Weird Girl (25 page)

“Three hundred thousand,” he said, still bracing himself
against a sudden attack. He actually flinched when she breezed past him and
into the walk-in closet that had once been a spare bedroom. Sliding coats to
one side of a low wall-mounted rod, she dropped to her knees and began turning
the dial of a safe. A few seconds later, she jumped up and dug through a
drawer, pulling out a plain canvas tote bag and then dropping back to the
floor. When she strolled back toward him, she was cheerfully swinging the bag,
gaining enough momentum to toss it at him. He caught it and looked inside.

“Cleo, I don’t need your money. Trust me, I’ve done well for
myself,” he said, throwing it back to her. She didn’t even attempt to catch it,
and it crashed to the floor and spilled stacks of hundred dollar bills all over
her rug. She was grinning like the cat that got the canary and rocking back on
her heels.

“Oh, it’s not my money. It’s hers,” she said cheerfully.

He just stared at her. “Her who?” he asked.

“Virginia Adams,” came the reply. Cleo slid her hands into
the pockets of her jeans and waited for the next question.

“Cleo, how did you get money from Virginia Adams?” he asked.
His voice had a bit of an edge to it now.

“I stole it from the basement, after I took your file,” she
said. “Seriously, there were all these file cabinets, and a bunch of them were
full of stacks of money, so I filled my backpack before letting myself out.”

He was dumbstruck. “Cleo, you’re telling me that you stole
three hundred grand, stuffed it in a backpack, and walked out and nobody
noticed for years?”

“It’s not my fault that nobody noticed. Besides, it was five
hundred, not three,” she said, dropping to the floor to put the money back in
the bag.

His jaw dropped. “You stole
half a million dollars
?
Where in the world did you hide it?”

She shrugged and looked up at him from the floor. “In the
mattress of my bed. I rolled it up in my winter coat when it was time to go
home. So here, pay yourself back with Virginia’s money. I would give you more,
but technically I’m holding the rest in a sort of trust fund for when my friend
Santo gets out of prison.”

Jackson started laughing. He laughed so hard that he was
soon bent at the waist, tears streaming down his face, as he tried to picture
Cleo as a ten-year-old cat burglar, sleeping on half a million dollars. Cleo
waited patiently until he was finished, and then handed him the bag of money.

They went to the kitchen, where Cleo grabbed the bowl of
pineapple chunks from the fridge and hopped up onto the island. She watched as Jackson rolled down his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. Kicking her legs slightly as they dangled
above the floor, she put a pineapple chunk in her mouth with her fingers and
said, “I’m starving.”

Instead of responding, he detoured to the living room and
picked up his suit jacket, draping it over his arm. Next, he put on his hat,
this time a slate blue fedora that brought out his eyes. Quickly swallowing her
fruit, Cleo called out, “Hey, where are you going? I want to eat.”

“Which is why I promised to be back here at noon,” he said,
walking toward her as he put in his jacket. “So that I could take you to lunch.
But now it’s…” he paused to check his watch—“almost five, and I have to go out
of town to handle some business. You’re going to have to be content with
pineapple for now.”

She paused with a piece of pineapple on its way to her
mouth. “You’re leaving?” she said, surprised at how whiny she sounded. To cover
it up, she scowled and added, “Of course you’re leaving. It’s what you’re good
at.”

He smiled and stepped forward until her knees brushed his
abdomen. Reaching for her hand, he pulled it toward him and delicately removed
the chunk of pineapple with his teeth. “You’re coming with me,” he said as he
started to chew. “Go get packed.” Trying not to laugh at the succession of
shock, annoyance, and curiosity that played across her features, he plucked
another piece of fruit from the bowl and bit it as he took two steps back.
“Chop chop. We leave in ten minutes.” Checking his watch once more, he amended
that. “Actually, you now have seven minutes to get packed and meet me at the
front door, or I’ll have to leave without you. I’m not sure you can do it.”

The last line goaded her into action. She had been planning
to toss her head and frown and insist that her schedule was far too busy for
last minute trips, but they both knew that she had nothing to do. As annoyed as
she was at him just deciding what she would do and where she would go, she
wasn’t ready to be rid of him yet. And, she was dying of curiosity, which in
her world, was the best way to be.

Taking his challenge seriously, even though he wouldn’t have
left without her anyway, Cleo hurried to her closet. Jackson followed at a
leisurely pace and casually leaned in the doorway of her bedroom, his eyes
dancing as she cussed out the zipper of her suitcase for not opening smoothly
enough. “Pack something nice,” he called out. “A dress.”

She looked down at the little black dress that was currently
the only item of clothing in her suitcase. Just to be contrary, she yanked it
out and threw it over her shoulder, replacing it with her rattiest jeans. To
that, she added two pairs of sweat shorts, a handful of t-shirts, and a pair of
orange high top sneakers. She did drop in her makeup bag and a toothbrush, as
well as some shampoo and conditioner. On top of it all, she placed the
monogrammed robe that had been Santo’s. Zipping the case, she popped out the
handle and rolled it to where Jackson was lounging in the doorway. Reaching for
his left wrist, she tugged up his sleeve and peeked at his watch. “Looks like
I’ve got forty seconds to spare,” she said. “So, where are we going?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” he said as he took the suitcase
from her and rolled it to the front door. With his free hand, he removed his
cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. “We’re good to go. Meet us in
five.”

Cleo was indignant. “What do you mean, you’re not going to
tell me? Why can’t you tell me?” Then she tried sarcasm. “Ooh, is it super
secret? What—do you not trust me? Wait, you’re taking me somewhere to murder
me.”

He held up a hand to stop her. “Oh, I could tell you. But
I’m choosing not to. Let’s just say that I like the idea of making you wonder,”
he said.

Depressingly, she liked it, too. Not wanting to give ground,
she decided to give him the silent treatment until he caved. Unfortunately, Jackson
was a very patient man. And he seemed to know Cleo better than she thought. She
ignored him with all of her might in the car. When they pulled up at an
airstrip beside a small jet, she lifted her chin and pretended he wasn’t there.
When she was settled in a plush gray leather seat in the cabin, a glass of
champagne in her hand and a cashmere throw across her knees, she ignored Jackson with the power of ten, waiting for him to beg for her attention.

Instead, he ignored her right back, although she couldn’t get
rid of the feeling that he watched her when her gaze was focused out the
window. As soon as she would look at him, he would be intently reading a
newspaper, or conversing with a uniformed staff member, or napping, his fedora
tilted down over his eyes. It drove her crazy.

32

“Wake up, Cleopatra.” She opened one eye and growled, “My
name’s not fucking Cleopatra. Stop calling me that.” Jackson grinned, very
annoyingly, and poked her in the arm. “Come on. We’re here,” he said, before
turning to exit the plane. He didn’t even wait for her.

Grumbling to herself, Cleo stood up and stretched, letting
the cashmere blanket fall to the floor. Looking around, she realized that she
was alone in the jet. Even the pilots seemed to have vamoosed already. Realizing
that she had absolutely no idea what time it was, or even if it was the same
day, she put on her shoes and yawned as she looked around the cabin for her
hat. Once she had located it, Cleo made her way to the open door and down the
steep mobile staircase to the tarmac. Which was actually a narrow strip of
asphalt with jungle on both sides—a completely unexpected scene. The pre-dawn
glow outlined a gray Range Rover that sat idling nearby. Jackson was already
inside.  

Sliding into the backseat beside him, Cleo tried her best to
maintain a certain radius of personal space, which was difficult once the car
began bouncing over roots and ruts that put Santo’s driveway to shame. She
almost ended up in Jackson’s lap at least twice, and although he made no
comment, she could have sworn that his mouth twitched like he was trying not to
laugh. Finally adjusting to the uneven terrain, Cleo continued ignoring him,
instead looking out the window to try to figure out where they were. By the
time the car slowed at a vine-covered gate, she was bursting with so many
questions, it was killing her. It killed her even more to realize that Jackson
was better at this game than she was.

The driver spoke to someone via an intercom partially hidden
by vines, and the gate slowly swung open to allow them in. Here, there were no
ruts. The drive was paved with perfectly level slabs of stone, with beautifully
landscaped gardens on either side that practically vibrated with the joy of
sunrise. The mansion that it led to was massive, even to a girl who had grown
up in a dinosaur of a house. Before she even had a chance to open the door, a
man had already rushed to do it for her, his tanned skin and black hair in
stark contrast to the snowy white shirt and pants he was wearing. He took
Cleo’s hand and helped her out of the vehicle. Jackson got out on the other
side and came around behind the car, rebuttoning his jacket in the process. He
smiled and greeted the man in Spanish, and the two wandered off to continue
their conversation, leaving Cleo alone on the steps.

“Jackass,” she muttered, putting her hands on her hips and
looking around. Well, if he wasn’t going to play host, then she would just
explore the house on her own. First, she wanted to figure out where the hell
she was. The easiest way to do that would be to ask someone, so she went in
search of a tour guide. Half an hour later, all that she knew was that the
staff were either unable to understand any English whatsoever, or they had been
instructed not to talk to her. There was definitely a language barrier—she knew
Spanish when she heard it, although she had never learned to speak the
language, but that didn’t explain why everyone just smiled and nodded at
anything she said. Anytime she tried to poke her head into a room to take a
look around, a staff member was right there, nodding and smiling and throwing
her off her game.

So, she decided to wander outside. The place was
gorgeous—lots of green and vibrant color, interspersed with stone walkways that
led past beautifully chiseled benches and fountains. She plucked a pale yellow
blossom from a bush and tucked it behind her ear, inhaling the mélange of fragrances
around her. It was warmer than it had been in San Francisco, despite the fact
that it was December, and she found it relaxing to meander through the gardens
and peek into the greenhouse that she discovered behind the main dwelling. It
reminded her of home, when she was little. In fact, there was something about
this place that triggered bells in the back of her brain, but she couldn’t
quite put her finger on it yet.

She was watching fish swim in an oblong pool when Jackson suddenly appeared at her elbow. They stood together in silence for quite a while,
listening to the gurgling of the water and the occasional slap of a fish tail
on the surface. Finally, he looked at her and said, “Are you ready to go in?”
Turning toward the house, he offered his arm in a gentlemanly way and escorted
her through a glass-enclosed conservatory to the living area. A short man
walked toward them quickly, smiling and holding out his hand toward a large,
gently curved staircase. “I’ll show you to your room, now,” he said cheerfully,
causing Cleo to look at him sharply. “No hablo ingles, my ass,” she muttered,
before becoming distracted by the question of whether or not her room was also
Jackson’s room, and how she felt about either option.

***

Her room was a large, open space with a seating area near a
large fireplace to the left, and a king size bed against the wall to the far
right. French doors led to a balcony that overlooked the garden, and a huge
bathroom held both a Jacuzzi tub and a shower with body jets. The suite was a
riot of colors—reds and yellows and blues. The bed linens were brightly
patterned in turquoise and green. The floor was all stone tile, with a few
plush accent rugs at the seating area and beside the bed. Her suitcase was
sitting just inside the door.

The man disappeared swiftly and left them alone in the room.
Cleo began to fidget nervously, still unsure of what, precisely, was going on.
She decided to break her silence in favor of subtle information gathering.
“What the fuck is going on, Jackson?” was her first question. See? Subtle.

With a slightly amused expression, he reached out and pulled
the now-wilted flower from behind her ear. “How about a shower?” he asked
impishly.

“Why did you bring me to Colombia?” she stubbornly replied,
taking a great deal of satisfaction in the brief look of shock that crossed
Jackson’s face before he scowled. “Who told you?” he asked, looking truly
angry.

“
Cattleya trianaei
,” she said bitterly. He looked
confused, so she continued. “Do you even know anything about my life before
Harper?” she challenged, striding over to the French doors and throwing them
open to the evening breeze. Holding her arms wide, she said, “I’m the daughter
of a botanist, Jackson. In fact, I’m the daughter of a botanist who spent my
entire childhood in a greenhouse full of
Cattleya trianaei
. She spent
more time talking to those fucking orchids than she did to me. I know what they
look like. I know what they smell like. I also happen to know that they’re
indigenous to Colombia, where they bloom all over the place, all winter long.
My mother wrote ten books about those flowers. ” That was the memory tugging at
her brain. Her mother’s orchids were everywhere.

She suddenly looked so sad, standing on the balcony as the
sun disappeared, that Jackson was alarmed. He started to walk toward her, but
the expression was gone in an instant, replaced by a superior arch to the
eyebrow as she realized that she’d thrown him off guard by guessing where they
were. Jackson stopped and put his hands in his pockets as he considered how to
regain his lost ground.

“So, you know where we are, but do you know
where
we
are?” he asked, gesturing at the room around them. He chuckled at her scowl.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have a chance to meet our host at dinner, which is in…” he
quickly checked his watch, “four hours. So, about that shower…?” He wiggled his
eyebrows just to see how she would react.

A metal bud vase from a nearby table narrowly missed his
ear, causing him to laugh out loud. Still, he beat a hasty retreat, afraid that
its mate would soon follow the same trajectory. Cleo flipped him the bird as he
backed out the door, his eyes twinkling devilishly. She did need a shower, she
realized, so she grabbed her suitcase and rolled it to the bathroom, not even bothering
to shut the door. Which is how the cheerful man, whom she had started thinking
of as Butler Guy, saw her naked when he came to escort her to dinner.

***

She had purposely taken her time, dozing in the tub until
her fingers were pruny. It was only the persistent rumbling in her stomach that
had her stepping out of the water and reaching for a towel, which is the
precise moment that Butler Guy walked into the bathroom. Cleo had no
inhibitions whatsoever, so it wasn’t the nudity that was the problem. It’s just
that he startled her. So, she involuntarily screamed. And then so did he,
backing away and covering his eyes with his hands. She grabbed her robe and
quickly put it on, managing to pull it closed exactly half a second before Jackson
ran in and pressed a gun against Butler Guy’s head.

“What did you do to her?” he asked in a low voice, nudging
Butler Guy with the gun until he had backed up against the wall. Then, Jackson looked at Cleo. “What happened?” he said.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Nothing whatsoever, Jackson.
I was getting out of the bath, and he walked in while I was reaching for my
towel, and I wasn’t expecting company. He startled me. I screamed. He screamed.
You barged in and overreacted. What kind of gun is that?” She took a step
closer out of curiosity.

Jackson lowered the gun and stepped back, releasing Butler
Guy. “Why would you just walk into the bathroom?” he demanded.

“Oh, stop picking on Larry. I left the bathroom door open,”
Cleo said, causing them both to look at her in confusion.

“Who is Larry, please?” said Butler Guy.

“You are. It’s easier to think
Larry
than
Butler
Guy
. It just flows better, so I named you,” she said, reaching for a towel
and bending over to wrap her dripping hair. Neither of the men said anything
during this process, although when Jackson noticed Butler Guy looking exactly
where he was looking, he popped him on the back of the head with the muzzle of
the gun. “Ow!” said Butler Guy, rubbing his scalp and looking angry. Jackson just lifted an eyebrow and tried not to look at the places where Cleo’s robe gaped
open, revealing a triangle of skin from collarbone to navel, and almost an
entire leg. Or the other places, where purple satin clung to wet skin.

Once she had the towel secured on her head, Cleo put her
hands on her hips and looked at both of the men. “Well, Larry, I guess you’d
better leave so that I can get dressed. Take Jackson with you. It looks like
you two have loads to talk about.”

“Ummm…my name is actually Diego,” said Butler Guy.

“You’re wasting time, Larry. Now, shoo,” she said, flapping
her hands at them and kneeling on the floor to dig through her suitcase.

Larry left. Jackson didn’t, leaning casually against the
doorframe and watching her paw through her clothes. He had changed into
charcoal Armani with a skinny blue necktie. “Our host is extremely excited to
get acquainted with you,” he said as she pulled out a pair of gym shorts. “As
are his other guests.”

She paused in the middle of tugging a tube sock out of the
twisted mass of clothing. “Guests?” she asked, looking up at him over her
shoulder.

“You get to eat with a pop star, a thief, two ambassadors,
and a drug dealer, I believe. I’ll leave it up to you to figure out the who’s
who,” he said, winking at her.

Cleo was immobilized. “Guests?” she repeated, sounding a
little bit lost. Looking down at her suitcase, she mentally inventoried
everything she had brought. Ratty jeans. Gym shorts. T shirts. Jackson
had told her to bring a dress, and she had thrown it out just to spite him. She
hadn’t known that she would actually need to look nice.

Jackson squatted down next to her, pretending to assess her
options. “Hmmm…no dress, huh?” He sounded like he wanted to laugh, which of
course made her want to slap him. “Come on, Cleopatra,” he said, grabbing her
elbow and helping her stand. He led her into the bedroom and across to the
closet, where he slid open two of the doors to reveal a single garment bag
hanging on the rod. “I arranged for this, just in case,” he said, hooking the
hanger over his finger and presenting it to her with a slight bow.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You brought me a dress?”
she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. She took the garment bag to the bed
and unzipped it, expecting…well, she didn’t know what she was expecting. It
certainly wasn’t the Dior cocktail dress that she pulled out of the bag. It was
navy blue, with a sheer back and loose chiffon bell sleeves, a layered chiffon
skirt, and a deep V neckline.

“I knew you’d choose not to bring a dress, just because I
asked you to,” he said, taking the hanger from her to look at it more closely.
“I think it should fit,” he said, holding it up, and squinting at her.

She snatched it back from him. “Well, I hope it looks good
with sneakers, ‘cause that’s all I’ve got.”

He smiled mysteriously and walked backwards all the way to
the closet, bending over to extract a box from a dark corner. Removing the lid
as he walked back to her, he hooked a shoe with one finger and lifted it from
the box. “Do you think this will work?” he asked, handing her a black python
Casadei pump with a five inch heel. From a distance, it was sexy. Up close, it
was a work of art. Cleo struggled to remain cranky.

She sighed, taking the box from him. “Go away,” she snapped.
When he didn’t budge, she added, “Or not. Whatever,” and took the dress into
the bathroom. She was tempted to leave the door open again, but hadn’t quite
reconciled with the fact that Jackson tended to make her nervous. It made her
feel good to slam it, anyway.