Conheartists Page 5

  His eyes follow the rope until it hits the ground. Turning back to me, the anger returns to his tone. “Knock it off. I can’t have you running.” He bends down to grab the rope.

  Don’t look at his butt, don’t look at his—boy oh boy, he must work out.

  “Now give me your hands. I’m not asking again.”

  “And I’m not telling you again. I want to help. Let me in on your plan. I can be useful.”

  “No. Absolutely not. After that bullshit you pulled at the gas station, you can sit here and let me do what I do best.”

  “Which is what? Be a grump?”

  “No. Be the con.”

  “Well, I’m a con too!”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am! The gas station. I conned that woman out of sixty dollars. Which I wrote an IOU for to pay back. It’s only fair since she—”

  “Enough! Do you not understand the severity of what will happen if I don’t meet this deadline?”

  “Well, no actually, you haven’t really told me—”

  “My family will die. Do you understand that?”

  My smile fades at his words. “I wasn’t… I understand that part. I just don’t understand why I’m here. I don’t know who would want me.” I understand clearly that the ones he loves are in danger. I just don’t know why I’m someone’s bargaining chip.

  Luca huffs and throws his hands through his hair. “I don’t know either. But that doesn’t change things. We need to eat, and I need a few hours of sleep. Just fucking do as I say so I can make that happen and get us back on the road.”

  I wish he would let me help. He has no idea just how useful I can be. “Fine.” I forfeit, which actually shocks him.

  Looking relieved, he sighs. “Good. Now hands.”

  Now it’s my turn to huff and puff. “This is unnecessary, you know,” I say while he wraps the rope around my wrists. He doesn’t seem to care.

  He tightens the knot and then pulls back. “No funny business.”

  I nod again and he’s shutting my door and heading across the street toward the crappy looking hotel. I watch as he slows, nodding to someone coming out as he disappears inside the building.

  Once he’s out of sight, I wiggle my hands loose and untie the knot.

  I thought about telling him I was an expert at rope escapes, but I didn’t want to wound his ego. With Henry being a veteran, he’s spent many hours at the store teaching me survival tricks in case I ever needed them. I chuckle as I free my hands and take in my surroundings. We seem to be parked in a small shopping plaza. The hotel across the street looks nice. Way nicer than the motel we have in Teterboro or the one he’s at. I watch some people going in and out of the hotel until I spot a woman. My eyes widen at how beautifully dressed she is, her diamond heels, glittering in the overhead lamplight.

  Bingo.

  “You stay here and be a good boy,” I tell Chandler. “I’ll be right back.” He yaps and wags his tail—Mr. Bing’s way of assuring me he’ll behave. Good boy.

  I slide out of the car and look both ways as I cross the street. A few cars honk at me, one yelling, nice leotard, loser, which I wave back. I make it to the parking lot and watch behind a tree as the woman tosses her finger around ordering the valet to pack her bags, before she disappears back into the hotel.

  With her back to him, the older gentleman gives her the finger and begins lifting her heavy suitcases into the trunk of their Mercedes.

  That’s when I make my move. I run up to the car, and first thing I do is open the front seat and grab the woman’s purse. I duck down as the valet throws another bag into the trunk and heads back for more. My adrenaline is pumping so violently through my veins I can hardly contain my excitement. I tuck the purse under my arm and when the valet goes back for yet another bag, I slip to the trunk and grab the one on top, dragging it back out and hiding it on the side of the car. Man, I’m good at this! I praise myself, but then the sound of a woman’s unhappy voice breaks my internal cheerleading.

  “Does everyone in Philadelphia take this long to load a vehicle?” She snaps, whipping her hair behind her dainty shoulders. “You should be fired. If there wasn’t a ridiculous line in your less than satisfactory hotel, I’d march back in there and complain and have your job. You’re lucky it’s the middle of the night and there aren’t any managers around!”

  Oh shoot! I need to get out of here! I look to the front, but there’s a couple walking up, and I certainly can’t crawl to the back or I’ll be discovered. Shoot shoot shoot…

  “Will you hurry! Oh, now look what you’ve done!”

  It must be my lucky day. Maybe not the poor valet’s because her suitcase breaks, opening along the entrance way.

  That’s when I scurry back the way I came, dragging the suitcase with me. When I get back to the car, I pop it open.

  My eyes go bright with excitement.

  “Oh, it’s showtime.”

  Luca

  Junior Schwarzenegger

  The great thing about showing up at a hotel at three in the morning is the staff—what little of them are on duty—are usually half asleep. Makes conning a helluva lot easier.

  “Which room again?” the woman asks, stifling a yawn.

  “Three-eleven.” I have no fucking idea, but it’s the first number to pop into my head.

  She coughs and I’m assaulted by the scent of stale cigarette smoke. This motel is shitty as fuck, but those are usually easier to get into. The woman taps something on the computer and squints.

  “Mr. Harrison?”

  Shit.

  “I meant three-twelve. Fuck, I’m tired.”

  “You and me both, buddy,” she grumbles. Then, her brows scrunch. “That one’s not assigned to anyone. You must have meant another room.”

  Perfect.

  “No, I’m positive it’s three-twelve. I misspoke earlier.” I flash her my winning smile. “I promise to go right back to bed and not bug you anymore tonight, ma’am.”

  She shakes her head. “These computers always glitch out.” She enters in some info and then swipes a card before handing it to me. “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

  “Thanks, ma’am.”

  I loiter around the corner until she goes in the back room and then slip back out the front to fetch my captive and her fussy fucking dog. The night air is warm and sticky. After the hellish night I’ve had, I’m looking forward to a long, hot shower. Showers in a roach motel aren’t ideal, but it’s better than the alternative…no shower. Fuck that.

  As I reach the big ass burgundy boat, I hear Mr. Bingaling or whatever the hell she calls him yapping his head off. He better not get our asses kicked out of this hotel. I need a good night’s sleep so I can regroup and figure out this whole Mr. Death situation.

  He wants Francis.

  Fine, he can have her.

  But why does he want her?

  Not my problem.

  Lindsay and Cala are my problem.

  My thoughts are stopped short when I realize the dog is alone. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I whip around, looking for Francis. She can’t have gone far because she wouldn’t leave her little dog. No way.

  When I look up, a nice building with neat landscaping and white awnings beckons at me. The Dempsey Hotel. Oh Jesus. That woman better not have…

  I take off in a sprint across the street and nearly get run over by a Mercedes as it pulls away. A doorman nods at me but doesn’t stop me from entering the building. He looks as worn out as the lady I just dealt with.

  “The penthouse, dahling,” a woman purrs in a foreign accent, her voice echoing down the corridor as I enter. “Chop-chop!”

  “But, ma’am—”

  “Ma’am? Ma’am? Boy, I’ll have you know I’m twenty-two years old. Do I look like an old woman to you?” Her voice is shrill…and familiar. “Hmm?”

  A woman in a black mink coat and red heels stands at the counter with her back to me. Long, dark brown hair hangs in waves and her designer purse is held delicately
in one hand while her other hand waves furiously in the air.

  I dart my gaze all around, hunting for Francis. My attention is whipped back to the conversation when the well-dressed woman speaks again. I know that voice.

  Oh, fuck me, here we go again with this nut.

  “Don’t make me call my father,” she warns. “He’s a French spy. He knows people.”

  “Um, miss,” the flustered hotel clerk says. “I’m just trying to tell you that it’s been booked.”

  “By moi!” she screeches. “Moi! Me for you dumb Americans who can’t speak French. I booked it!”

  His face burns bright red as he nervously taps at the computer. I smirk and stay back, watching Francis in action. I’ll never admit it to her, but she’s kind of a natural at this shit.

  “We have a presidential suite that’s just been vacated…” he says, “but that’s going to take at least an hour to clean.” He frowns, a worried look in his eyes.

  She slaps her hand down on the marble countertop, making him jump. “I need my eye cream, boy. Not an hour from now. Right now. Because apparently, I look old,” she says dramatically.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Whatever,” she snaps. “Make it happen before my husband gets here or you’ll be in for a world of hurt.”

  “Of course, er, mademoiselle.”

  “I beg your pardon, Poindexter,” she growls. “What did you just call me? If my husband finds out you’re calling me filthy French names, boy, you’re gonna get it!”

  The young man’s face pales. When his eyes dart to a man standing nearby wearing a security shirt, I know it’s time to step in. I nod at the security guy and make a circular motion with my finger at my head to indicate the woman is crazy.

  Crazy but mine.

  My captive, that is.

  “There’s my little French tart,” I croon, swooping in behind her and curling an arm around her waist. “Always such a naughty little minx. Please tell me you put something on under this fur coat. You know what it does to me when you go nude, my flaky croissant.”

  She snaps her head my way and gapes at me in surprise. With her dark hair down and her big brown eyes wide as she acts the part of startled French bitch, I can’t help but notice how pretty she is. Her pink lips are full and pouty. Dark brown lashes bat against her apple cheeks as a rosy blush colors them. Is this part of the act or is she suddenly shy? After that performance, she has nothing to be shy about. Hell, for a second there, even I was convinced.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I tell my fake European wife, cradling her cheek with my palm. “Sometimes it hurts to have to share you with others.” I lean in, inhaling the perfume that’s coming off her stolen clothes. “You smell like a fantasy.”

  She gasps when I brush my lips delicately against hers.

  “I might have to kiss you in front of your admirers,” I murmur loud enough for the security guy and the hotel clerk to hear. “To claim what’s mine.”

  “Oh,” she says breathily. “I mean…oui, monsieur.”

  I smile at her as though she’s my whole world because the performance is key in any successful con. Then, I go in for the kiss. She parts her lips, a tiny mewl escaping her, as I press mine to hers. She tastes like lunacy and corn nuts, but hell, I like it. My tongue swipes across hers in a teasing way. I slide my hand into her hair, tightening my hold so I can kiss her harder. Like a possessive husband would. With just my mouth, I own her. She soon gets out of her stupor as she gingerly presses her palm to my chest, caressing me as well. Her fingers may as well be on fire because I practically burn at her touch.

  Act.

  This is an act.

  And an annoying reminder that I haven’t gotten laid in fuck knows how long.

  Just thinking about carrying this act upstairs and peeling off the mink coat has my dick thickening in my jeans. Not the time or the place, man. With a groan, I pull away—but not before nipping at her bottom lip—and flash the clerk my laziest grin.

  “All we need is a bed, a bottle of champagne, and a few hours.” I wink at him, my gaze heavy with insinuation. The insinuation that I’ll fuck her the moment I get her alone.

  “Here,” the clerk says, pushing a keycard my way. “It’s our best available room.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I take the keycard. “I must say, this is the best service we’ve ever received. What’s your manager’s name? I’d love to call in the morning and give you the glowing review you deserve.”

  “Joey,” he says bashfully.

  “Like Joey Tribbiani from Friends?” Francis asks, her French accent thick. “The best American show ever made.”

  He smiles. “How you doin’?”

  Francis cackles—real and not an act. “Oh my French fries! You sound just like him!”

  The guy beams even wider. Amazing how far praise will get you in a con.

  “I just need a credit card and you two can be on your way,” Joey says, his smile faltering.

  Ahhh, shit. I knew this was coming.

  I slap at my pockets. “I must have left my wallet in the car. Surely you can let us settle in and I’ll bring it by in the morning when I tell them about what a great job Joey from The Dempsey Hotel is doing. Do you think they have any management positions open, Joey, because I think you’d be stellar in a position like that? I mean, it takes a certain kind of guy to handle my wife and you handled her beautifully.” I hug her to my side and kiss the top of her head. She smells sweet. Of course she’d smell like fruit considering she’s a fruitcake.

  “I, uh, don’t know, Mr.—”

  “Schwarzenegger.”

  His eyes grow wide and his mouth parts.

  “You caught me,” I say in a fake bashful tone. “Arnold is my father. My agent doesn’t like me telling people that, though. Our secret. It’s better if I make my own way in Hollywood, you know, man? Otherwise, I’ll always be compared to my father. Who can compare to The Terminator? Tough shoes to fill.”

  The boy is dumbstruck.

  “That’s how we met,” my fake wife purrs. “I was on set for a movie myself and he thought I was just a fan.” She snorts. “He offered to sign my breasts. Scandalous!”

  I smirk at her and squeeze her ass, making her squeak in surprise. “And one thing led to another. And another. And another. You feel me, kid?”

  His face burns bright red. “Y-Yes, Mr. Schwarzenegger.”

  “Call me Junior. Mr. Schwarzenegger is what we call the old man.” I wink at him.

  “Right,” he says, flustered. “I’ll get your information in the morning. My boss will be here then too. It means a lot you’d be willing to put in a good word.”

  “A great word,” I assure him. “Don’t worry.” I nod at him and lay on the accent. “I’ll be back.”

  He beams at us and gives us a wave goodbye. I guide my wife out of the hotel lobby, kissing on her neck and holding her close. The moment we step outside, I release her and glower at her, the act dropped at our feet.

  “What the fuck, Francis?”

  “Me? Me what the fudge? Are you serious? You…you…” Her face blazes with heat.

  “I what?” I demand, stepping closer.

  She chews on her bottom lip that’s red and swollen from our kiss. “Nothing.”

  I stare at her pouty mouth for a beat longer before pointing at her. “Stay while I go get the damn dog and then we’re going to bed.”

  Like a dutiful wife, she stays put while I fetch the yappy-ass beast. It’s happy to see me and crawls into my arms. I set him down so he can go to the bathroom while I grab his dog food. After he’s done his business, he jumps at my legs, eager to be held. I groan but pick up the beastly critter. When I return to the fancier hotel across the street, I find Francis with a suitcase that doesn’t belong to her waiting patiently.

  “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “The bushes.”

  “The bushes gifted you a designer suitcase?”

  “Yes.”

&nbs
p; I arch a brow at her. She lifts her chin in challenge, her brown eyes gleaming with mischief. This girl is bad news for me. Distracting as hell. I need to focus on my goal.

  Save my sister and niece.

  Kill Mr. Death.

  Yeah, kill him because he sure as hell doesn’t get to keep Francis.

  When she doesn’t say anything else, I break our intense stare to saunter back inside. No one says anything about the fact I just strolled in with a little rat dog tucked under my arm like a football. Nope, they all mind their fucking business because I’m Junior Schwarzenegger and my wife’s a psycho French bitch. Once in the elevator, she lets out an exaggerated sigh.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Oh, fuck me.

  “What’s wrong?” I demand after the fourth sigh.

  “Nothing.”

  No man in his right mind believes a woman when she says “nothing.” I grew up with a little sister and nothing usually means war.

  “It’s just…”

  “Just?”

  “You can’t go around kissing random women like that. It’s not right.”

  I frown. “Okay…”

  “In the historical romance novels,” she says in a breathy voice, “if you kissed a woman like that, you’d have to marry her.”

  Marry her?

  “What?”

  “What?”

  Her eyes are wide and innocent, dark lashes beating against her cheeks.

  I make the mistake of glancing at her lips once more. Thankfully the elevator opens and I walk us to our room. Once inside, I am pleased to find a giant comfy bed in the center of the room. Sure as hell beats the roach motel. Francis wins this round. As she prances around the room, looking at every single thing there is to look at, I set the dog down and head for the shower.

  “Don’t leave,” I grind out over my shoulder. I peel off my shirt and toss it along the way. I close the door behind me and I can hear her bitching about me to her damn dog. A smile tugs at my lips. Real as hell, which is scary considering the predicament I’m in with this girl and my family and Mr. Death. I shouldn’t be smiling at all.

  The shower ends up being long enough that I almost fall asleep standing up. I’m too tired for a hand job, though my unsettled dick kind of hates me for neglecting him. I throw on my jeans but leave the rest of my clothes in the bathroom. Once inside the room, I find a mountain of pillows dividing the bed and the two nut jobs sound asleep.