Roxanne St. Claire - Make Her Pay

“You know I don’t want to profit from this dive, don’t you?” she said quickly. He had to understand her real objectives, especially now. “You know that my goal is to share everything we find in an exhibit that millions of people can enjoy.”

“And clear your ancestor’s name,” he added.

“And the government would want that, too, right?”

He didn’t answer, his gaze cutting her.

“You can’t say anything, can you?”

“I can say this: We both want the same thing, we just want it for different reasons.”

She leaned back, a tsunami of emotions washing over her. Admiration. Relief. Joy, even. And something else. Something like a big, bad, nasty crush.

“You’re really one of the good guys,” she said softly.

“Not entirely.”

She smiled. “Funny time for you to suddenly get humble.”

“I don’t want you to…” He trailed off, at a rare loss for words.

“Tell anyone?” she offered. “I swear I won’t.”

“Good,” he said. “But I also don’t want you to think you know everything.”

“I’m sure I don’t.” But she knew enough.

He stood, reaching for her hand. “We need to get back to the marina, as soon as I make a call and get that information you want.”

“About my sister?” Gratitude pulled and settled like a lump in her throat. “Thank you, Con.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Because you’re really helping me, too.”

He made a call, walking away and speaking softly, reading information from the boarding pass printout. She managed not to follow him or stare like a lovesick puppy, but the sensation that rocked her body wasn’t too far from that.

He’d trusted her. He hadn’t actually broken his… code, or whatever they called it. But he never denied her assumption, and that very thing confirmed it.

He’d moved into the office, and she headed back there, taking Brianna’s mail with her.

“It’s Houser,” he said, the name stopping Lizzie cold. “Dylan Houser. Cave diver from California. Just let me know what you can get on the investigation into that drowning last August.”

Dad’s drowning? She felt the blood drain from her head.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said when he turned to her, reading her reaction. “I thought I might be able to get some information on your father’s accident.”

She tried to swallow but couldn’t. “Why?”

“Because it strikes me as odd that a diver as experienced as he was would cave-dive alone.”

“You don’t think… it was…” She almost couldn’t say the words. “An accident?”

“It’s my nature to be suspicious, Lizzie.”

And his job. “There’s an investigator’s report on record-”

“We’re going to get it.”

Of course “they” were.

He reached a hand to her. “I just want to help you, Lizzie, because you’ve done a lot to help me.”

All the way up A1A to the marina, Lizzie wrapped her arms around Con’s powerful body, all her different feelings fusing until she felt like she might combust.

The revelation about Con. The disappearance of Brianna. The resurrection of her father’s drowning. The scepter, the dive, the truth… The man in her arms .

She closed her eyes and rested her chin on his shoulder, none of it making sense, yet suddenly all of it making sense.

He rolled into the marina lot half an hour before their cutoff. As she got off the bike, Lizzie frowned, looking for Flynn’s cabin cruiser.

“Didn’t we dock in that slip?” she asked, pointing and not seeing the tuna tower of his cabin cruiser.

Con pulled off his helmet. “Did he move the boat?”

They scanned the area, then walked to the dock that handled boats of that size. Nowhere.

“Who ya lookin’ for?” The voice came from behind them, a young man. “That big Tiara?”

“Do you work here?” Con asked.

“Yeah, and I came on just when that guy took off in a big, fat hurry. The son of a bitch didn’t even pay his docking fee. Said he’d be back tomorrow. But if that prick stiffs us in a half-million-dollar boat, I’ll be pissed.”

“Tomorrow?” Lizzie blew out the word, disgusted. “I can’t believe he did this.”

“I can,” Con said quickly, walking her away. “He’s got to go do damage control immediately. Has to go back to the boat and claim the medallion was taken from him, and come up with a story to tell his stepfather.”

“So you think he left us here on purpose, so we couldn’t contradict him or question him?”

“More than that, he doesn’t want me anywhere near that boat, because he thinks Alita took the medallion and gave it to me. He can pay her off, but not me. The longer I’m away, the better chance he thinks he has of getting me fired.”

“Can he?”

“Actually, no.” A soft beep got his attention and he pulled out his phone, stepping away and speaking softly. When he returned, he look pleased.

“Don’t tell me,” she said, forcing her voice to be light. “You got us a boat with one phone call.”

He smiled. “No, I have another plan for us tonight.” The way he said it sent a slow burn through her.

“And what would that be?”

He put his arm around her, his mouth very close to her ear.

“I’ve developed one other very specialized skill in my life.”

She looked up, getting a little kick from the shared secret and a bigger one from the sheer proximity of his mouth to hers. “Which is?”

“You could call it reclamation. The man who lives at 662 River Run is a known black-market art collector. I think I have to reclaim the medallion he illegally purchased today.”

She melted right into him with a sigh. “You are something else, Con.”

“Yeah.” His tone was wry. “I really am.”

BY NINE O’CLOCK it was dark, and Con parked the bike behind a row of oleander bushes across the street and a few hundred yards down from the entrance to St. Richard’s Island.

Gerry Dix, that wily son of a bitch, was about to get a visit from an old acquaintance. Con had done some work for him years ago, when he’d taken a nineteenth-century chalice from the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia, and delivered it to Gerry’s home in the Hamptons.

Con liked symmetry and balance; stealing from Gerry would bring their relationship as thief and buyer full circle.

Lizzie’s assumption that he was a government agent answered most of her questions and created the necessary trust, so he had let it go. If and when she found out the truth, he’d be long gone on the next Bullet Catcher job. Because if he got the medallion back, that could seal the deal, accomplishing the whole mission to guard the treasures, find the thief, and target the traitor.

Flynn Paxton was obviously their thief, and no doubt he was sharing plenty of information with this buyer and others. So when Con turned over the medallion and the diamond-topped scepter to the client, that should take some of the sting out of the fact that Paxton’s traitor was in his own family.

If Gerry Dix was a creature of habit, getting the medallion would be relatively easy. If not, Con had faced bigger challenges to get even more impressive prizes.

Before he did, he always considered one question.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked over his shoulder, curious what Lizzie’s response would be.

“They won’t fall for my Oscar-worthy performance and we can’t get in,” she answered.

“That’s not the worst. What’s the worst that could happen if we do get in?”

“The medallion buyer is home and you can’t steal it back?”

He shook his head. Even if Dix was home, Con could probably get it, unless the guy was asleep with the thing under his pillow. He’d taken many items from rooms where people slept, though.