Confidence Tricks (9 page)

The elevator was out of the question for obvious, claustrophobic reasons, so Poppy was forced to take the stairs to their floor. Thirty flights in and she was about ready to chuck the shoes all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell. Yet another reason why rich people sucked—if they hated small spaces, they’d pay a therapist to talk their problems away. Poppy’s people walked instead. At least the calf workout was nice.

She paused for a few seconds once she reached the correct door, straightening her skirt and underwear, which had both ridden to unfathomable heights during her ascent.

The floor she stepped out onto wasn’t in any way remarkable, at least not as far as upscale downtown Seattle business real estate went. It was all glass surfaces and sparkling stainless steel, which extended about a hundred feet in the distance, where rows of individual offices fit together like pieces of a Tetris game. Each individual office was walled in with glass, giving the place an eerily fish-tank-like atmosphere.

“Can I help you?” a cheerful woman chirped from behind the reception counter. She looked a bit like Poppy’s version of Natalie, except this woman’s hair was a more natural shade of blonde, and her well-tailored suit looked infinitely more comfortable than Natalie’s Spanx-lined monstrosities.

“I’m not sure,” Poppy said truthfully. “What can you tell me about this place?”

The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, but she was much too professional to toss Poppy out on her rear. “We-ell, I guess that depends on what you want to know. We’re an insurance firm dealing mostly in art and jewelry, with some high-end furniture and heirlooms passing through. We also do valuations and appraisals—usually for the items we insure, but also for private clients. Did you have something you wanted appraised?”

“You mean…like a really old, ugly yellow chair or something?”

The woman’s eyebrows flew that time, and she reached for her phone. “Do you
have
a really old, ugly yellow chair?”

Her hand stayed in place on the receiver as she waited for Poppy’s answer. Poppy was dying to know who she’d call—if maybe Graff was on site and required immediate notification of any and all hideous pieces of furniture for acquisition, or if it was some kind of code word that would get her into the elite back offices—but she wasn’t quite prepared to put that particular question to the test.

“Not on me,” Poppy joked. “I actually work upstairs. I’ve always been curious about this place, so I thought I’d stop by. Oh, I’m sorry—I’m being so rude. The name is Veronica. Veronica Maxwell. It’s lovely to meet you.”

She extended a hand. The receptionist gave it a wary glance before accepting it.

“You know, now that I think about it, I
do
have some family jewelry that might be worth looking at. If I wanted to make an appointment, who would I be seeing?”

The receptionist handed her a card. “Matthew Gibbons is our client services specialist. All initial consultations go through him. I’d be happy to set up a time for you to chat.”

“Gibbons, Gibbons…” Poppy pretended to think. “I thought the company was run by the current generation of the Charles family?”

“It is,” a voice said smoothly at her back. “But then, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

She turned slowly, knowing full well that when she finally reached the other side, she’d be face to face with her favorite Charles sibling.

Asprey was, as she suspected, standing behind her. What she didn’t expect was the three-piece suit, his signature vest this time layered under a tailored black jacket, a vibrant blue tie the exact color of his eyes knotted around his neck.

“What a surprise to see you here,” he said, meeting her eyes with a challenge. “I expected you next week at the earliest.”

She was betrayed into a laugh. “What can I say? I like to keep a man on his toes. I hope you aren’t disappointed.”

His eyes deepened in color. “How could I be, seeing you?”

Poppy found it suddenly difficult to breathe. She would have liked to blame the sensation on a delayed reaction to the stairs but suspected it had more to do with how good Asprey looked in that suit, the close-fitting cut accenting the strong shoulders and lean build she never knew she found attractive in a man.

She flashed him a dazzling smile, doing her best not to let the intensity of his gaze melt her into a puddle. “Does this mean you’ll give me the grand tour?”

“It means I’ll give you anything you ask.” He turned to the front desk. “It’s okay. We go way back. I’ll take Ms., ah…”

“Maxwell?” the receptionist asked with the kind of smirk that made Poppy wonder if she wasn’t the first woman Asprey was on intimate terms with whose last name he didn’t supposedly know. “Veronica Maxwell?”

His eyes flashed, humor and something more. She knew what he was thinking: yet another fake name, another lie to sort through. Between them, they had a dazzling array of falsehoods, all laid out like a street vendor and his glittering Rolexes. “Yes. I’ll show Veronica around.”

“Do you want me to tell your brother that you’re in?”

“No.” As if realizing how sharp he sounded, Asprey smiled and moderated his tone. “I’ll check in with Winston later.”

Not Graff—the other one. The one I’m not supposed to know about.
Poppy allowed herself to be led away from the receptionist’s desk, but only because Asprey’s hand fell firmly to the small of her back as they walked.

That part of her was what she and Bea had once coined the x-spot, that one location on a woman’s body where all bets were off. It was different on everyone. For Bea, it only took a kiss planted on the soft spot inside her elbow. For Poppy, it was a palm flat against the lowest part of her back. The second a hand landed there, she had a hard time moving her legs anywhere but apart.

And his hand is still there.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or do you want me to start guessing?” he asked congenially, moving her past the fishbowls toward the back of the building. People answered phones and looked busy in that general, office-like sort of way, but they were little more than a blur in her periphery.
Fingers, palm, thumb.
She barely noticed anything but the pressure of Asprey’s hand.

“I’ve got some theories, if you’d like to hear them,” he added.

She couldn’t resist. “I came all this way. I might as well.”

“Let me see... You’re attempting to plant a pint of strawberries in my office desk hoping I’ll cave to an untimely death?”

“Would that work?”

“Probably not.” He flashed her a brief smile. “My hours here tend to be erratic at best—not nearly enough exposure to the allergens to do any lasting damage. This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not much for punching a clock. I prefer to set my own hours.”

“Imagine that,” she murmured.

They stopped in front of a frosted-glass door, the kind with the vertical wobbly lines that looked like they belonged in a detective movie. Asprey’s hand finally lifted away from her back as he reached for the door.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“Well, if it’s not strawberries, then you’ve either taken up a recent interest in estate appraisals, or you Googled us.”

She couldn’t help a laugh from escaping as he ushered her into the room. “Can you blame me? I had no idea I was taking up with such a famous family—did you really get to meet the President when he came here for that college graduation speech?”

“That was a long time ago.” He frowned. “I was just a kid.”

Not his favorite subject, then. Noted and stored. “Besides,” she added, brightly this time, striving to give nothing away, “I wanted to see for myself what kind of digs you hail from.”

“These kind of digs.” He gestured widely. “Feel free to contain your excitement. I know I do.”

She glanced around, following the path of his arm. Containing her excitement wasn’t difficult—like the rest of the floor, it was all chrome and glass, very little to interest the eye or break up the monotony. At least there were nice, big windows overlooking the cityscape. The natural light did wonders for her anxiety at being trapped indoors. “I thought you guys appraised art.”

He bowed slightly. “Among other things.”

“Then why don’t you have any hanging on the walls?”

Asprey pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit. “Winston—our oldest brother, who I’m sure you looked up online—redid the offices when he took over the company about ten years ago. He likes the modern look. Says it gives us a competitive edge in the insurance business.”

She sat directly on the desk, unwilling to continue doing his bidding now that the Hand of Persuasion had been removed. It proved tricky, swinging her body up there with the skin-tight pencil skirt and jacket holding all her parts confined, but it took Asprey a full twenty seconds to remove his gaze from her crossed legs, so she counted it as a success.

Well, a semi-success. Between the skirt and her own carefully angled limbs and that damn three-piece suit he wore, there was a whole lot of pressure building up downstairs. She shifted slightly. Best to keep her thoughts above the waist for now.

“So, have you found what you’re looking for?” Asprey asked, drawing closer. He was making it very difficult to keep
anything
above the waist. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t trust me, coming here like this.”

“Oh, I trust you,” she said coolly, “as much as I trust any man who looks better in a pair of pants than I do.”

“And I trust you,” he replied, taking another step toward her, “as much as I trust any woman who pays that much attention to my pants.”

She let out a soft laugh, but the sound was cut short when Asprey’s hands came down on either side of her legs, bracing against the desk and almost embracing her. Whose bright idea had it been to start talking about pants? Her gaze slipped down, almost of its own accord, and when she brought her eyes back up, Asprey captured her mouth with his.

There were some things a woman could anticipate about a man just by looking at him—how soft his lips might feel on hers, how expertly he might deepen a kiss before she had a chance to draw away. But nothing could have prepared her for the
intensity
of it. This man might play at being a thief, and he might wear the pretty-boy stamp with pride, but with a kiss like that, Poppy didn’t dare to doubt his virility. Or his ability to use that virility to achieve his own ends.

It was that good.

She scooted closer to the edge of the desk, suddenly filled with the need to feel more than just Asprey’s mouth against her, but he chose that moment to pull away, clearly in total control of the moment.

“What was that for?” she asked, breathless but compelled to fill the intimate silence that lingered between them. “Are you trying to distract me from the fact that you and your brother and sister are millionaire art thieves?”

“No.” He flashed his teeth, fully aware of his charm and its effect on her. “I did it because you were checking out my inseam.”

She let out a sound—half snort, all laugh. “If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t get involved when I’m on the job. I don’t care how good you look in a tie. If this is going to work between us, the focus has to be on Todd and whatever racket it is you guys are running here. No funny business. No kissing. No…”

His hand moved up to straighten his tie, and she could have sworn he was preening for her. “You like my pants
and
my neckwear? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re the one trying to distract me.”

“No such thing. My life is an open book.”

“Bound in human skin, maybe. And I’d hardly call failing to mention you’re a con woman with a criminal record ‘open’.”

The room spun, taking her with it. She slid down from the desk, her feet hitting the ground, heels wobbling, legs not far behind. “So you know about that too?”

“I’m also quite adept at Googling things.” His lips turned up at the corners in a half grin. “Well, that’s not quite true. Tiffany may have had to, ah, secretly access some county files. But the impetus is the same. You don’t trust us.”

“Of course I don’t,” she said sullenly. She shouldn’t have been surprised to have her secrets unraveled so quickly. It wasn’t like it would even take that much digging—public records were public on purpose. But for some reason, it had been nice showing Asprey a clean slate, as though she wasn’t just some two-bit, trailer-trash, blue-collar-criminal. “I guess this means our arrangement is off? Having an ex-felon on your hands is probably a bit much for a pair of fancy boys like you.”

He leaned in, and for a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her again. She didn’t lean into it, thank goodness, but neither did she pull back.

She needed to work on pulling back.

“As far as I can tell, Poppy Winifred Donovan.” Her name rolled intimately off his lips. “The only difference between me and you is that I haven’t been caught yet.”

Odd how one sentence—kindly worded—could pull her heart up into her throat like that.

“The name suits you, by the way.”

“It does not. I was named Poppy because my mom watched
The Wizard of Oz
the day I was born. Believe me—it could have been worse. If I’d been a boy, I would have been named Tin Man.”