The best part of the windows was the view they afforded—a clear shot into the art gallery across the street, wedged next to an empty storefront on one side and the Atlantis submarine tours on the other, with a slim alley slicing between the gallery and the vacant shop. That must be the property Isla and Eli were trying to purchase to expand the gallery.
Good Lord, business must be good in “Artlandia” if they had the kind of change needed to annex a shop. He chuckled to himself. Of course business was good for Eli. The man was a thief. The bastard stole money from hardworking Americans. Jake dug his fingers into his palms, a burst of righteous anger fueling him—a reminder of why he did what he did for a living. Because rich, privileged men like Eli Thompson thought nothing of skimming a little off the top. Eli had done that to the tune of $10 million from his very own hedge fund, stealing it from the Middle America customers the fund served. Then he turned their retirement savings to diamonds and skipped out of the good old USA and into the Caymans with the loot in his pockets, and Jake had the evidence to prove it, thanks to his client—that same fund. All he needed to do now was locate those watermarked diamonds, take them back, and return the money to its rightful owners.
Eli had gotten away with his fraud so far. But the road stopped here with Jake. His mantra was simple: “Don’t let the bastards get away with anything.”
That was the promise he’d made as a teenager after the drunk driver who smashed into his parents’ car had gotten off scot-free. Now as an adult, Jake had no qualms whatsoever with tracking down the criminals and scum of the world to make sure they paid up.
Soon, it would be Eli’s turn.
And if the tip he and Steph had garnered last night about the location of the gems was right—inside the frames on the art in the gallery office—Eli’s opportunity to pay the piper was coming due any minute. Made sense that the rocks would be stuffed inside frames. You could store a lot of stones in that sort of clever hiding spot. Come to think of it, the frames he’d seen in the halls at Eli’s Sapphire nightclub had an unusual look to them, too. Strangely heavy for such light, contemporary art. One more possible option to pursue.
Jake lowered his shades, placed his palms on the windowsill, and stared across the street. From the second story of the church, he had a bird’s-eye view of the gallery. Well, it was really courtesy of the binoculars built into the awesome sunglasses he wore today that he was able to keep watch on the back door, then the front, then the alley along the side of Isla’s Island Gallery. The most useful sunglasses ever, they provided a close-up look into what was many feet away. He enjoyed the little gadgets of the job, like his lock-picking kit and the sunglasses with the built-in zoom.
With its bright white walls and steel framework, the gallery exuded class and style. The proprietor was catering to the wealthiest clientele on the island, even if it was located amid souvenir shops, bars, and tour operators. As Jake scanned the swank location, he took mental note of the number of employees visible in the gallery—three, including one at the reception desk—as well as the activity of the establishment.
Busy.
A green Honda pulled up outside the gallery, and a tall guy with graying hair emerged, glanced at the gallery doorway, then popped into a souvenir shop down the block. A thick, burly man in a suit strolled by next, ducking into the gallery for five minutes or so, chatting with Isla the whole time. A woman in a flowy red dress walked in next.
When the woman left the gallery, she blew a kiss to Isla, who held open the door. The woman breezed down the street with a brochure in hand. Jake checked his watch. One more hour ’til showtime. This morning in Steph’s hotel room, they’d checked out every angle of Isla’s Island Gallery with Google street view as they’d prepped, but it was wise to obtain an actual visual with one’s own eyes.
Though the visual he wanted in his line of sight again was Steph Anderson.
Beautiful, blonde, athletic, clever, witty, pain-in-the-ass-and-he-loved-it Steph Anderson. The woman who swam with turtles, who loved her family, and who kissed with passion and fell apart in his arms.
As he stared across the street, he adjusted his shorts. Just the memory of her up against the wall, then beneath him, then straddling him, sent bolts of lust through his groin. Last night with her blew his mind and torched all the pathways in his body. She gave herself to him in all the ways that he wanted, and he couldn’t wait to have his hands on her again.
But he also wanted the rest of those damn diamonds that he was sure were inside that gallery.
Wanted them badly. His fingers itched to touch them.
He patted his pocket, running his thumb along the outline of a little something he’d taken from Steph’s hotel this morning. He chuckled silently at the memory of lifting this sweet object. It had been so easy—taking candy from a baby, for sure.
He only hoped snagging Eli’s diamonds would be as smooth. Once he had his hands on all those blue-tinted beauties, he’d be good to go. He could get the hell out of Dodge and head on home to Key Largo. See his sister, see his nephew, have a brew with his buddy Dan. Maybe even fish off the dock near his house.
But out of nowhere, a pang lurched in his heart as he pictured boarding a plane and leaving this island. He scratched his head. What was that all about? He was ready to be done with this job today, thank you very much.
Except if he finished it, he’d have to say good-bye to Steph.
No reason for him to be missing her.
They were only having a tropical affair, a little island tryst. Besides, neither one had time for anything more than the here and now. Once he was gone, he’d need to zero in on whatever was coming his way next. Not linger on the woman he wouldn’t see again. Get her out of his mind.