Chapter 3

THREE

G ratification made the man smile. Once again, he had managed to manipulate the chessboard to bring the pawns he needed together to complete his plan.

The noise in the ballroom lowered, even as those in attendance traded whispers and worried glances. The band fell silent, and various bodyguards and security members approached him and the law enforcement members with him.

An agent from the president’s cadre confronted them. “State your business. Is POTUS in danger?"

Michael Stone, the hero of the hour, marched over, the epitome of a storm cloud ready to break. His voice thundered, “What is the meaning of this?"

The man's task force partner, Special Agent in Charge Pearson, flashed his badge. “There's no imminent danger to anyone, and I apologize, Deputy Director, for our unexpected arrival. We're following up on an anonymous tip regarding the possibility of a jewelry thief attending this party."

Stone’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Here? You must be mistaken.” He pivoted, scanning the crowd. Several partygoers, whom the man knew were CIA operatives, emerged from the guests, looking to him for direction. All it took was a flick of his fingers and a nod in their direction, and they began fanning out as if they knew exactly who to look for.

Interesting.

The man smiled. Maybe they did. While the Secret Service officer returned to the president, and Stone spoke to Agent Pearson and the police officers with them, the man glided around the exterior room searching for a familiar face.

No one knew that he was the person who’d made that anonymous call informing the FBI that the infamous Emma Grant, recently released from her sentence early thanks to a technicality, was attending this reception.

A string of recent thefts in the area, all with the Alice in Wonderland Gang’s modus operandi, had laid the framework for tonight. Pearson and the rest of the task force were already convinced that Grant was behind them, and the Bradshaw diamond heist was the cherry on top.

While he hadn't expected her to attend this soirée, it fit his goals nicely. Truman Gunn was in town, and he would be here, too. With their history, it would be easy to use him again to frame the girl for everything. This time, however, it was imperative to take her out. Possibly, Gunn would have to go as well.

Which was a damn shame. Gunn had proved more than efficient with his undercover work, and the man had invested a lot of time and instruction into him.

As he wove between various groups of onlookers, all of them indignant and wary, he searched for the key components to his endgame. Where was Gunn? Where was the girl? Had they escaped?

That would be unfortunate. It was a shame he had to get rid of them, but it was time. They’d both played well into his master plan, but all good things had to end. With the Bradshaw diamonds, he could disappear down to Mexico and live the life he’d dreamed of.

The Bradshaw diamonds. Charlie Grant. Blackmailing him into stealing them had been easy, and now all he had to do was use the man to auction them off on the black market. Good old Chuck would do anything to keep his ex-wife and daughter safe. Regardless of the fact that he’d divorced Catherine all those years ago, Charlie still had an undying desire to protect her. That desire was multiplied ten times with his daughter.

Love, what a joke. It made you weak and vulnerable. Catherine and Emma were Charlie's Achilles’ heels, and he would go against every one of his principles in order to keep them safe.

The man snorted. The only thing in life worth pursuing was money. The next job. Gratification. He’d had relationships, sure, but none of them ever felt as good as letting diamonds drip through his fingers. As hefting a brick of gold. As feathering a stack of hundred-dollar bills, the smell filtering into his nose.

It was a high like nothing he’d ever experienced.

Movement on his right caught the man's eye. A familiar profile slipped through a door at the far end of the room. "There you are," he muttered.

Picking up his pace to follow, he was jostled by a drunk female who fell into him, knocking him into a nearby table filled with food. "Sorry," she hiccupped. "I think I've had a bit too much to drink."

She batted her lashes at him, one eye thickly rimmed by falsies, the other nearly bare. "Go back to your seat,” he ordered. "Drink a cup of coffee and call a cab."

She playfully slapped him on the bicep, then wrapped her hand around his forearm as if sizing up his muscle. “Don't be silly. The party is just getting started. You should stay. A handsome guy like you could really liven things up."

His quarry was getting away…but why was Gunn sneaking out?

Had he put two and two together, and now he was helping the girl?

The man sighed heavily. Love, or at least in this case, sex. So predictable. Even after everything he’d taught Gunn, the man wasn’t much different than every other male on the planet—he was driven by his dick.

I’ll take advantage of that, just like I did before . He leaned in, lowering his voice as he glared into the woman's face. “Go back to your friends. Now." He unhooked her too-tight grip and gave her a shove.

Expression hardening, she lost the drunk act and lowered her voice to match his. "Be careful," she warned. "I have friends in very high places, Mr. FBI man."

She had to be one of Stone’s. He gave her a feral smile. "Well, unless you're on my task force, I don't give a shit about your friends."

With that, he marched away and pushed through the staff door. “Lock down the exits,” he roared into his comm unit.

And then he went on the hunt once more.

Truman propelled Emma out of the kitchen exit and down the corridor. “We need to move quickly."

She tried to keep up, her heels echoing on the marble floor. "Why? What's going on? Why are the police here?"

He gripped her elbow, practically lifting her from the floor to speed her up. "I have a sneaking suspicion they’re after a certain thief."

Her voice echoed off the ceiling with indignation. “Because I crashed the party?”

They turned a corner, and he steered her down a carpeted hallway toward the glowing exit sign at the end. “Because someone stole an important piece of jewelry from my friend and possibly something else.”

“I haven’t stolen anything.”

“Does the Bradshaw collection ring any bells?”

She sucked in a breath. "They think I did it?"

“I’m assuming they suspect you’re working with your father. They tracked you here. Is there anything you need to tell me before we go any farther?"

One of her ankles gave out, and she yelped as she crashed into him. He steadied her but could see by the way she favored that side that it had hurt. “You can't be serious. I told you I had nothing to do with that. Nor did my dad. I know him. He wouldn't steal a dime."

He stopped, bent down, and lifted her leg enough to yank off the offending shoe. It was all he could do not to trail his hand over her curvy calf. She’d always had great legs. “You better not be lying.”

She shoved him hard enough to knock him on his ass. “You bastard. I'm not, and I didn't lie before. I was set up. If you would remove those holier-than-thou blinders you’re always wearing, you might be able to see the truth.” She removed the other shoe, throwing it at his chest. "Just stay here. I'll handle this on my own."

He caught it and jumped to his feet but wasn't quick enough to juggle both heels and grab her before she skirted past him and began running. "Emma," he called. "Wait."

She didn't.

Letting go of an exasperated huff, he bolted after her, bringing the shoes with him. He couldn’t leave a trail for the task force.

She was fast but hobbled by her ankle enough that he caught up to her in a few strides. The hall came to a T, and when she started to hang right, he snagged her arm and pulled her left.

"Let go," she demanded, trying to free herself from his grip. “I said I don’t need your help.”

He had to control this situation quickly. Something was going on here—something that wasn’t right. Had Stone called the task force in after giving Truman the assignment to find Emma and the opal? It didn’t make sense. Bottom line, he wouldn’t ruin the reception by doing so. Would he?

Emma’s guilt or innocence wasn’t the issue at the moment. The truth was. “I need yours, all right? And I can’t complete my mission without it.”

Playing that card might backfire on him.

He was placing odds that it wouldn’t.

Emma had always been an overachiever, much like he was. Growing up the way she had had left an invisible but tenacious need to be accepted. To be needed. He’d built a profile of her even before he’d taken her to bed, using all he’d learned from Brigit. On paper and in real life, Emma had a driving desire to right the wrongs of the world and help the less fortunate.

Which was no doubt why she was always bringing up his East End roots—she knew he’d had a rough time as a kid, too. While she’d enjoyed posh hotels and grand apartments throughout Europe and the States, he’d struggled to find enough food to eat. To find shelter. To not end up on the wrong side of one of the roaming street gangs.

Until Ian Bastian had rescued him.

“I have resources,” he reminded her. “And I may be the only person in this whole blasted world who can help you clear your name.”

She scanned his face, searching for subterfuge. For deceit. He kept himself open, letting her see his sincerity.

They both knew she was between a rock and a hard place. She opened her mouth to reply.

“Stop right there,” a man shouted. “FBI. Put your hands up!”

Emma swallowed hard, her eyes rounding. In that briefest of moments, he saw the fear going back to prison held for her. “Get me out of here,” she whispered.

He dropped the shoes, picked her up, and ran.