like my mother. They couldn't have been more opposite.” Kind of like you and me . "I know him, and he would never do what they're saying.” It was time to lay her cards on the table. “That's why I came here, hoping his friend, Athens, would help me talk to the FBI. They believe he's a criminal, but I know he's not. They're not exploring the kidnapping or blackmail angles. If someone used him to steal those diamonds, he could be dead…" Her breath hitched, and her voice squeaked. She cleared it, but even when she spoke again, it was still scratchy, the words like boulders grinding against each other in her mouth. “Even if he's not yet, he will be. There won't be a ransom demand or anyone looking for him. I'm all he’s got."

Truman broke away from her gaze, sweeping the interior of the ballroom. In the distance, she heard sirens blaring. “I can help you," he said quietly. Almost too quietly. She wasn't sure she'd heard him right.

She leaned in, and an instinctual part of her raised a red flag as the sirens seemed to be coming their way. "How? Why? You didn't believe me before; why would you now?"

"I didn't say I trust you." He straightened his bowtie, even though it was perfect already. "I said I'd help you. Quid pro quo—you help me in return."

This wasn't the help she wanted, but beggars couldn't be choosers. "With what?"

"Do you know anything about a Boulder opal ring that went missing this week when the deputy director’s wife was washing her hands at a diplomatic birthday party?"

She screwed up her nose. "What?" And then it made sense—what he thought, what he wanted from her. "You think I stole it?"

"No, actually, I don't. It was a petty con with three players involved. All I want is to get that ring back, and you can help me do it."

"I don't have time for that. My dad is my priority."

She started to stomp away, the sirens growing too close for comfort now. He moved with her, invading her personal space again. "I have access to resources that you don't. It won't take long to find your pa; then we’ll hunt down the junior thieves who took the ring.”

All the security members in the ballroom began touching their earpieces, speaking into watches and other hidden microphones. "Did you call the police on me?"

He hustled her toward the staff exit. "Believe it or not, no. I don't know what's going on. Head to the kitchen while I find out. If anyone asks what you’re doing, tell them Brigit sent you to get her a cup of Earl Grey, okay?”

Icy fear raced through her veins as guests started being hustled out. “You swear you’re not setting me up for something again?”

He gave her an incredulous look. “You think I set you up before?”

Her mother had denied putting the ring in Emma’s bag, but who else could have? Truman. “I don't know, but you sure were swift to let me take the fall for it."

He nudged her toward the door. “We’ll continue this discussion once I find out what's happening. Go."

She slipped through the staff entrance and into the kitchen just as several of Washington’s finest burst into the ballroom.