Page 13 of Hot Pursuit
A flash of light caught his eye.
The door to a small balcony opened, bright for a beat, before the yellow ray disappeared. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he nearly choked.
Jolene Carter.
Bathed in soft moonlight.
Wearing nothing but a semisheer negligee and a grin.
Nate resisted the urge to chuck the binoculars across the boat, and instead gently placed them back on the table before collapsing against the makeshift bed he’d thrown together. Closing his eyes was no use—the image still burned.
Nate shook his head and focused on the stars instead, distracting himself by studying the tapestry painted across the clear sky. Just as it started to work, a whisper came through the parabolic mic aimed at the house.
“Good night, Agent Parker.”
A soft trill of satisfied laughter followed the words.
Nate squeezed the ridge of his nose as he groaned.
It was going to be a long couple of days.
Scratch that.
It was going to be a long operation.
- 7 -
Jo
There was no room on the entire island Jo hated more than the vault. Underground. No windows. Dark. And dank. Free from any form of technology aside from the stand-alone security system used to get in and out. Black walls. Black ceiling. Black floor. Spotlights shone on her father’s most prized possessions. A Monet. A van Gogh. A set of Warhol’s famous prints. A drawing attributed to Leonardo da Vinci. Along with a handful of other works Jo never bothered to memorize. And hidden at the end of a long narrow hall was his studio, full of stolen paints—some with the distinct signatures of a dozen different renowned artists, others specialized pigments stolen from historical archives to throw off any carbon-dating techniques—and a wall of brand-new tubes in every shade of color imaginable.
Thad considered it a sacred space.
Jo just found it uncomfortable.
Down here, there was no place to pretend. Her father’s profession, her profession, it was thrown in her face, a mirror reflecting all their illegal activities, unable to be ignored. The black walls and bright lights made her squirm.
But soon it would be over, and she could have her own sanctuary.
Her own bakery.
HerJust Desserts.
“Jolene.” Her father’s voice punctured her unease.
She looked up from the surface of the polished mahogany table edged in gold leaf—a relic from Versailles that had been taken during one of the French revolutions and eventually purchased by her father on the black market. A bit gaudy for her tastes, truth be told, and the chairs weren’t even comfortable. But it had been their meeting table ever since she started working in the family business. “Huh?”
“Did you hear me?”
No…Jo ran back through the past five minutes, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before she’d started drafting a recipe for an oatmeal raisin coopie and completely zoned out. “Oh, um, the alarm system. Right, right. I think I have it figured out, no worries.”
“No…worries?” her father repeated, frowning.
Jo rolled her eyes. “Have I ever done you wrong, Daddy? I’ve got it under control.”
He didn’t look overly confident.
Jo leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table as she ran through the plan quickly. The job was a relatively easy one. Simple insurance fraud. A rich guy with a penchant for shady business dealings realized he could get almost twice the payout for a stolen painting than he could by selling it to an auction house. The infamous Robert Carter got wind and offered to take the priceless work off his hands, through covert channels, of course. They’d never spoken. Never met. Had absolutely no visible connections. Her father got a priceless work of art, and the rich guy got his insurance claim. Mutually beneficial.
