Authors: Mae McCall
40
That night, she dressed all in black, took three different
taxis to get to Jackson’s street, and then took a running start to climb up and
over the iron fence that circled the property. As soon as she was within
eighteen inches of the top, an alarm began shrieking and spotlights illuminated
her from three directions. Cursing, she dropped back to the street and ran
away, hiding behind a tree while she had a frantic whispered conversation with
the taxi company, trying to describe where she wanted to be picked up. The next
morning, a delivery man brought her a dozen yellow orchids, with a note:
Nice
try.
She spent two days planning before making her second
attempt, choosing to deactivate the contact points at the main gate and get in
that way. She packed a set of small screwdrivers and wire cutters just like
Marco’s, stuck her black leather Gucci gloves in her back pocket, and drove her
rented black car to Jackson’s neighborhood. She managed to cut the wires on one
side of the gate before the weight of two snarling mastiffs suddenly crashed
into the bars on the other side, causing her to cut her hand and drop half of
her tools. The following morning, two dozen red poppies showed up. This time,
the note said:
Keep at it, tiger
.
For the next week, Cleo plotted. If Jackson wanted to play a
game, then she would play. It occurred to her that a woman with forty million
dollars at her disposal could afford more than a screwdriver and a ski mask.
First, she patrolled the area from the air, renting a helicopter (and pilot)
and observing Jackson’s compound through binoculars, sketching the layout and noting
anything that might prove useful. Then, she hid in the bushes with her
binoculars to see as many employees as she could, so that she could get an idea
of who patrolled the grounds, who came in or out, and if there was any
noticeable routine that she could use to her advantage.
Once she had decided on a plan, she had to set the stage.
She visited the most expensive colorist in the bay area, who changed her
chestnut locks to a honey blonde. A trip to a slutty lingerie store yielded a
sheer red bra with scalloped cups (and the matching underwear, of course), and
a fancy department store provided the black exaggerated-shoulder Alexander
McQueen dress, with a low enough neckline to showcase the bra if she leaned
forward in just the right way. A gold lariat necklace with a ruby teardrop drew
the eye straight down to her cleavage, and green contact lenses completed the
transformation.
Having noticed that Jackson had been leaving the house at
ten o’clock every morning for the last four days, and returning to the house
between eleven and eleven thirty, Cleo parked on a side street and waited for
his car to pass her. Exactly eight minutes later, she pulled her rented black
Bentley away from the curb and approached the main gate. She tried to look
supremely bored and bitchy as she rolled down the window and pushed the
intercom buzzer.
“Can I help you?” said the familiar deep voice.
Cleo reached over and picked up a small metal suitcase from
the leather seat, holding it up within view of the camera and wiggling the
slender wrist that was attached to it via a chain and handcuff mechanism. She
put the case back on the seat and leaned out the window slightly, hoping that
her boobs were showing enough. “I have something for Mr. Temple’s
consideration. From an associate.”
After a brief silence, the speaker squawked. “I’m sorry. Mr.
Temple left no instructions regarding a delivery.”
“That’s because he didn’t know I would be coming early,” she
said, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head and checking her makeup in the
visor mirror.
“What is your name, ma’am? I’ll have to check with Mr.
Temple,” said the man.
She put on her wickedest grin. “Oh, it wouldn’t do any good.
Jackson never got around to asking my name the last time we…discussed
business.”
“Mr. Temple is unavailable at the moment,” said the voice.
She pouted. “Oh, well. At least let me get this thing off my
wrist. My employer trusts him enough for me to leave it. Just please have Jackson call when he has a chance. He’ll know who the item is from.”
She wasn’t sure if it had worked, but a few seconds later,
the gates buzzed and then slowly swung open. A man stepped out and waved her
in, and she drove up to the front of the house. Two men with guns stepped out
to the car, and she made sure to flash a lot of leg and cleavage as she got
out. They escorted her up the steps and into a small room, where she was
thoroughly frisked and asked to open the metal case. “Sure thing, sugar,” she
said, winking as she reached into her bra for a tiny metal key. First removing
the handcuff bracelet from her wrist, she then opened the case and spun it to
show them the beautiful diamond necklace that lay within. One of the men
removed the padded tray to make sure there was nothing else in the box.
Cleo sighed. “According to my employer, Mr. Temple had
mentioned wanting a piece of jewelry to give to a…friend. A girl can only hope
it’s just a spinster neighbor that bakes him cookies every Christmas.” Flashing
her brilliant smile once more, she bit her lip and said, “You know, I really
would like to speak to Jackson, even if it means I have to wait. I don’t get
the opportunity to see him as often as I used to.”
The men looked at each other. Knowing that Jackson would
return soon, and knowing Jackson’s affinity for women, they decided it would be
okay for her to hang around. After all, it was only half an hour, maximum. They
instructed her to wait in the room, and she heard them lock it with a key as
they left. She rolled her eyes, counted to two hundred, and then pulled the underwire
out of one bra cup, folding it in half and kneeling on the floor. Fifteen
seconds later, she had the door cracked open enough to see the entryway of the
house.
She watched the two men converse and then walk outside.
Since they were the only two people who knew why she was there (or her pretense
for being there, at least), Cleo opened the door and confidently strode down
the hallway like she belonged there. Nobody questioned her as she walked up the
stairs, her steps muffled by the thick runner, and started peeking into rooms
until she found the one she was looking for. Glancing quickly over her shoulder
to make sure she was alone, Cleo slipped into Jackson’s bedroom and quietly
closed the door.
She knew it was his from the smell alone—the combination of
peppermint and his cologne was one of the most recognizable odors that she
could think of. The walls were navy blue, and there was a massive walnut bed
against the wall with black bed linens. His closet was bigger than the living
room of her penthouse apartment. Suits lined two entire walls; the third was
devoted to fedoras hanging on wooden pegs. Cleo walked toward it and grabbed a
burgundy wool hat with a short black feather in the band. The instant she put
it on her head, cold metal touched the back of her neck and she froze.
“You don’t belong here,” said Jackson, sounding very
dangerous.
Trying her best not to let her nerves show, Cleo managed to
say, “I believe I was invited.” She felt like she was going to pass out. A hand
grabbed her shoulder and roughly spun her around.
“Cleo?” he said, looking her up and down with a very
confused expression. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“Seriously, Jackson?” she said, her hands on her hips. “I
manage to infiltrate your fort in broad daylight, and the first concern is my
hair?”
“Why are you wearing contacts?” he asked.
She blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s called a disguise,
genius. I went all “Mission: Impossible” on your ass, in case you haven’t
noticed.” She tapped a red fingernail against the side of her hip. “Are you
planning to shoot me, or what?”
Looking down at the gun in his hand, Jackson actually seemed
embarrassed. The weapon quickly vanished beneath his suit jacket and he put his
hands in his pockets. “How did you get in?” he asked.
“Jackson, Jackson, Jackson,” she said, taking him by the arm
and leading him to the large windows in the bedroom. “Do you see what that is?
It’s called San Francisco. Use her.”
“What?” he asked.
She sighed. “You, my friend, need to hire some gay guys to
mingle with the machos,” she said.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “What?” he repeated,
his confusion now magnified.
Cleo quickly unbuttoned the bodice of her dress, pulling the
lapels aside to flash her red (and entirely sheer) bra at him. From his sudden
glassy-eyed expression, she knew she had proven her point (although he wouldn’t
regain enough blood flow to his brain to grasp the point until long after she
had left). Patting him on the arm, she said, “Merry Christmas, good buddy,” and
then she walked out, buttoning her dress as she skipped down the stairs. She
threw a wave over her shoulder at the goons with guns, and then rolled down the
windows and blasted hair metal from the Bentley’s speakers as she pulled down
the driveway and through the iron gates.
She cackled the entire way back into the city. Rather than
return to her apartment, Cleo decided that she deserved a reward (or two, or
ten), so she headed straight toward her favorite stores and shopped all
afternoon. Once she had returned the car to the rental agency, she treated
herself to a dinner of steak with blackberry sauce, and several cocktails. Cleo
was more than a little tipsy when she oozed out of the cab in front of her
building. As she was trying her best to reintroduce her key to her lock (they
apparently weren’t on speaking terms right now), she noticed music coming from
her apartment.
She could see his silhouette backlit by the city glow coming
through the large windows. Jackson was sitting in a Pearsall chair in the dark.
Peggy Lee’s sultry voice drifted from the stereo. As Cleo locked the door and
kicked off her shoes, she heard the clink of ice as Jackson took a sip of
bourbon from the glass he was holding.
Cleo slid over the back of the sofa and stretched like a
cat, propping her aching feet on the curved arm. “What a day,” she said,
letting out a long breath. Jackson took another sip of bourbon and remained
silent. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. When he still didn’t respond, she
swung her legs around and stood up, suddenly feeling very sober. “I know what’s
wrong with Jackson,” she said as she slowly walked past him to the window.
Gazing out at the city, she continued, “Jackson’s mad because Cleo got the best
of him. Jackson’s royal panties are in a twist because, for once, something
happened that was beyond his control.” She watched the blinking lights of city
traffic for several moments before she spoke again. “What were you planning to
do when you gave me that address—laugh at my failure three or four times and
then conveniently leave the back gate unlocked one night, so that you could
watch me do a victory dance on the security monitors? And now you’re pissed
that I did it without your guiding hand, aren’t you?”
He stood up and walked toward her, stopping about twelve
inches away from her back. “I’m pissed, but not at you. I’ve…been struggling
with some realizations lately, and haven’t really been sure what to do about
them.” He put the glass on the coffee table and came back to her. “And I wasn’t
wanting you to fail. I was wanting you to do exactly what you did, because I
knew you’d love the challenge, and I would enjoy watching you succeed. I just
wasn’t expecting your particular…methods from this morning, especially given
the fact that you just spent almost a month learning how to disarm security
systems from a master thief. I was kind of expecting the ski mask to hang
around a while longer.”
He stepped closer, so that his chest barely grazed her shoulder
blades. Together, they watched the city breathe under the night sky.
“I’ve never wanted a brother,” she said suddenly, startling
them both. When he didn’t respond, she turned her head parallel to her
shoulder. “If that’s your problem.” And then she looked back out the window,
terrified that he would tell her how wrong she was.
After what seemed like years, he touched her shoulder,
trailing his hand down her arm, linking his fingers with hers and slowly
turning her to face him. With his other hand, he slowly swept a few stray
strands of hair back from her face before very lightly tracing her lips with
his fingertip. “Do you trust me?” he whispered.
“Absolutely,” said Cleo. In an instant, he was kissing her.
With her back pressed against the cool glass of her window, it was reminiscent
of the first time they had kissed. This time, however, she was not too drunk to
remember every second of it. Of course, she also wasn’t naked, and they weren’t
chest-deep in water, but Jackson still kissed her slowly and thoroughly,
occasionally trailing his fingers lightly up or down the sides of her bare
arms.
He kissed her like he had no other place to be and nothing
better to do, applying himself to the task with the intensity and focus of a
thirsty man who has finally found a cold stream after days in the desert. While
Ella Fitzgerald crooned about stormy weather, Jackson made up for months of
longing.
Eventually, they had to come up for air. He took a step back
to compose himself. Cleo licked her lips and said, “Holy damn, you’re good at
that.”
A very strange expression crossed his face, and he ran a
hand over his head. He cleared his throat and started to back away from her.
“Well, it’s getting late, and I know you’re probably tired, so….”