AN: I think we might have reached the halfway marker... I apologize for the late update, as things are very busy right now. I am getting back in the groove of things and hope to be posting a bit more often, like my previous schedule. Enjoy, read, and review!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Do you have any laundry that needs to be done?" Susan set down a sizzling plate of fried eggs and crossed her arms over her chest, clad in a floral apron and flowing yellow dress. "I could pop in a load real quick, while you boys finish eatin' and packin' your things."
Abby sauntered downstairs and into the kitchen, setting her suitcase down in the threshold. "I don't think Matty will. He has a wife for that, doesn't he?" she winked, and pecked the woman's weathered cheek in greeting.
While her son harrumphed, Susan trained her attention to the other man in the room. "What about you, Joseph? Any lady doin' the laundry for you in Roseville?"
Matt snorted into his mug of coffee. "Oh, no. He doesn't have time for women, so he does his laundry on his own and tucks in his sheets as if he's in the Air Force."
"Are you lot bothering Solomon again?" Andrew said gruffly, strolling through the side door with a gift bag in hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. He dropped the sparkling paperbag at Matt's feet. "That's for Cammie. Give my love."
Matt groaned. "Oh, come on, Dad. She's practically a spoiled brat as is, with her aunt smuggling things in."
Abby broke away from fixing herself a plate and wagged her finger at her brother-in-law. "Don't you talk about my niece that way, Mister."
Andrew took his seat at the head of the table, unfolding his paper and turning to the daily crossword. While he shoveled in forkfulls of scrambled eggs with one hand, he made quick work of the puzzle with the other. "Oh, I forgot—" he said suddenly, peering over his reading glasses. "There was an envelope taped to the door that I tossed into that bag. It didn't have an address, but it was written to Joe."
Matt furrowed his eyebrows and fished out a large, yellow envelope. In the middle, with a messy scrawl in capitals, was written, "JOSEPH SOLOMON, CONFIDENTIAL."
"That looks like something work related," Joe muttered, though he unwound the string and unfastened the metal clasp. Though the couple was trying to hide it, Susan paused from her eating every so often and Andrew glanced up from his newspaper in curiosity.
Abby peered over his shoulder and stared at the cover sheet. "The Kremlin Letter. That's an odd name for an assignment," she muttered.
Joe recognized the movie title instantly and pursed his lips, trying to shove the papers back into the envelope. However, Matt leaned across the table and snatched it.
"Matthew Andrew Morgan!" Susan scolded, mortified with her son's behavior.
Joe groaned. "It says 'confidential,' you ass—"
Matt flipped to the last page where he knew he would find an official signed declaration by Joe's partner, if he had one. He wasn't surprised when he saw Cara's signature at the bottom of the page, accepting the mission. His brown eyes fixed on the man across from the table in a glower.
"You're taking it, I presume," Matt grunted, tossing the papers back in disgust.
Ever the opportunist, Abby grabbed them and her eyes widened as she took in the contents. "You really need to make up your mind whether or not you hate her, Solomon."
When Joe ignored them, Andrew's gaze flickered to the three guests. "Office politics?" he assumed, arching an eyebrow.
He groaned, and rose from his seat to rinse his empty plate in the sink. Susan must have informed her husband of the previous night's events. "Yep," he said, leaning down to set his cutlery in the dishwasher. "I'm going to load the suitcases in the car. The parking garage wants their rental back an hour before the flight, and I don't want to be in a rush later."
Abby delicately wiped her mouth with her napkin, clearing her throat to break the silence when he departed. "I'll go help him," she muttered, leaving her sister's husband at the mercy of his parents.
She lugged the suitcase she had set down earlier behind her, not surprised to find him sitting in the back of the open trunk of their minivan with the envelope in his hands. She raised her eyebrows when she saw a majority of their bags already piled into the back of the vehicle.
"Should I be offended you didn't put my suitcase in, too?" she remarked, dropping the item in question onto the gravel driveway.
"Matt and I were awake before you were. Besides, you take forever to blow-dry your hair and I wasn't in the mood to wait."
She sighed. "Chivalry is dead."
He didn't reply, and Abby frowned. He was dressed in his customary slacks and formal shirt, made much more casual with the sleeves rolled up and a few extra buttons popped open. His green eyes were trained on the envelope as he silently brooded, though she knew he was aware of her staring.
As if reading her mind, he exhaled dramatically. "Spit it out, Cameron."
"Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of reanalyzing my friendships and reconsidering them if I believe they hold a viable threat against my family," she said, her tone cautious. "And I think you're smart enough to look past certain things and make decisions for yourself, too."
Joe blinked at her, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards slightly. "I'm glad you've realized that. I'm thirty-one years old, after all."
Abby snorted, and leaned against the bumper. "So if you're going to take this mission, know that there's one person here that is confident that you know what you're doing." She pursed her lips. "Matt would throw himself off a cliff if it meant keeping you alive. He has a habit of going overboard."
"And I would do the same. But none of you saw what I did on that last mission, nor do any of you know Max Edwards like I do. I have this under control," he said firmly.
She cocked a hip, a hand settling on her waist as she considered him. "I'm on your side, Solomon. And remember, I was the first to say I believed you."
Joe rolled his eyes, grinned crookedly and bent down to pick up her things. "I knew it. You have a bet going with Rachel, don't you?"
Abby threw back her head and laughed. "Rachel has a hundred fifty on the table if things go badly. I get double if they don't." She tilted her head, her dark hair falling on one side of her face, and eyed him as he rearranged her belongings to fit in the trunk.
"You know what, Solomon? Maybe chivalry isn't dead after all."
Hampstead never came.
That was all she could think of, sitting at Maxwell's kitchen table. She drummed her fingers against the stained wood, staring down at the bags of take-out he had set in front of her, before vanishing to the bathroom to wash up. She had returned from Paris only a few hours ago, exhausted from her mission and traveling, while he had been holed up in his office for days. There was no sense of home when she arrived at his apartment, and she felt uncomfortable, as if intruding on a stranger's personal space.
He reappeared after a few minutes, hair damp from a shower, clad in jeans and a cotton tee. He furrowed his eyebrows, glancing between her and their dinner, and took his seat next to her. He remained silent for a moment, waiting for her to initiate conversation, but concluded that tonight was one of those nights.
"You didn't start eating?" he inquired, pulling the styrofoam containers of Thai food.
She rubbed the bleariness out of her eyes and silently took her serving, twirling noodles with her fork. "How was work?"
"Good. We're having a hard time, considering Homeland Security is a new player in the field, so Interpol's trying to penetrate their systems and get an idea of how they function." He watched her take a bite out of a spring roll and waited until she was finished chewing before he asked, "How was the Paris op?"
She offered nothing more than an one-shouldered shrug, eyes downcast as she ate.
To her surprise, he put down his plastic cutlery and took her left hand. "Cara," he said, pulling her out of her thoughts. "Are you alright?"
His tone held an uncharacteristic tenderness that angered and comforted her all at once. She shook her head, pulled away, and closed her container of food.
"No. I'm feeling nauseous. I'm going to get changed and go to bed, okay?"
She watched his gaze slide to the clock—it was only seven in the evening—and he gave a slow nod. "I'll bring you a cup of tea," he offered.
Cara noiselessly got out of her chair and padded barefoot to their room. Everything had her on edge, from the electrical outlets to the potted plants. She felt like even her smallest movements were being watched. Max was an observant man—there was no doubt, considering his position in Interpol—but the fact that his skills were being used on her made her feel anxious. Her privacy was being annihilated; she had no rights, as if she were a criminal, caught in the warfare between the man and Joe Solomon.
She needed a way out, before Max decided he wasn't feeling friendly anymore and turned his attention to her. The excitement and romance of the beginning of their relationship had died, and she had quickly unearthed his motives. He had never said it out loud, nor would he ever admit it. No matter how much take-out, roses, and tea he showered her with, his actions were empty of affection, his façade slowly fading away. She was his pawn, and keeping her in his bed was his way of communicating that he was the one in control.
Her heart had nearly burst out of her chest when she commissioned the private assignment and sent it to Joe. There was no way she would be able to have a breath of air, alone, as long as she was home. She needed an assignment, something that Max would not be able to discover. He had eyes everywhere, and she had taken drastic measures to make sure she was safe.
Despite the fact that she heard him coming, she nearly jumped out of her skin when his arms wrapped around her from behind. His hands were creeping under her shirt, and goosebumps rippled over her skin. She did not want to be touched, but moving away would send off one of his many alarms.
"The tea is on the stove," he told her, his voice thick with his accent, husky and tired. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
The floor length mirror was to their right and she knew he was watching her change in facial expression. She gripped the footboard of the bed and shrugged. "I think I'm coming down with something," she shrugged. "Stress, maybe."
He hummed under his breath as he mulled over her words. "You should take a few days off. The constant traveling is getting to you," he suggested.
Cara resisted the urge to grit her teeth and shove him off. She did not want that. "No, I have to head to Gallagher in a few days for their career fair—"
"Oh, that stupid thing," he chuckled. "I was going to skip this year, but if you're going—"
She shook her head and turned around, looking him in the eye. "I have a meeting with Headmistress Williams, too. I'll be swamped the entire time."
Max raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" he said, his fingers drumming against her lower back. He sounded skeptical, the glimmer in his eyes revealing his thoughts. "In that case, I'll meet you at home."
She kept her facial features neutral, and unimpressed. "Something about a job, I think," she told him. It wasn't a complete lie and he could've asked the Headmistress himself if he wanted to; the woman had proposed a job, and Cara was planning on inquiring about the offer to create a cover story for herself.
He seemed reasonably surprised and accepted her answer. "After the Solomon mission, I hope," he said, ignoring the whistle of the kettle behind them. "Then you can join their pretentious ranks."
Cara rolled her eyes and nudged his chest, pretending to be amused by his reminder. "Of course. Now, go get me some tea, Edwards. It better not be too sweet."
He chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to her lips and releasing her. She turned around and gripped the wooden bed, exhaling in relief, her shoulders taut with tension.
When he returned with a mug of steaming Earl Grey, she caught the distinct, syrupy sweet scent of truth serum. She put it down and waited for him to slip into bed, her mind whirling as she tried to improvise. She reached for him, her hand sliding behind his neck and pulling him towards her, melding her mouth against his.
After all, sex was the best kind of distraction.
Every profession had its tools. Mathematicians had their calculators and compasses, writers had their books and pens, doctors had their prescription pads and stethoscopes. However, when it came down to stealing some of the world's most renowned works of art, a thief's toolkit was relatively simple.
The items were wrapped cleverly in a special fabric, blocking the attention of metal detectors, and fit easily into a small satchel. There was a set of knives, varying in sharpness and blade length. A ring of lock picks, ideal for every kind of lock that existed in the universe. A flash drive loaded with various programs to override safety measures and loop cameras. A bottle of breath freshener filled with toxic liquid, enough to knock someone out for a few hours. Magnifying glasses, fingerprint replicators, leather gloves and a simple surgical mask.
And then there was the extremely vital communication device, a flesh colored piece of technology tucked inside the left ear, barely noticeable. It was key, connecting the thief to the outside world, providing eyes to what happened beyond the galleries of priceless art.
When it came down to show time, heists were so incredibly simple that authorities often scratched their heads and wondered how they missed them. Interpol, CIA, and other international organizations reveled at the fact that they could not crack basic cases, despite their complex expertise. Security guards remained horrified and embarrassed, ashamed over the fact that one misplaced glance lost their employers—and the world—million-dollar paintings and relics.
Observation was key. It only took a second. Carpe diem was a professional heister's best friend. Time was the biggest weapon.
One second.
All it took was one second.
Sharp grey eyes flashed from the clock to the painting, and the plan went into motion.
Seize the day.