Hunt Me (Love Thieves #3) (12 page)

“Sophie, I need a favor.”

“Oh?” Intrigue filled Sophie’s hushed tone. “Anya says you never ask for favors.”

“Anya is correct. But I need you to vouch for me to a friend of yours.”

“Of course, I’d be happy to. Are you in New York?” Curiosity practically bubbled in her voice.

“No, not at the moment. Let me put Lady Katherine Hardwicke on—” He didn’t get to finish before Sophie burst out laughing.

“Sorry, sorry. Yes, please put her on. And no, Pietr, I don’t think I could put it together better than you. I promise.” But the amusement in her voice decried the denial. Jarod held the phone out to Kit, and she had to step toward him to take it.

“Hello?” She studied him as she listened to the sudden burst of conversation from Sophie.

“I see.” Her eyebrows rose, and she looked him over. “Describe him to me.”

He said nothing, letting Sophie tell her he was a man in his mid-fifties, slightly balding, with salt-and-pepper hair, a thick jaw, and a gently rounding belly. His slightly hooked nose would be labeled a throwback to his Native American blood.

“Interesting. Thank you, Sophie. I do appreciate it. Oh, you do have Pietr wound up, don’t you?” She could be an actress, her voice perfectly modulated to a friendly casual without any intimation of stress. Sophie continued to chatter, but Kit interrupted. “I’m so very glad you like it, and I look forward to our next luncheon. In the meanwhile, we have to go into a meeting. Yes, darling. I told you we would be fabulous friends.”

A few more sentences and they rang off, but Kit held onto his phone. “You’re Walter Curry?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A fifty-year-old with a bald spot and a thickening waist.” She rubbed her tongue against her teeth. “Which one is the mask, Walter or Jarod?”

“Walter.”

His phone buzzed in her hand, and she passed it back without looking at the screen. “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

“Good, because duMonde is here.”
Dammit, I should have knocked her out.

“That’s fine. We only need to move rooms.” She scooped her duffel away from him and walked to the door. He barely got there in time to brace it closed and nudged her back.

“Me first.” He looked out and scanned the hallway, quiet save for the muffled sound of an ice machine. “If we go down the stairs….”

But Kit didn’t follow him. She walked across the hall to the other door.

“We don’t have time to try and break in, and those electronic doors are harder to crack than—”

The door opened in thirty seconds, and she glanced at him. “You were saying?”

The elevator dinged its arrival, and Jarod hustled her inside, closing the door as silently as he could manage. The dark room was—thankfully—unoccupied. He leaned against the door and watched their room through the peephole.

duMonde and three of his men slotted a key in the room they’d left and burst inside. Kit moved up beside him, but he held up two fingers for silence. The men weren’t long. Louis stomped out and looked both ways up and down the corridor.

“She’s still here.” duMonde looked down at a black device in his hand. “Go down and question the clerk again then get his master key. I want men on each entrance and exit.”

“Sir, if we push too hard, someone might call the cops again.”

His face a mask of fury, the Frenchman rounded on the speaker and they backed off, hands raised. “We’re on it.”

The group moved off, and Jarod swung a look at Kit. She wasn’t wearing anything she’d had on earlier. The duffel bag she claimed at the bus station, so what the hell could duMonde be tracking?

He replayed the scene at the airport…the way duMonde seized her face and pulled her in for the kiss to each cheek.

Son of a bitch.
Nudging her into the bathroom, he pressed a finger to her lips then shut the door and cut off the lights. He flicked through the applications on his phone until he found the black light. Turning it on, he waved the phone over her cheek.

His blood went cold.

Fingerprints glowed against her cheek.

The bastard tagged her with a radioactive isotope.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I think I might need your help.”

Chapter Seven

Three hours later, they were back on the freeway and merging into Sunday morning traffic. It took some finesse to get out of the hotel, but Jarod settled for pulling the fire alarm and mingling with the early morning crowd in their borrowed hotel robes. They shuffled through with everyone, weaved around the fire trucks, and reclaimed Jarod’s car from the lot. Hopefully, the three hundred irritated guests and hotel employees kept Louis busy while they escaped.

“Where are we heading?” She tried not to focus on the fact they left Pasadena in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t go anywhere near the post box with the radiation on her face.

Her face.

“Disneyland.” Of all the destinations he could have named, her man of a thousand faces picked the Happiest Place on Earth.

“Crowds. Early morning opening hours. Backstage area.” He ticked off the items. “Harder to track you there, and security won’t let them in with guns. So it buys us some time.”

“To do what exactly?” She hadn’t thought she’d really needed his help right up until he used the black light to illuminate the greenish fingerprints glowing on her skin. A shudder raced up her spine.

“To neutralize the tracing element. If it’s a standard tracer, it’s got an eight day half-life.”

Her heart sank. “Eight days?”

His hand covered hers. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone for the comforting gesture, but she really appreciated it this time. “It’s going to be fine. Now we know it’s there, we can get it removed.”

“You’re extremely casual about all of this. Run into radioactive isotopes on a regular basis, do you?” She tried for flippant, but her tone sounded harsher than she intended. Jarod stroked her wrist with his thumb, rubbing soothing circles over her pulse.

“Actually, I do. Skin contact for less than forty-eight hours won’t have any lasting detrimental effects.”

The steel bands caging her chest squeezed. “And longer than forty-eight?”

“As far as I know, most standard tracers are safe for the half-life they’re assigned. You might get a headache or some nausea—”

“Or a severe lack of appetite?” She was not a hypochondriac or easily spooked…but radiation? It freaked her out, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

“You weren’t hungry on the flight out from New York. Stress is more effective at killing an appetite than a tracer is.”

She twisted sideways in the car to look at him. The gentle caress of his thumb helped; her pulse stopped racing like a filly fresh out of the gate at the Derby. “And how the hell are you a fifty-year-old man who Sophie knows?”

“I told you. I am familiar with hiding in plain sight.”

She waited, and, when he said nothing else, she reached over and pinched him.

He gave her an amused look. “Yes?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, but you’ve had enough truth from me for today. I gave you a secret. It’s customary for you to give me one.” How he could be so relaxed as they cruised through ever thickening traffic she couldn’t fathom. His gaze occasionally flicked to the rearview mirror, but she didn’t imagine he saw much because he wasn’t reacting.

“Does Sophie know you’re…well, you’re you under the Walter Curry?”

He shook his head once.

“Does anyone know?” She fished for more information. The act betrayed her curiosity, but, damn it, he intrigued her.

“One other and now you.”

“That’s it?” Okay, a larger secret than she’d expected. She blew out a breath and looked down at their joined hands.

“Yes. I am hoping you will choose to keep the information to yourself, but I won’t ask you to.”

“I have no reason to expose you.” She wouldn’t promise not to. She lived in the real world where leverage could reduce fallout. She glanced behind them, studying the various cars. Why so many were thronging into Anaheim so early, she didn’t see the point. She’d never been a fan of amusement parks.

“No sign of a tail yet. But he may not need one.”

“Because he can track my face.” She gritted her teeth. Invasive bastard, he’d grabbed her face at the airport for more than a threat—he’d done it so he could follow her.
Did he plan to beat the location out of me and, barring that, let me go with the hope I’d run after it?

“Kit?”

“No, Jarod. I am not answering the question.”

“duMonde’s had people killed to get his hands on the Buddha. He had Sophie attacked, twice, and kidnapped. His men shot Pietr.”

She didn’t flinch at the revelation. She’d been there. She’d seen them in the aftermath, Pietr worn to a frayed end and Sophie still and pale in the hospital. That they’d managed to work it out bolstered her faith in the human species, but it didn’t change the fact she couldn’t answer.

It wasn’t only her secret.

“Who are you protecting?”

“Myself. My company. My family’s reputation.”

He followed a stream of other cars steadily into an oversized lot. They parked in the Pluto lot, and he glanced at her duffel. “Anything you need from the bag?”

“Other than a wardrobe change and some makeup? No, I’m fine.” She refused to look at her appearance in the mirror. Instead, she pulled out the ponytail holder, finger combed her hair back, and fixed it up again. Based on the various outfits on the crowds beginning their walks to the tram, her shorts and T-shirt blended right in. Jarod and his casual business wear on the other hand.... Before she could say anything, he pulled a solar shield from behind her seat and spread it out across the window. Most of those who’d parked when they did were already gone, rushing off to their happy place.

Jarod unbuttoned his shirt and stripped down to a dark tank top underneath. He sported one large tattoo on his left shoulder, some Native American symbols and squares. The muscles in his arms rippled with every gesture. He toed off his shoes and reached behind him for a pair of flip-flops, and, when his hands went to his belt, she unbuckled her seat belt to watch.

Despite his large size, he slid out of the dress pants. A pair of black boxers hugged his thighs and did nothing to disguise the semi-erection he sported. He twisted in the seat and dumped the pants and button down in a bag and pushed them under the passenger seat. Next, he pulled out a smaller bag and a pair of khaki shorts. He slid those on, and she bit her lip when he thrust his hips up to pull them over his ass.

He buttoned them up, pulled the tank top out to hang over the top of the waistband, and slid his sunglasses back into place.

“Holy crap.”

“Thank you.” He slid out of the driver’s side. She fumbled with the door handle and scooped up her purse to follow him. The aviator glasses, with their steel rims, the tattoo, and the ripped muscles on display in his arms and legs gave him the look of a very dangerous surfer.

But he didn’t even look like the man who drove the car.

“How do you do it?” She circled the car and took the hand he held out to her. The car alarm beeped as he activated it, and they set off across the blazing parking lot, already warming under the California sunshine.

“Attitude. Over half of all perception is based on how a person walks, talks, and delivers their body language cues. It’s also partly the clothes and the style of dress.” He nudged her between two cars, and they walked over to the other lane to avoid oncoming traffic. “People see a tattoo and they make a snap judgment. The rest of their impressions will follow their first snapshot. The same can be said for a suit…or a pair of thousand dollar Jimmy Choos.”

She understood the theory. Dressing for success was not only a mantra, but a truism. Whether a potential employee seeking a job or a woman on a first date, how she dressed and carried herself made an impression. The impression offered the foundation for all other expectations.

“And you learned how to do this to recover stolen art?”

“No, I learned how to do this to assassinate people and gather intelligence.” The calm, almost casual way he said the words sent a cold chill down her spine and a spark of electricity from her nipples to her sex.

“Okay, knowing that shouldn’t be sexy.” She meant the words more for herself than for him, but he gave her a wink then nodded to the crowd. Time to table the conversation for a more private venue. Children danced in place and chattered while smiling parents and grandparents indulged them. They likely wouldn’t be in another ten hours, but, for now, the cluster of humanity surged with anticipation.

His face relaxed from the shrewd, assessing mask he normally wore. Instead, a relaxed smile came readily to his lips, and he glanced at her frequently. When the tram arrived, he guided her onto a bench in the center, while he took the outside position. A college-aged boy slid in next to her and bumped her leg. Jarod wrapped an arm around her shoulders and looked at the kid until he scooted over, leaving a five-inch divide between him and Kit.

She didn’t laugh, but it took some effort. An interesting ferry ride. The kids grew even more excited as the tram motored through the parking lot, and then they were at the park gates and the mad dash inside began in earnest.

It might be early on a Sunday, but the crowds swarmed.

“There must be hundreds of people here.”

“Try thousands. Nothing safer than a crowd.”

Rather than remove his arm from her shoulders, he kept her close, particularly as the throngs tightened at the check in. He followed her through the purse search line and to the turnstiles. Inside, he slid his hand down her arm until their fingers interlaced, and they strolled through the shops lining Main Street.

He bought new shirts—a Donald for him and a Daisy for her. She rolled her eyes but changed obediently. When he held up the mouse ears, she balked, and he kissed her nose. Her heart flip-flopped at the casual intimacy of the gesture. They picked up sodas and French fries and fed most of them to the birds while the first parade of the day played through.