Page 35 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
If law enforcement doesn’t know she has a tattoo, that means none of her marks have ever reported it. And if none of her marks have ever reported it, that means none of them ever saw her naked.
Goddamn. She was telling the truth about never having one-night stands!
I instantly forgive her for everything.
“No,” says the officer. “It’s because she leaves a drawing of a dragonfly somewhere at every job she pulls off. It’s her calling card. The one in Prince Khalid’s suite was scrawled on the bathroom mirror with his wife’s lipstick.”
“She wants everyone to know it was her,” I say.
“Or someone,” Connor adds ominously.
We lock eyes. I know him well, and right now I know he’s thinking Angeline’s calling card isn’t meant as a taunt to the police. It’s not an ego thing. It’s a message.
But for who? And why?
Watching my face, the police officer chuckles. “Don’t take it personally, Mr. McLean. She’s duped some of the most sophisticated security personnel on the planet. She’s a professional thief. The best in the business, by all accounts.”
Connor claps his hand on my shoulder. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. “Besides, I’m sure she thought you were real cute.”
“Fuck off,” I say cheerfully, because I wasn’t a one-night stand.
The officer who was holding Angeline’s shoe is now holding her red dress, retrieved from the floor. He’s fingering it with his brows pulled together. “Got something here, chief.”
“What is it?”
The officer removes a Swiss knife from his black utility belt, snaps open the blade with his thumb, and works it against a seam in the waist of the dress. The fabric gives way easily. He removes a small metal object, winking in the light. Looking surprised, he holds it up.
Connor and I speak in unison. “Handcuff key.”
The chief looks at me as if for confirmation. “She sewed a handcuff key into her dress?”
“In case she was apprehended and had to escape from cuffs.” I shake my head, more impressed by the second. “It’s fuckin’ brilliant.”
Another officer standing next to the television console opens the small beaded handbag Angeline left behind and dumps its contents onto the wood surface. Sifting through it with the tip of a pen, he catalogues his findings out loud.
“One rake pick. One tension wrench. One torch lighter. One folding tactical knife. One metal shim. Four plastic zip ties. One unmarked hotel keycard, possibly a master. And one lipstick.”
He picks up the gold tube of lipstick and looks at the label on the bottom. “It’s called Lady Danger.”
A grin spreads over Connor’s face. “I like this girl.”
In spite of how completely fucked up this entire situation is, I grin back. “Me too, brother. Me too!”
The chief rolls his eyes. “You guys are idiots.”
Ten
Mariana
Specializing in buying and selling rare coins, gold, jewels, diamonds, and valuables since 1979, Mallory & Sons Heritage Auctions has retail boutiques in most of the largest cities in the world.
But the London boutique is the one I always visit upon completion of an assignment.
And not because it’s company headquarters.
Ignoring the cold and the gray drizzle, I stand across the street for a few minutes before going in and just look.
The shop is charming glimpsed through its beveled-glass windows. It’s brightly lit, stuffed with antiques, the walls crowded with original oils by artists of all levels of fame and importance, as well as the occasional exquisite forgery to be sold to a nouveaux riche collector more concerned with impressing his friends than demanding certified provenance.
