“Send me the paperwork today. Kate will handle it and we’ll get back to you with a decision,” he said.
Andrew grabbed his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’ve got it all in a draft for you. On its way to you and Kate,” he said, swiping the screen.
Jake nodded a thanks, then held up a finger. “One more thing. If there’s a raisin grove in Jamaica I’m thinking of putting some cash into,” he said, stroking his chin as if in deep thought, “would you tell me that’s a bad idea? My financial advisor wants me to drop a cool grand into it. Says raisins are the new grapefruit diet,” he said, keeping a straight face.
Andrew eyed him seriously for a split second, then cracked up, pointing playfully at Jake. “You almost had me there for a second. You really had me. And, by the way, the answer is yes. Raisins are a very bad idea.”
After Andrew left, Jake and Mason played in the waves for a bit.
“Want to get some raisin ice cream?” Jake asked his nephew as they toweled off.
Mason crinkled his nose. “Eww.”
“How about fig sherbet?”
The kid laughed and shook his head.
“I know. Why don’t we try chia seed gelato?”
“Gross!”
“Fine, fine,” Jake said, pretending to relent as they headed to grab chocolate peanut-butter-cup cones. By the time he returned to the office two hours later, with a conked-out Mason sound asleep in his arms, Kate said everything from Andrew checked out, so Jake booked the next flight to the Caymans.
“What did you learn about Eli Thompson?” he asked his sister as Mason snoozed on the couch in the corner of the office.
“He studied art history in college before he moved into finance. His fiancée has made some pretty impressive art deals over the years,” Kate said, her blue eyes as fierce as he’d ever seen them. Kate shared the same drive, the same motivation as Jake. No surprise there. She’d practically raised Jake and the younger siblings after their parents were killed in a car crash when he and Kate were teenagers. “Her name is Isla, and the gallery she runs is pretty classy. I checked out its location. There’s a bar down the block from the art gallery she works out of if you want to stop in and ask around.”
“Always start at a bar,” he quipped.
“You might meet a pretty woman in a bikini there, too,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. Typical Kate—she wanted to play matchmaker for him. A nudge here, a push there, and she was sure she’d have Jake at the altar. Not likely.
He scoffed. “Not going to the Caymans to pick up women at bars.”
“Then maybe the beach,” Kate added, egging him on.
“Not there, either.”
“You need to check out his club, too. See if there’s a connection between the money, the art, and the club. And”—she mimed dancing—“maybe you’ll do a little dirty dancing with a nice island gal.”
“Get out of here. Work and women don’t mix and you know that,” he said, and there was a damn good reason for that golden rule. He’d made the foolish mistake a few years ago of getting involved on a job with a stunning brunette named Rosalinda with a penchant for high heels. He’d been on the trail of a stolen Medici artifact in Venice that had been lifted in a larger heist. She was on the hunt for a different piece of the collection, so they’d joined forces, formed an ad hoc business partnership on one of the biggest gigs he’d ever had—it spanned months, and cities, and many hotel bedrooms where they’d spent their nights together.
Until the day he finally got his hands on the artifact, and she stole it from under his nose that evening. His jaw clenched as he remembered the way it felt to have been played like that. Turned out she’d been working with some big criminal syndicate that was trying to steal the entire collection. Good thing he was smarter and faster than she was, and he’d learned her habits and weaknesses. He’d managed to catch up to her in a shoe boutique, of all places, and steal it back on behalf of his clients, the rightful owners.
Taught him a damn good lesson, though.
Don’t get involved on a job. There was too much on the line.
His livelihood. His family’s well-being. He took care of all of the Harlowes through this job, and no woman was worth that risk.
Especially a backstabbing thief of a woman.
These days, his focus was work and only work. That’s exactly what he intended to do in the Caymans. Nothing would get in his way.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ah, dive bars were the best.
Pink Pelican rocked that vibe like nobody’s business. He could picture this spot fitting in perfectly in Key Largo. Hell, he could practically be in the Keys right now. The wood walls were lined with seashells. Jack Johnson played from a stereo system. A dartboard hung on a wall at the far side of the joint. The whole place smelled of beer.
Translation: heaven.
Add in the talkative Marie, and this stop had been nothing but good news. The bartender with a long mess of brown hair braided tightly was friendly and chatty. With a few well-placed questions that didn’t give him away, he learned some key details about the nightclub at the end of the block—info that couldn’t be gleaned online. Jake would visit it later when the moon rose high in the sky and see if he could get a bead on whether Eli was hiding his art there. Hell, the guy might have turned the art into cash already and fed those greenbacks into the club.
Either way, he couldn’t sniff around now at five in the evening. Stopping by a club at this early-bird hour would make him stick out like a sore thumb, so it was break time. Blending in was essential on a job like this on a small island, and Jake did his best to look like a man on vacation in the Caymans. He’d contemplated playing the part of the finance man, but he didn’t seem like a guy who worked in the shade. He was a man who worked in the sun, so he’d decided on the easiest cover-up of all—one that could be true. He was thirty-year-old Jake Harlowe, former soldier, now in the “recovery” business, and here on a fishing trip with his buddies. Marie was an avid fisherwoman, so they’d exchanged tales of the ones they’d caught and the ones that had gotten away.