Hard Target (7 page)

Slowly, Simon brought the album to his side and let it drop to the floor. “Bring some money. I’m hungry.”

He went for the door, scooping up his shirt and shoes on the way past his bag. Outside, he snatched his glasses from his face and dropped his shoes to the stoop. He stomped his feet into them. Shirt pulled over his head, he slipped his glasses into the pocket and took four angry steps down the stairs before he realized a man leaned against the lamp post across the street.

Gibbons
…

Simon stilled to mask the adrenaline shot accompanying the recognition. He hadn’t spoken with Alex yet, and had no idea what to say. A black sedan pulled up to the curb. The locks disengaged. Gibbons crossed the street and entered the vehicle from the opposite side. Without glancing over his shoulder to see if Alex observed, Simon opened the car door and climbed in. A driver big enough to put an all-you-can-eat buffet out of business in one visit took up most of the front bench seat by himself.

“I was beginning to get concerned.” Gibbons opened their parley.

Simon pretended boredom. “What was so important you needed to ruin my first piece of ass in a month?”

“I told you I’d be in touch.” Gibbons licked thick lips. Round glasses emphasized his too-round face. “My boss wants that passport.”

“And I want a pony for Christmas. I told you last night the place was hot. I had to destroy the packet.” Simon made a show of looking behind him as if assessing whether they’d been followed as the vehicle pulled away. “Ever ignore my signal again and we’re through. I don’t relish another stint in the joint with guys like you.”

Gibbons followed Simon’s glance, his sausage-like fingers going automatically to the door to engage the locks. “This isn’t good. I needed that passport.”

The
ka-chunk
of the mechanism closing Simon in registered at the same time he caught the bulge of a gun under Gibbons’ jacket. “What did you think would happen when you insisted on such a quick turnaround?”

Raking his hand through oily hair, Gibbons breathed deep. “Well, we’re in the thick of it now. Might as well go forward.”

“What are you planning?”

The driver brought the sedan around the opposite block. Simon pretended not to notice Alex rushing down her street searching this way and that.

“There’s a painting at the MoMA. We want you to switch out its frame.” Gibbons’ too-long fingernails, ridged and curling, waved in front of his face. They reminded Simon of an evil troll he’d once seen in an illustrated copy of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
. “For now, focus on casing the museum, do what you have to for prep work, then we’ll be in touch.”

Simon tried not to blanch. If stealing a painting was difficult, taking it off a wall and fucking with it before putting it back had to be worse. “Which painting?”

“It’s a Picasso on loan to the museum. An earlier work. I’ll text you a photo.”

“Kind of risky using me, don’t you think?” At Gibbons’ glare Simon explained. “I’ve done a little B&E, but that’s not really my specialty.”

“I don’t care. You know security systems. That’s enough.” Gibbons waved his hand again. “Frankie, pull over here.”

Simon paused, hand on the door lever. “I assume there’s something special about the new frame?”

“You mind your own business.” Gibbons’ gaze narrowed and Simon noticed he’d finally gotten his brows trimmed. Probably the barber had to use a broom and dustpan to clean up. Poor schmuck.

“You involved me.” Simon pushed on principle though he knew it’d gain him nothing. Give Gibbons an inch and the man would feed him his own balls with a side of tartar sauce. “You made it my business.”

“Don’t make a move without talking to me first. I’ll call about getting you the new frame.” Gibbons’ hand slid inside his jacket to rest on the butt of his gun.

“Anything you say. You’re the boss.” Simon didn’t put an ounce of conviction into the statement. He pushed some more. “Do you have any special plans I need to know about? Like prep work for concealing a listening device?”

Frustration turned Gibbons a nasty shade of puce. Simon bet the guy’d be sucking on an oxygen can before fifty. “No listening device! It’s just a fucking hollow frame.”

Aha
…
a hollow frame.
Well, it was more information than they’d started with.

Simon spotted Alex as she rounded the corner. Hesitating, she noticed the car then backpedaled and turned pointedly in the opposite direction. Good instincts considering she couldn’t have seen through the tinted windows. Still, the make and model of the car smacked of Mafia. Or worse.

“We all set?” Simon asked. Judging by Gibbons’ sight line he hadn’t detected Alex’s presence.

“You have a week to research,” Gibbons said. “And don’t let the girl get in the way.”

Good thing he’d have the entirety of the FBI at his disposal because even he wasn’t that good. “Sure, Max.”

Simon closed the door and set off at a slow jog, trying to move fast and appear casual at the same time. Alex waited around the corner. Without stopping to speak, he grabbed her hand and tugged her into an all-out run.

“Where are we—”

“Just run,” he said.

They reached her apartment.

“Stay.” He planted her on her stoop and tore toward the street where he’d left Gibbons. Reaching the halfway point, he pivoted and ambled back toward Alex. Hands jammed in his pockets, he pretended not to notice when Gibbons’ sedan rolled slowly toward him from the opposite direction.

As he reached her, Alex went down several steps and Simon up. They met in the middle. Judging by the set of her jaw and flat line of her mouth, she planned to say something biting. Not giving her the opportunity, he placed both hands on her hips and jerked her close.

“Shut up,” he said. “And kiss me.”

“Why—”

Simon’s lips covered hers and her protest scattered like torn pages from the loose-leafed notebook of her mind. His tongue swept into her mouth. The band of his arm tightened around her waist, drawing her up the front of his body until her toes barely touched the ground. No romantic reunion gesture, his kiss demanded she open herself to an erotic strip search of her body, mind and soul.

The taste of fennel toothpaste, the spicy scent of his shampoo, and a day’s worth of razor stubble rasping against her upper lip forged a battering ram to her senses until no one and nothing existed outside Simon Jakes. Teasing and tempting, he toyed with her tongue and lips, alternately nipping, plunging and sucking. Alex mewled into his mouth. Her wordless plea accompanied the winding of her arms around his neck. In answer he cupped her bottom and pulled her upward along his very hard, very ready shaft. He groaned. Breaking their kiss in a bid for air, she barely registered the peal of tires against pavement. Her feet abruptly hit the ground. The hard connection of her ass with the stoop followed. She blinked up at a red-faced Simon staring off into the distance.

“He’s gone.” Simon raked a hand through his already mussed hair. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

She stared at him, dumfounded. What the hell just happened? And why didn’t he still seem nearly as affected by it as she? For heaven sakes, her nipples were trying to bore twin holes through her lace demi and he talked about breakfast? Simon held out his palm and she grasped it. Trills of electricity tingled along her arm as he tugged her to her feet. She stumbled a little, one hand meeting his chest on reflex. She licked her lips. His gaze flicked to her mouth before he stepped away.

She cleared her throat and followed him down the steps. “What was that all about?”

“All what?” Without looking at her, he threaded his fingers with hers as they crossed the street.

“
All
what?
” Though she didn’t intend to holler the parroted question, it came out as a breathy shout nonetheless. She tried to snatch her hand away, but he held on tight. Of all the times for her palm to have a direct link to more intimate nerve endings.

“Let’s wait until we’re eating.”

“Now just a minute!” Who was handling whom in this scenario anyway?

Strides increasing in length, Simon walked toward where their favorite diner had once been, and Alex had no choice but to trot along by his side or risk having her arm pulled out of its socket.

“The Golden Chariot closed last year,” she said.

Simon stopped and dropped her hand. “But they had the best Greek omelets in Manhattan.”

“There’s a place near Thirteenth and Sixth that isn’t bad.” Wow. She actually felt bad about giving him the news. He looked so bereft.

Brow furrowed, he stared down Seventh longingly. “It’s really closed?”

“Yeah.” The Golden Chariot had been their special Sunday place. Sadness tightened her midsection when she remembered him feeding her a bite of strawberries from his waffle. He’d licked his thumb after it touched her lips. They always sat on the same side of the booth together. She’d worn a short skirt that day. Alex closed her eyes against the urge to clench her thighs together at the memory of what came after. Namely her. In the corner of a restaurant booth in the middle of Manhattan.

“Then let’s go to Lenny and Stew’s.” Turning on his heel, Simon headed in the opposite direction on Seventh. “They serve breakfast all day too.”

“What is it with you and breakfast?” She trotted to catch up with him.

He gave a careless shrug. “I just woke up. I want pancakes.”

“I’d forgotten how weird you are.” What she wanted to say was
eccentric
and
wonderful
. Like a kid on Christmas morning. Except every day. But she kept those thoughts to herself and deliberately lagged behind. When he either didn’t notice or didn’t care, she used the distance to watch the length of his stride and the movement of his ass beneath denim worn white with age. Unless she was mistaken, those were the same blue jeans she’d insisted he buy over six and a half years ago.

You can’t wear khakis every day of your life
she’d said, when secretly she only wanted to see his ass suction cupped in a pair of 501s. And it was a very nice ass indeed. Everything about Simon screamed sex appeal, but before he’d met her he’d hidden all that delicious muscle under turtlenecks and thick cardigans with those soft elbow patches. While tweed jackets still occasionally made an appearance, now he mostly wore striped oxford shirts, henleys and polo-style pullovers.

Today’s choice, a soft green tee, clung in all the right places. And to think, all it took to change his style were a few well-timed dressing room blowjobs. Alex grinned and wondered what it’d take to get him to buy a few new pairs of jeans. She increased her pace. “When’s the last time you went clothes shopping?”

Simon stopped in the middle of the crosswalk and stared at her. A car honked and swerved around them. “Don’t you think that’s taking the
handler
title a little too far?”

“I—” Crossing the street, she shot ahead of him so he wouldn’t see her lie. “You have a small hole in your back pocket. From your wallet.”

He caught up at the door and let her duck under his arm. “That hole isn’t
from
my wallet. It
is
my wallet.”

The statement sent a shot of guilt across the starboard bow of her conscience. “Breakfast is on me.”

“Not going to expense it?” A black sign with white plastic lettering said
Seat Yourself
and he led her to a high-backed, red vinyl booth. “I’m sure the FBI can afford my appetite.”

“Speaking of appetites…” The waiter approached and she trailed off. When the man left, Alex folded her hands on the table. “What was that back at my place?”

“Which
that
are you referring to?” Simon used the edge of his shirt to polish his glasses. “I’m remembering several events in need of a searchlight and a depth charge.”

He would
not
make a joke of this. She had a job to do and she was going to do it. The waiter approached again with their beverages. Alex fumed until he left.

“Fun time is over, Simon.” She leaned forward to issue her threat in a harsh whisper. “Answer the question, or I swear I’ll cuff you to my wrist for the duration of the op.”

One brow raised, he didn’t smile. “If I’d known you’d developed such exotic tastes I would’ve insisted on bringing my paddle collection. You could use a good spanking.”

She shifted in her seat as she flashed on an erotic interlude involving all sorts of objects she’d never considered in conjunction with this man. Maybe she’d missed something in the time they’d been dating?

His lips quirked. “My. Someone has a kinky side.”

“Answer. The. Question.” She issued the command through clenched teeth.

“No.” Eyes dipping to her breasts, lids lowered, he taunted her in a whisper. “I don’t have a paddle collection.”

He thought he knew exactly how close to the edge he could push her before she broke. Well, newsflash, she’d reached her breaking point.

“Simon…” She growled his name.

He leisurely stirred cream and a mound of sugar into his tea before taking long minutes to study some text messages on his phone.