Page 83 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Beaming like she had her first Halloween with Lucien, before she’d puked on his floor from eating all her candy in one sitting, she continued on her way. Marvin—Jack’s gardener and the keeper of his shelter—patted her shoulder as she passed. The town’s Elvis festival liaison, Jasmine, stopped her when she finally reached the bar.

“Sorry the judging didn’t work out,” Jasmine said. “But I hear you’ll be staying in Whichway. Call me for a coffee sometime.”

Jasmine hurried off to meet friends, and Clementine gawked at…everything.

Somehow she’d fallen madly in love. She’d met friends, with more of them on the horizon. She had a reptile shelter to lounge in, a job doing what she loved. She had a cool twelve-year-old girl asking her advice and willing to hang out like sisters. This wasn’t normal. Her new world couldn’t be this nice and welcoming and full of Elvis goodness.

Whichway must truly be a Dr. Seuss creation.

The crowd roared behind her, a familiar voice rumbling through the sound system. Jack. She should be at the front, cheering for her man. Not that she’d minded this jaunt to the bar and chatting with her new friends. All she wanted now was to be closer to Jack.

Plastic cup of beer in hand, she began her march back. No distractions this time. Not when the sexiest Elvis she’d ever seen was strutting his stuff in a bedazzled jumpsuit.

He sang the opening lyrics to “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” and her feet faltered. His voice was velvet. Shivers slipped over her skin. She pictured them in bed this morning, couldn’t believe they had endless mornings and days and nights ahead of them. He was hers. He was too far away, but she couldn’t move. Love. All she could think was love.

I love him so much.

He seduced the audience with his haunting voice and glanced at where she should be standing. He frowned. Just a second, but the reaction hit her in the heart.

She hurried closer, but got caught behind an Everest-sized biker, his tattooed neck the width of her thigh. Grumbling, she maneuvered around him, beer clutched to keep from spilling. She was halfway to her spot, but Jack was halfway through his song, and he kept glancing at Imelda, that frown sinking deeper. Did he think she hadn’t come? That his I love you had scared her off?

She’d really screwed up, not saying it when she’d had the chance. A mistake she could fix right now, because she was drunk on happiness and tipsy on wonderful Whichway. The band quieted, Jack’s voice turning silky as the lyrics transformed into a tender poem, and she whistled on her fingers. Loud. Piercing. Lucien had taught her that move, much to his chagrin.

Jack’s attention snapped her way. He didn’t miss a beat, but his eyes scoured the crowd and found her. His frown spread into a grin.

Her poor little heart hiccupped. Holding her beer to her fluttery chest, she mouthed I love you.

Jack kept singing, eyes on her. She wasn’t sure if he’d read her lips, but his tone turned even silkier, his movements more soulful. She could drown in that voice. She searched for a better path to Imelda, and closer to Jack, her sights skimming over swaying heads. One head caught her eye, something familiar about the bearded man. She squinted, leaned forward…and her knees locked.

She dropped her beer. Someone cursed her. The music and crowd faded into white noise.

Yevgen Liski had never worn a beard, but there was no mistaking the dark slash of the man’s eyebrows, his menacing scowl. He couldn’t be here. Lucien had said the Van Gogh hadn’t flagged attention. He hadn’t reported any concerns, and it wasn’t the sort of heist Yevgen favored. Why the hell was he here?

Her lungs seized, the beer-tinged air solidifying in her chest. She blinked, hoping he was a mirage. When she looked again, he wasn’t there. Gone. Just gone. An apparition? Her happy drunk messing with her mind?

She shoved her hand into her purse, only to remember leaving her cell at home. Shit. She plowed her way to Imelda, praying her friend had a phone. She’d call Lucien. He’d know if this was real or a mirage. She elbowed an older man and cringed, apologizing as she pushed ahead.

She nearly fell into Imelda as she grasped her arm. “Do you have your phone?”

Imelda’s attention was fastened on stage, on Jack, who’d just finished his first number. “I do.”

“I need to borrow it.”

“Gotta cheer for your man first.”

Clementine couldn’t look at him, not if Yevgen was here. Not if she’d brought that dangerous criminal to his town. “I can’t wait. It’s an emergency. A work thing in New York.”

Imelda fished her cell from her purse and gave Clementine a pointed stare. “You city folk need to learn to turn off.”

That was the problem. Clementine had shut off, way before tonight. Her brain had switched to standby on her drive from New York and the whole extended route here. It had fried when shaking sweaty hands with a handsome man on the side of the road. It had floated away when Jack had confessed his love. Now Yevgen could be in town.

Jack’s next song began, more fun and upbeat: “Burning Love.”

She scanned the crowd, didn’t see Yevgen anywhere. She speed-walked to the arena’s edge as Jack’s powerful voice chased her heels. Please tell me I was seeing things. She dialed Lucien’s number and waited. He didn’t pick up. She sent a quick text, but no reply came. His phone could be dead. Or he could be out. He had no “partner” to keep track of any longer and this wasn’t a recognizable number, because she’d thought disconnecting from her life would be smart. Dumbest con-woman alive.

She scanned the dimly lit arena again. Nothing. She clicked on the phone’s internet icon. If the number was the issue, Lucien would at least answer an email from her account. She would take a breath afterward, figure out what to do. Tell Jack first thing. Make sure the estate used its alarms. She’d get rid of the Van Gogh and the temptation it held. Yes. They could secure his family, ensure nothing went wrong.

That the Monet Disaster didn’t repeat.