Page 43 of Sinner’s Game

She didn’t reply. But she planted her feet. Held her weapon steady.

She heard him sigh. “Come on, babe. I know you’re unsure. But man, it was ballsy of you to take that briefcase. What do they call that? Windfall profits? And you’ve got more than enough to share.”

He was right about that. They’d been hired to take out an Argentinian industrialist. A typical job for typical pay. The kind of job she and Robert had been doing for this particular client for almost a decade.

This one, though, had a new twist. Recover a briefcase the mark had stolen and return it to the employer, a man she knew only as the Cheshire Snake. Because of the additional task, he’d increased the payout by a cool five million.

Alan was a new addition to their team, but a third person was an asset, especially on these higher profile cases where the mark had a private security team.

Because the Argentinian was a horny prick, Tiffany was on point, with Alan and Robert providing cover, transport, and backup. The plan was to get close with the promise of getting naked. In disguise, of course. She wore her least used mask, one that she’d so far only used for small cons—no hits. Didn’t want to learn too late that her fake face was splashed all over Interpol.

Since the mark was in London for a meeting, she’d oh-so-casually bumped into him in his hotel lobby, then offered to buy him a drink for being such a klutz. When he’d agreed, she’d suggested his room instead, biting her lip and lightly stroking her cleavage while she purred that they’d surely be more comfortable.

He hadn’t even hesitated. Men were such predictable pigs. He took her arm, escorted her up, then dismissed his security team, leaving only his bodyguard in a chair outside his door.

When his back was turned to mix her a drink, she’d pulled out her silenced pistol and put a bullet in his brain. Easy as spraying a wasp.

She’d grabbed the case and was about to leave when something held her back. She was so good at her job. Always following orders. Always the good little soldier.

This time, she wanted to know the why.

That’s why she examined the case, disabled the countermeasures—a gas capsule that would surely have knocked her out—then picked the lock.

Less than two minutes after Mr. Argentina had met his demise, she had the case open and was staring at almost three hundred million in negotiable bearer bonds.

And wasn’t that interesting?

That was the moment that Tiffany had decided to keep the haul all for herself. Robert was beginning to bore her, and despite his enthusiasm in bed, Alan was a dim bulb. They wouldn’t expect the betrayal—men trusted their cocks, not their heads—so they’d be easy to take out.

Her employer was a different story. As with most in her profession, they’d never met face to face. But once he learned that Mr. Argentina and his door guard were dead and the case was gone, he’d pull the hotel security feed. And that, of course, was why she and Robert always worked in disguise, utilizing the identity of the people who rented Robert’s Laguna Cortez home. Years ago, they’d relied on makeup and wigs, but these days, Mission Impossible-style masks were real. Expensive as hell, but real.

And because of that, no one would know the killer was Tiffany Shein.

They’d be looking for Brandy Bradshaw, a vicious killer hiding in the guise of a pretty little seamstress. A killer who’d taken out an Argentinian industrialist and her wealthy landlord.

There would be gaps, of course. The real Brandy would likely have an alibi. Which was why Tiffany had added fuel to the Brandy-is-a-killer fire by directing a potential client referral—with the very lame alias of Mr. White—to the real Brandy. She’d even watched the exchange, from afar of course, when the confused little seamstress had given him her card.

Now, if need be, Tiffany could call in an anonymous tip about the man who’d tried to hire an assassin. Couple that with other incriminating evidence she’d planted, and Brandy the Bland would become Brandy the Bad.

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it wouldn’t matter. The real Brandy would protest her innocence, but so what? With all the evidence, who would believe her?

And soon enough, Tiffany would be lying safely on a beach somewhere, enjoying her well-deserved wealth.

Of course Alan—silent, creeping around the alley Alan—had created another problem. He was supposed to have been at the house, too, so that Tiffany could take both him and Robert out at the same time. A meeting that Tiffany had carefully arranged, and that dim bulb Alan had blown off so he could hang with a friend in Palm Springs.

How he’d found her here, in Newport Beach, was anyone’s guess. Maybe Alan wasn’t as dim as she’d thought.

She sighed, biting back a curse as she calculated the odds. In the end, she tucked her gun into the back of her jeans and pulled her shirt over it. Then she stepped into the alley with her hands raised. “You’re right, I don’t have the bonds with me.”

“So? What are we going to do?”

“What do you want?”

“Baby, I only want you. Don’t you know that? Why do you think I agreed to our deal? Because I wanted to be in bed with Robert? It was all about you. It’s always been about you. Share the bonds, don’t share the bonds. I don’t give a fuck. I just want you.”

She smiled. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, baby. You do talk sweet.”

“Can we just talk? Try to figure this out? Neutral ground.”