Page 88 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Jack was hurting.

“I’m so sorry,” was all she managed, repeating her platitudes.

She pushed the phone at Imelda and tore off. No time for explanations or goodbyes. She knew the shiny, legendary score Yevgen was after: Elvis’s last known signed gold record. He always went for the notorious scores, heists that would land him in the news, increase the risk. And the record was at the estate. Jack’s parents were in trouble, their night nurse as well. Colonel Blue. And…oh shit, Chloe. What if she went home early?

Clementine busted out of the exit, gravel flying under her sandals as she ran. She slammed her car door and pushed her Prius to its max. Go, go, go. She still had her knife under the floor mat, thank God. It would have to do. If Yevgen hurt anyone, even one hair on that old dog, she’d gut him. She wouldn’t think twice about it…she hoped. She’d never harmed anyone during her heists. A tranquilizer here or there to temporarily disable pets, but nothing damaging.

Could she come through when it counted?

She flattened the pedal to the floor, hoping the cops found her and gave chase. She’d lead them to the estate happily. The sun was beginning to set, the sky still incredibly blue. A blinding shock of perfection against the ugliness swimming through her mind. Her car skidded briefly, sending her pulse into overdrive. The damn thing vibrated as she booked it.

It didn’t feel safe. Nothing felt safe.

A mile from the estate’s long drive, a car approached. It slowed down, but she sped along. Too fast. She knew she was driving too fast. An animal darted, small and furry—a squirrel crossing the road. She braked and her tires bit into the gravel. She fishtailed. A horn blared as she braced for impact, but somehow skidded to a stop.

Her hands shook on the steering wheel, her breath rattling in her chest. So close. She’d almost caused an accident. She clutched her necklace, only to remember she hadn’t returned it to Jack. An unconscious plea for their romance not to end? It was time she stopped believing in fairy-tales. She’d have to leave it for him at the house.

When the billowing dust cleared and she saw Marco in the car she’d almost smashed, she gasped. His daughters were strapped in the back. She could have hit them. Tears tracked her cheeks, but she didn’t stick around to apologize or fall apart. There was no time.

26

When Chloe was little, Jack and their parents would entertain her with the Statue Game. Chloe had loved calling the shots, but Jack didn’t believe in handing over fake wins. No matter how loud or often she’d yelled red light or green light, she’d rarely caught him moving out of turn.

He felt like he was playing the game now.

He hadn’t budged since Clementine had fled. He stood and stared, one hand still clutching the desk. He wasn’t sure how long had passed. His mind had been stuck in a loop, replaying every detail between them: her confidence at their first meeting, that dusty road kicking up the chemistry between them, her trust when confiding about her past, the lies in between.

She may have seemed shocked when he’d confessed his love, but he was sure she’d mouthed I love you tonight. She’d looked proud and starry-eyed then. A contrast to the woman who’d brushed him off and claimed she couldn’t leave her old life.

Yeah, he’d worried about exactly that, but something didn’t add up. It was all too sudden. Was she just scared to trust?

His phone rang, the shrill sound slicing through his confusion. Hope sparked with it. Maybe she’d changed her mind, realized how wrong she’d been. Marco’s name on the screen sapped his energy.

“What’s up?” Jack couldn’t hide his disappointment.

“Is something wrong at the estate? With your family?”

His knuckles whitened on the desk “Why? Is my father all right?”

“I thought your father was out of town?”

Shit. That stupid lie. He was tired of it, couldn’t think straight enough to keep it up. “He’s here and he’s sick. He’s been here the whole time. Tell me what happened.”

“What do you mean he’s sick?”

Jack speared his hand through his hair. Tried to, at least. His hair gel crunched against his fingers. “We’ll discuss this later. Just tell me why you called.”

“It’s Clementine.”

A boulder lodged in his gut. “Start talking.”

Crying filled the line, one or both of his daughters stretching their vocal cords. Marco groaned. “The girls were fussy and not sleeping, and I thought driving would lull them. So I was out near the estate and a car came barreling down the road, nearly careened into me when it avoided a squirrel. It was Clementine, and she did not look okay.”

“Are you okay? The girls?” What had Clementine been thinking, driving like that? Had she needed to get away from him that desperately?

“Yeah, yeah—we’re fine. But Clementine looked…spooked as all hell. She was crying. Then she took off for the estate.”

The crying comment worsened his turmoil, but the estate? Driving there didn’t make sense, but neither had her sudden shift in behavior. Unless she’d left something at the house when she’d visited, or went to return the necklace he’d given her. Or steal another painting…