“I wouldn’t call it a fight exactly. But they seemed keen on testing their knife’s sharpness on my arm,” he said, deadpan.
“A knife!” she shrieked, covering her mouth. “Are you OK?”
He waved off her worry.
Truth be told, the knife had surprised him, given the general level of stupidity the thieves displayed in stealing something that was virtually impossible to fence. That’s probably why it had been chucked in a pile of laundry when the scums who stole it realized there was no true black market for a Stradivarius. The two Irish men had lifted this violin from Francesca’s niece, a world-renowned musician, at a Dublin train station a few months ago, with dollar signs in their eyes. After trying to peddle the violin in the underground market where not even the most stalwart criminal collectors would touch an item whose provenance was so well-documented, they’d turned to Craigslist to try to pawn it off, and that’s how Jake had tracked them down. This hadn’t been an easy gig, but it wasn’t the toughest job either in his years as a retrieval expert. Some called him a private detective, others dubbed him a bounty hunter, and sure, technically, he was that, too. Most of the assignments were to hunt down goods—usually precious objects, and every now and then he’d need to find a person. So, retrieval expert seemed to work as a catchall title.
Francesca preferred to call him a bounty hunter.
“Do you need a Band-Aid?”
Jake shook his head and laughed. “I don’t do Band-Aids.”
“Why not? Not rugged enough?” she asked with a playful pout.
“Exactly. No one wants to hire a bounty hunter sporting a Band-Aid.”
Francesca wrapped a hand around his arm, gently stroking near the cut but careful not to touch. “You’re right. We like you rugged. And I cannot thank you enough for finding this precious object. I’m so very grateful. This means the world to us,” she said, then reached for her phone and tapped it a few times. “There. I just wired you the fee.” He nodded a thanks. “Now, would you like to come and hear Arianna play it tomorrow night? We are setting up a private concert on the veranda of my villa to celebrate the return of the Stradivarius. You will be our guest of honor.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “The weather is much better here than in Paris. Say you’ll stay.”
Her eyes seemed to twinkle with hopefulness and the sliver of a suggestion that perhaps he’d stay for more than the weather, more than the music.
He blinked, then swallowed.
Perhaps he was reading too much into the way she’d inched closer. Regardless, Jake didn’t even entertain the possibilities of getting involved with a client. There were lines. Those lines needed to be maintained to run a clean business, and business paid all those bills that he was responsible for. So. Many. Bills.
Besides, home was calling his name.
“Ah, I wish I could. But I need to head back. See my family.”
“You are a good family man.”
“I do what I can,” he said with an it’s-nothing shrug, even though his sisters and brother were everything to him. He nodded to the instrument. “’Fraid to tell you, the violin might need a Band-Aid. It has a scratch on it.”
She held up a hand and shook her head. “Do not worry. I have a restorer on standby. We will fix it.”
“By the way, you might want to tell your niece not to take the train anymore with her million-dollar violin. Maybe opt for a taxi next time she finishes a solo performance at the National Concert Hall in Dublin,” he quipped as he slung his backpack on his shoulder, ready to turn around and head inside to book a flight home. He kept his returns open-ended, preferring to make game-day decisions since he never knew how long a job would take. “Though, honestly, cabs aren’t always a better bet.”
Francesca laughed deeply. “If only she would listen to me. She is so independent and stubborn.”
He laughed, too. “Young people are like that.”
She parked a hand on her hip and wagged a finger at him. “Speaking of stubborn, why didn’t you let me fly you here from Paris? I have a jet, you know. I would have been happy to let you use it.”
“Nah. Commercial works fine for me.”
“I insist you take it home, then.”
He shot her a look that said she was crazy. Home was far away. “All the way to Miami?”
She nodded vigorously. “I’m sending my plane there anyway. It’s being serviced nearby. Take it. Please. Think of it as a tip. Hazard pay.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. Sometimes the job had its perks. He didn’t mind those at all, especially if the plane was making its way over the Atlantic already . . .
“It comes with an open bar. And your favorite Scotch,” she said, sweetening the pot. Ah, it was good to have clients like Francesca who liked to reward those who worked for her.
“I believe you’ve just convinced me,” he said, and took off for the airport where a private plane awaited him.
Somewhere over Spain, with the jet softly humming in his ears, the blue skies painting the world beyond the windows, and the Scotch tasting like the best medicine there ever was, Jake put up his feet and took a long nap.
When he touched down in his hometown, he rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms, ran a hand through his messy brown hair, and mapped out his day. He wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was, or what time, either. But it was warm and sunny, and that was all he needed to refuel after more than a week on the road. He was looking forward to going for a run on the beach, then taking his nephew, Mason, for a bike ride, then a day of fishing with his little brother, Brandt, when he came home for spring break from his final year of college.