Page 12 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Alistair’s cheeks flushed. He stepped closer as his eyes darted around the diner. “My offer from last year still stands.”

Unbelievable. “You mean the one where you return sweet Ava to me if I give you Elvis’s last known signed record?”

Alistair ticked up his pointy chin.

Jack couldn’t hold in his disgusted laugh. “I want nothing to do with Ava, and women aren’t possessions. Seems to me you two are perfect for each other.”

He strutted past Alistair with the confidence he wished he’d displayed around Clementine, who went by Samantha, who was judging the Elvis competition, who also didn’t seem to be an upfront woman interested in a nice guy. On top of saving David Industries, making sure everyone thought his father was out of town, and beating Alistair at this year’s festival, Jack added avoiding Clementine to his exhausting to-do list.

* * *

Clementine needed to meet with Jack again. There was no choice. The Van Gogh wasn’t hung in his home. It was housed in his family’s estate, and he was her ticket in to that monstrous piece of real estate.

She barreled into her motel room and spread out her Maxwell David files on the starchy sheets. At least the starch implied they’d been washed. The first thing she’d done after arriving yesterday was toss the maroon comforter on the floor, which matched the carpet’s unsettling shade of not-quite-blood.

Legs tucked under her, she pushed the surveillance photos around, livid at Lucien’s contact for not noting Maxwell’s commonly used name. Furious at herself for failing to recognize Jack. The blunders had obviously thrown her off, but revealing her name had been an epic screw-up and Lucien couldn’t know, which meant she had to regroup.

She studied the photos. One shot showed Jack entering the Whatnot Diner. The swinging door obscured his face, but not the long lines of his lean frame. A second and third showed him running, part of his morning routine. One image was too blurry to decipher. The other was botched by the photographer’s thumb.

The last one gave her the most pause: Jack as Elvis.

The shot had been downloaded from the internet, commemorating last year’s tribute artist champion. Jack had come in second. He was off to the side, not the focus of the photo, his face less clear. She pulled it closer, looking for the shy man she’d met on the road, the slightly awkward man today, who had ferreted out her true name. She couldn’t find either man. What she found was exceedingly worse: increased sex appeal.

When first scanning these photos, she hadn’t noticed the allure. She had wrinkled her nose at this whole Elvis thing, unable to grasp why grown men dressed like a dead man and sang dated songs. Impersonators. Pretenders. A judgmental reaction that had been overhauled.

She wasn’t sure if it was the sweaty, sexy handshake, or the shyness that had hit her in her heart, but looking at the Jack she now knew, dressed in a glittery top and tight pants, his helter-skelter hair tumbling over his forehead, she saw his appeal in stereo.

There was no shyness in Jack’s festival photo, nothing but confidence in his cocky grin. She couldn’t connect the man she’d met to the one in the picture, but she didn’t have time to puzzle it out. She also couldn’t let this unwelcome attraction blossom. The Maxwell Jack David she’d researched had recently fired a handful of workers, all long-time employees nearing the end of their working prime. They would struggle to find work elsewhere, but Jack would save cash by hiring younger blood. He was the ruthless sort who sliced and diced without caring where his blade landed.

Clementine’s father had been fired by a man like Jack. Cut and tossed out without a care. Finding him dead in their garage, the car running, had been as traumatizing as Clementine thought life could get. So young and naïve she’d been. A clueless nine-year-old.

She knew better now. Men like Jack David were nothing but trust-fund brats who coasted through life. A fact she’d remember next time his baby blues struggled to meet hers. It was time to take the upper hand. She was behind on the job. Lucien would check in again soon. If she didn’t get an invite inside the David family estate, she’d have to break in. A worst-case scenario.

Break-ins led to bungles like the disastrous Monet job.

That epic fail couldn’t be repeated. She needed to do this job right and sweet talk Jack until she located the Van Gogh, which meant she’d have to corner him tomorrow. Not at the diner. She’d already wrecked that plan. This meeting had to appear accidental, and she’d have to go armed with a new backstory.

5

Clementine stretched at the edge of the park, enjoying the more temperate heat. Last night’s rain clung to the grass. Peaty scents suffused the air, the dampness more fresh than muggy. The downpour had cleared out Nebraska’s heatwave. A night of mulling had cleared Clementine’s mind.

In a few short minutes, she would corner Jack on his morning run, where she’d chit-chat and flirt. Since he’d seemed interested when she’d fixed his car, he’d likely reciprocate. She’d then mention her father’s (fake) birthday, along with his (fake) love of Elvis, and lament the fact that she hadn’t organized a gift for him—a photo with a tribute artist, specifically. Jack would hopefully offer himself up, and a date would be set.

A platonic date. A photo date. One she would suggest occurred at his family’s estate.

Boom. Bang. Done.

No sexy handshakes would transpire.

The running trail wound through Wherever Park, crossing the snaking stream and bending around towering trees. Not lone trees. Sparse but clustered, like cliques of close friends. She jogged toward the bridge at a slow pace. If Jack remained punctual, he’d catch up with her in no time and she wouldn’t have to lie by omission to Lucien again.

Last night’s texts had been painful. Telling Lucien she’d made contact with Maxwell-slash-Jack and would see him today had not been lies, per se. She’d simply omitted that Jack knew her real name and wasn’t aware of their impending not-a-date date. Thankfully, all omissions would soon be moot. She would be one step closer to that Van Gogh.

She jogged leisurely, confident in her scheme. Squirrels nattered and birds chirped. The fresh air swelled in her chest until a high-pitched yell snagged her attention. A curly-haired woman, who looked like coffee-serving Imelda, was walking four dogs. She yanked on one leash and called the Doberman a few colorful names. She switched languages three times.

Clementine eyed the bridge she’d crossed. Jack still hadn’t appeared. Needing to stall for time, she enjoyed Imelda’s amusing interaction. As much as Clementine loved animals, she’d take her bearded dragon over a cat or dog any day. No walks needed. No yard to clean. She also loved watching Graveyard Carz while feeding Lucy crickets.

Imelda noticed Clementine and waved. “Brutus thinks he’s a duck. He’d live in the pond if I let him.”