Page 17 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

That left Jack twelve days to solve his research obstacle, so they could quit lying, and his father could attend the festival. Watch his son perform one last time before he died. All solid reasons to avoid Clementine, but his mind was thirteen hours ahead, to them at his home, wondering what she’d think of him in his Elvis attire.

6

Clementine neared the Whatnot Diner ten minutes early. She planned to use the seconds to gather herself, because she needed gathering. Her plan had worked. Jack had offered his help and his time. She should be ecstatic, ready to sleuth out the Van Gogh’s location. Instead she kept reliving the jogging trail, her hand fitted into Jack’s as their bizarre similarity had pretzeled her insides.

Ricky and Lucy. Matching bearded dragons.

Her pulse still trilled at the impossibility.

She needed to pause and ready herself to see Jack again, but he was early, too, leaning on a Tesla Model S. Not the vehicle she’d expect from an Elvis impersonator. Although impressive, the Tesla held no nostalgia. That baby was all innovation. Electric. Cutting edge, with its dual motor and ludicrous acceleration from 0 to 100 in less than three seconds.

Sexy in its own way, as was its owner.

Bathed in the diner’s lights, Jack’s slacks and dress shirt looked slightly creased, like he’d come from work. His hair was also disheveled, the effect torquing her belly. Focus, Clementine. Remember why you’re here. Remember the kids.

Nisha had been her favorite at the Delhi orphanage. All big brown eyes and lanky limbs, she’d avoided Clementine and had hidden most of that afternoon. Until Clementine had offered her a slice of persimmon. She’d snatched the ripe fruit, the movement incredibly quick. Not too fast to miss the burns on her arms, the slashing scars. Nisha had wedged herself into a corner, smaller than small, and had eaten like she’d never see food again.

That image: a child as feral as a wild dog—distrustful, hungry, hurt—haunted Clementine to this day. It brought back memories of her time on the streets. More reason not to let an unexplainable coincidence and a provocative man derail her work.

She rolled down her window. “Hey there, stranger.”

Jack tucked his chin, sending a few dark strands tumbling over his forehead. “We’re not strangers. We’ve met. Three times, in fact. I know both your names.”

He hadn’t scratched the surface of her names. “Good point.” She glanced around, playing dumb. “Where’s this tribute artist?”

She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t admitted to his hobby upfront, but wasn’t in a position to call him on it.

“You’ll need to follow me. To my place. Which is…” He winced, his focus cementing to the pavement between them. “That sounded forward, and possibly unsafe, seeing as we don’t know each other that well. But I can help with your father’s gift, just not here, and—”

“Jack.”

He glanced up sharply, the tilt of his posture slightly bowed.

Shy Jack had returned, and her resolve wavered.

She’d hooked up with cocky men in the past, could forget herself in the face of their aloof vanity. Jack’s reticence was a different beast. He’d been sweetly sincere on the highway, awkward in the diner, curt then irresistible on their run, always with those flitting blue eyes. She couldn’t quite decipher him, but she wanted to unlock his secrets, offer him a wedge of persimmon to tease the real Jack out.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“Lead the way,” she said, hoping he’d take her to his family’s estate and hurry her reconnaissance along. More time with Shy Jack was liable to wreck her transmission, lead to grinding and other unpredictable noises. There would be no grinding with Jack.

He led her out of town, along a windy stretch of road, toward his home, not his parents’ estate. An unfortunate turn of events, but the modern architecture, lit by exterior floodlights, stole her breath. The sleek angles and dark-stained wood panels stretched toward surrounding trees, as though merging with their environment.

She parked and texted Lucien quickly, letting him know she was at Jack’s home. Not the home she needed to access, but it was a step closer. She was earning Jack’s trust. Lucien would be pleased.

Once inside, her jaw dropped. Massive glass walls brought the exterior in, tall ceilings adding breadth to the sprawling space. The open kitchen/living space shone in tones of stainless steel and chocolate. Indoor plants added a ripe lushness.

She felt underdressed in her jeans and too-girly peach T-shirt.

“It’s quite the shack you’ve got here,” she said, a bite to her tone. She understood basic desires, the wanting of things, but so much of this money could have helped the needy.

Jack shifted on his feet. “I love architecture.”

He didn’t expand on this interest or show off his wealth.

Shy. Shy. Shy.

“Yeah, well, it’s certainly quaint.” Sarcasm helped her remember why she was there, and how recklessly he’d spent his millions. Fancy electric car. (That helped save the environment.) Expansive home. (That celebrated ingenuity and style.)