All the thanks in the world to Sphinx, Lola, HuttonFan, Gibbsrossi, JustBecause2012, and all the people who have been reading along and taking the time comment!
[ THREE ]
While Sophie was constantly evolving, scattering pieces of herself as she made her way through Europe, London, she found, remained stagnant, unchanged by time.
Sophie returned there older, wiser, any soft edges she may have had once upon a time turned hard and angular with experience. She returned as Charlotte – young, beautiful Charlotte who had a penchant for expensive wine and an aspiration to be a Shakespearian actress. As Charlotte, she found home with the family she began conning years before, with the man she began conning years before. She fooled William into falling in love with her and his family into accepting her. It didn't take long – Sophie had long since mastered the art of using a single look, the softest touch to portray her intentions, for baiting a man until he was undoubtedly wrapped around her finger.
Lies were easy to sell, she knew, and love easier because it wasn't real, because it was an emotion and emotions were easily formed and manipulated. By this point in her life, Sophie had developed the frightening capability of being able to bend everything and everyone to her will.
At first, she decided she wasn't going to swindle them out of their jewels or fortune and instead focused on developing an alias that would be able to give her admittance past doors that seemed too difficult to open before. So, you see, she married William because she liked him, of course, but mostly because as Lady Charlotte Prentice people would give her access to all sorts of lovely and expensive things that were just begging to be stolen without so much of a second thought. Being Lady Charlotte Prentice made life easier and Sophie appreciated convenience. It was as Charlotte that Sophie acquired the infamous Raphael and the Antioch manuscripts. It was also, most importantly, through Charlotte's connections that Sophie was able to gain access into the Vatican and swipe the second statue of David – the pride and joy of her stolen collection.
It was also as Charlotte that Sophie discovered the largest issue regarding the long con – it was entirely too easy to become lost in the façade, to start finding the tiniest bit of truth in the lies. As time weaned on she started to appreciate the people she surrounded herself with, started to feel at home with the family she had conned into accepting her. At night, William returned home to her, settled into their bed and whispered I love youas she curled into him, pressing a leg between his. She said it back every single time out of routine, kissed his mouth, molded her body against his, and eventually started to see the lines between lies and truth blur almost completely.
When scandal broke of William's infidelities, Sophie took it as her opportunity to flee. She had known, of course, before everyone. She recognized the floral perfume that lingered on his clothes, the bouts of inattention, the lipstick smudged on his collar. Sophie could recognize a liar from a distance because she was one, and if she had been able to maintain any impartiality at all, she would have been proud of his attempt to con her. But instead his lies and indiscretions had wounded her profoundly, and she couldn't distinguish between whether or not she was upset that he had the audacity to lie or the fact that she had allowed him to get so close that those lies were able to make such an impact.
So, instead of taking the time to figure out what that meant, she ran.
She met Marcus Starke in Barcelona and slept with him first just to prove that she could, just to prove that William's effect on her wasn't lasting, that she had just been confused and mistaken. It was only later that she recruited Marcus for his skills in forgery to help her steal the Sancy diamond from the Louvre and a Manet from Berlin.
Starke had a world-class mind that could rival most everyone she had ever met, but Sophie was better, brighter, more ruthless and cunning. She took point and he mostly followed her lead and while they formed a shaky alliance, while he lusted after her and she indulged in said lust every once in a while, she never allowed him to get too close, never allowed herself to become a permanent fixture in his revolving door of teams. Sophie didn't trust Starke, but he respected her and she respected him. So while she mostly worked alone, there was always a job that was too big for just one person, so she called on him when she felt it was appropriate and always answered the phone when he reached out to her to say he needed her help.
Mostly, Sophie just preferred it when people owed her things. It meant that she had sole possession of the upper hand. It meant that she was in complete control of any given situation.
They had a spectacular run together in the late nineties – Copenhagen, Berlin, and a glorious, profitable three-month run in Moscow that was cut short by some hot shot insurance agent who didn't know when to quit.
It was around this time, after Starke had left the cold for a yacht in the South of France, that Annie Kroy met Tara Cole at the Russian boarder. Sophie was using her alias to swindle money and a few priceless antiques out of a wealthy businessman. Said businessman had some very lucrative side businesses that consisted of gunrunning, money laundering, and, unfortunately for her, murder.
Of course, Sophie wasn't aware of that at the time she had committed to the con. Some people just knew how to hide their secrets better than others.
The deal went south quickly. Apparently, what Sophie saw as an easy mark was a mark with some very serious internal issues regarding the trust and loyalty of his subordinates. He suspected Interpol had infiltrated his inner circle and before Sophie could think of a proper exit plan guns were firing, creating mayhem with muzzle flare and bullets. Bodies were dropping left and right, and the mark had the audacity to accuse her and a fellow prospective buyer of being undercover agents for Interpol because they somehow managed to be the last ones standing.
The other buyer – a woman who was just tall and blonde enough to be the German she was claiming to be, but had an accent that was too thick to be completely authentic – tried to talk her way out of the situation whilst still closing the deal. Sophie recognized the name she used. It was an alias she had heard in passing, a fellow grifter she had heard stories about, whose work Sophie had almostadmired. Sophie made it a point to have knowledge of everyone who was anyone and while the other woman was trying to save the deal, Sophie recognized the look in the mark's eyes, the way his index finger flexed over the trigger of the gun he was pointing at the both of them. Mostly, though, she recognized the way he shifted his weight evenly, bracing himself in advance for the recoil of the gun.
In an instant, the blonde lunged forward and wrestled with the man for the gun. A stray shot went off to the right and another into the floor. Instead of waiting to catch a bullet, Sophie abandoned all hope of keeping her hands clean and reached for the gun located on the dead body lying next to her, diving down in one fluid motion as a distraction.
Sophie put a bullet in the mark's head before he could even react, before he ever even realized she had the gun in her hands.
After a moment, she crouched down next to his body and checked for a pulse, bloodying her hands in the process. She breathed a sigh of relief when she felt nothing under her fingertips except for skin that was still warm. The other buyer followed her out into the cold, helped her dispose of the gun, and removed any and all evidence that they were ever in the warehouse, city, or even country for that matter. They stuck together not out of necessity but because they simply didn't trust one another. It wasn't personal, merely business – Sophie didn't want to take the chance that this woman would get left behind and picked up by the authorities, leaving her no other choice but to burn Sophie's rock solid alias in an effort to save herself.
Instead, they flirted their way past border control together with short skirts and a bottle of whiskey, and when they finally made it safely past said border, the other woman was the first one to speak.
"I guess this would be the appropriate time for me to say thank you," she muttered, dropping the German accent for an American one. Her tone was clipped, and Sophie recognized the unleashed anger underneath her words before she continued, "Although I would just like to point out that I had the situation completely under control and if you had given me five more seconds your intervention would have been completely unnecessary."
"Oh?" Sophie didn't let Annie Kroy fade away as easily, she maintained the harshness in her tone and in her body language. Didn't give any part of herself away to this woman she barely knew. "He was planning to shoot us the moment we walked into that room. Nothing you said was going to stop him."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that."
She seemed to mull that over for a little bit as they walked through a wooded area in search of anything but wilderness. Sophie knew she was more than likely retracing her footsteps, going back over their conversation until she saw the clues she missed, making mental notes so she didn't miss the signs again.
"Thank you," the woman tried again, a little more honestly this time, but Sophie could tell the words were forced, as if she was still, even now, trying to con her way into something. Sophie appreciated the motivation, but didn't allow it show. "You can call me Tara, by the way –"
Sophie made a 'tsk' sound with her teeth and laughed shortly. The sound wasn't kind, void of any and all mirth. "You shouldn't have done that," she singsonged. "Because now I know your name. And now I know how to find you if and when I ever need a favor." Stopping mid-step, Sophie turned to face Tara. "Don't mistake my actions as kindness. I can assure you kindness had nothing to do with what transpired back there."
Tara scoffed. "You're a little full of yourself aren't you?"
"Not without reason."
Tara grinned, flashing her teeth. It was appreciative almost, respectful even. There was noise in the distance – the rumble of an engine, the sound of tires moving over asphalt. They were getting close to civilization again and Sophie sighed with relief because her pantyhose had runs and her feet were killing her and she had actual dirt under her fingernails.
"I think I'm going to like you. In fact," Tara continued, "I think this might just be the start of a very lucrative friendship."
Sophie opened her mouth to make a snide comment about Americans and their awful puns, but instead merely raised an eyebrow and corrected, "Alliance. I don't have friends."
Tara shrugged as she stalked ahead, taking the lead. "I can work with that."
There was the smallest smile playing at the corners of Sophie's mouth as she followed.
xXx
The air in Portland is thick with humidity, Spring segueing quickly into summer, and exactly seventy-two hours after Nate cons Latimer and Dubenich into plunging to their deaths the bodies wash ashore somewhere in upstate New York. The news breaks on CNN and plays softly in the lobby of the hotel as she and Nate check-in. The front desk clerk pauses every so often to listen to the report, reaching for the remote to raise the volume, and Sophie watches as Nate's back stiffens, the line of his shoulders hardening. One of her hands fists tightly around the handle of her carryon, the other lingers against the crook of his arm, the pressure slight, mean to be reassuring. She does not ask are you okaybut the sentiment is there, Nate knows it is there, and the smile he gives her – small and tight, just barely lifting the corner of his mouth – reassures her.
In the elevator, Sophie files in behind him. She glances at him via the steel of the doors as he stares upwards, watching the red numbers climbing higher and higher as they approach their floor. Some moments before, he had shoved a keycard in her hand, his fingers grazing hers softly, lingering with intent. It is routine, really, having separate rooms. They are together, the team knows they are together, but there are lines they like to remain intact, lines they don't dare cross. There was a promise early on, after they finally admitted to themselves after San Lorenzo what they had always known – that whatever was between them wasn't going anywhere, hard as they may try to prove otherwise – that work remained separate from whatever thisis. Even though they have spread themselves in a completely opposite direction from Eliot, Parker, and Hardison, the routine sticks.
Still, she isn't exactly surprised to find him following closely behind her as they make their way down the hall to their rooms. He passes his own and crowds her door as she slides the card into the lock and listens for the click of it sliding out of place. She pushes the door open with her foot and allows him to enter first, watching as he disappears inside the suite in the direction of the bedroom. Sophie leaves her luggage near the door, engages the deadbolt, and fumbles for her cell phone, clicking it back on for the first time since their plane took off hours before. It starts to ding repeatedly almost immediately, noting the arrival of various text messages and voicemails. There is one from Hardison and quite a few from Parker, all containing some varying degrees of hereor made itand she smiles immediately, reaches up to fiddle with the earbud in her ear only to remember it isn't there.
Now, with the five of the separated by miles and continents, Sophie misses them. She misses the sound of Hardison and Eliot arguing in the background. Sophie misses Parker's mere presence, the delightful sound of her off-key laugh. She actually misses the subtle weight of the earbud in her ear and has to curl her hand into a tight fist to stop her fingers from reaching to fiddle with it once more just out of sheer habit.
She responds to them in kind, her own version of hereor made itcondensed into less than a hundred characters. She sends a quick message to Tara to let her know that she is alive and well and to expect a phone call in a few days with explanations. She sends one to Maggie as well just because it feels like the right thing to do, because Sophie knows that is what friends do. She isn't exactly sure when or even how it happened, but Maggie has long since been added to the very short list of people Sophie would do anything to protect.
Thieves are solitary creatures by nature, out of the desperate need for self-preservation. Those two things have all but defined Sophie's life for as long as she can remember, but she knows now what she could not even fathom before. She knows that while being alone and trusting no one may ensure survival, it is no way to live. As she switches the phone over to silent and places it to the side, Sophie takes a moment to reflect back on her time away from the team. She remembers all those months that she spent traveling the world, trying to put her life back together all the while trying to figure out just who she was. It feels like a lifetime ago, really, but she can still remember how she thought of her team every day, how she traveled from London to Istanbul and all the way to Beijing and back again, picking up knickknacks for them, tiny little keepsakes that reminded her of them, of the family she never thought she would have again.
She was always going to return to Boston, to the team, to wherever they may have ended up in the meantime. She knows that now, understands that she left so she could return on herterms, not Nate's, not because of some wistful fantasy she had for the two of them that could never be reality because they were no longer those people. She's still not entirely sure if happened that way, if Tara's intervention and Nate's selfishly placed I need youdidn't sway her resolve, but she does know that it doesn't matter in the general scheme of things. She would do it again, she would protect her team, no questions asked, at any moment in time. It is who she is now.
Wandering further into the suite, she finds Nate sprawled out on her bed, his feet crossed at the ankles, his good arm folded underneath his head and the other curled into a fist atop his stomach. She leans against the doorway, following his line of sight to see the TV on mute and set to CNN. The scroll along the bottom is relaying facts and theories regarding Dubenich and Latimer's demise.
"Admiring your handiwork?" she asks before she can stop herself and his eyes flick to hers sullenly. The surprise, the regret is evident in the way he looks at her and Sophie regrets her words immediately.
"I didn't kill them," he says softly, clicking the TV off.
"No," she nods, pressing her lips into a thin line. "You're right, you didn't."
"Their greed and desperate need for self-preservation killed them," he clarifies and she knows it is for his own benefit and not hers. "I –"
She cuts off his reply. "Just provided the leverage?"
Nate doesn't respond and she doesn't exactly expect him to. The guilt over what happened near that dam will come and go because Nate excels at self-deprecation and holds on to every mistake, every single thing that could be used for self-destruction later on down the road. Sophie doesn't like what happened, she doesn't like the man she saw there, the man that conned two men into their deaths, but she can begin to understand it. She knows Dubenich, she knows he would have searched to the ends of the earth to find the five of them and destroyed them in whatever way he saw fit. She understands Nate's need for revenge more than ever now because they are a team; they are a family. While she doesn't agree with it, there is a part of her she doesn't like to admit exists that might do the same given the right situation. She is just better at hiding it than him.
She meanders further into the room, kicking off her shoes one by one when she has reached the foot of the bed. "I heard from the others," she tells him.
Nate raises an eyebrow. "They get in okay?"
Sophie nods, the mattress dipping under her weight as she crawls over the comforter and towards him. She twists onto her back when she's finally in her position beside him, her lungs heaving a sigh as the mattress molds around her, her body shifting until it is comfortable. She doesn't move into Nate, just lays there beside him, her own legs crossing at the ankles. She flattens her palms against the mattress, curls them into fists before allowing them to just lay there, still.
"Hardison and Parker are probably stealing security plans and hacking their way into the Pradoas we speak." At Nate's look she further clarifies, "Don't worry. I told them they had to put everything back after they were done."
"And Eliot?"
Turning her head to face him, she smiles. "You know Eliot. He'll reach out when he's ready."
Nodding, Nate starts to shift closer to her, wincing when he puts too much pressure on his injured shoulder. When she reaches for him it is to work at the buttons of his shirt, but only so she can slip her fingers inside and check the bandage and wound underneath. When she's satisfied by its appearance, she runs her index finger along the edge of the tape, securing the dressing once more as she makes a mental note to change it again before bed.
"Admiring your handiwork?" he asks, almost teasing, and she looks up to find him smiling at her.
"You're going to have a quite a scar." She moves to rest fully on her side, using an arm for support as the other travels to his stomach, to the bit of flesh that stretches between his shirt and the waist of his pants. She slips her fingers underneath, to the puckering of skin she knows is there, and traces the ridges of the scar from memory. He hisses a sigh and Sophie smiles as she watches his eyes fall closed. "You seem to get shot quite a bit."
"Always in the right place at the wrong time, I guess."
"I'm actually more inclined to think it's that good old Catholic guilt working against you," she murmurs quietly.
"How so?"
Sophie shrugs softly, her eyesight slipping up to his. "You think you deserve to be shot; you put yourself in situations where you may be shot, so you get shot. It's almost an inevitability with you."
Humming something noncommittal in the back of his throat, Nate shifts closer to her still. Sophie's fingers stop their gentle movements, her palm flatting against the smooth skin of his belly, rising and falling as he breathes.
"It's self destructive," she tells him. She stares at her hand against his skin as she talks. "I'm going to need you to work on that, Nate."
There is a short span of time where she doesn't breathe as she waits for his response, where she tries to conjure up in her mind how he may respond before the words leave his mouth. She almost doesn't realize he is talking until she feels the vibrations against the bones of her hand.
"I am." He pauses and clears his throat. "I will," he says quietly and she turns to look at him then, sees him looking at her with such affection and love and a smile that she almost only sees when he has let his carefully placed guard down and regales her with stories of Sam.
"Okay," she sighs after a long moment. Her fingers start to move again, drawing patterns against where they rest on his stomach, her eyes moving from his to watch the rise and fall of his chest.
After a moment, his hand reaches for hers, his fingers weaving their way through her own. "I'm glad you're here," he says, and she smiles a little on reflex, feels herself moving into him fully and without thought, her body molding and curling around his. Nate shifts to accommodate her, allows her to rest against his good shoulder, his good arm wrapping around her tightly, pulling her close. His fingers slip under the neck of her shirt to search for the small, nearly faded scar he'd put there years before.
His touch settles at the base of her spine and Sophie sighs, sated and suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion, her body and bones giving in under the enormous weight of the past few weeks. She feels as if she could sleep for days, her eyes heavy, lashes slipping against her cheeks as his fingers tighten and loosen around hers.
"Wake me when you do?" she murmurs, another habit of theirs.
"Yeah," Nate says, humming something affirmative in the back of his throat. Sophie finally allows her eyes to close, the weight of her breaths evening as she falls asleep.
xXx
Sophie Devereaux met Nathan Ford on a warm night in Prague some time in the very beginning of that glorious run she had with Marcus. The air was so warm and humid that sweat pooled at the small of her back, lingering with the adrenaline that she tasted in the back of her throat the moment she laid eyes on the painting. The heat made her hands slippery, fingers sliding awkwardly as she ever so carefully rolled the canvas into the hollow crutches under her arms – the crutches that matched the fake cast on her left foot. Not the most original idea, she knew, but it worked, never failing to open doors she would have otherwise had to pick.
It was important to know that the Degas was not her original goal. In the beginning, when the heist was in the tender planning stages, she had no idea the mark even had a Degas, but once she slipped past security and onto the upper levels of the mark's home, there it was, the center of his collection, taunting her. Sophie's carefully planned escape route was botched the moment she decided to go back for it, the moment she decided to get greedy, so instead she had to make her way back through the party, smiling her way past the mark and all of his party goers and right out the front door.
Her eyes found Nate first because it was her job to survey her surroundings, because she had an innate ability to read body language, to see through the words that filled the space around her. She knew how to identify a potential threat by glancing at the way a person held their glass of champagne – too loosely and they were uncomfortable, out of place; tightly meant they felt anchored, at ease – and Nathan Ford held his tumbler of whiskey as if he could drop it at a moment's notice. She passed by him and bumped his shoulder on purpose. Felt a spark of electricity settle in the base of her stomach as he glanced in her direction, as she mumbled her so sorry, monsieurwith a loose smile, and picked his wallet right out of his jacket pocket just because she could.
Five more steps and she would have had a clear getaway, would have slipped right out the front door and into the streets, but something lingered – a feeling she had trouble burying right away, that didn't seem to wantto be buried – and she turned, just at the last moment, for one final look.
He was watching her, of course. His hair was slicked back, tumbler gone from his fingers, his mouth set into a firm line. He was watching her, waiting to pounce because he knew.Knew who she was. What she was. What she was there to do. What she had already done. But there was a room full of people and noise and conversations between them and she had too much of a head start. He would never make it. She knew it and he knew it, too, so instead Sophie merely paused in the doorway, cocked her head to the side. Her smile was both dangerous and worn, a challenge of sorts, before she slipped into the darkness and warmth of the night.
She ran. He chased.
It was a game Sophie loved to play and Nathan Ford was more than a worthy opponent. She taunted him, teased him, tricked him, but he never failed to see through every con, every lie; he never failed to be just a mere step behind her at all times. There were close calls – Venice, Amsterdam, those wonderful, profitable three months in Moscow where she slipped up just to allow him to get close, just so she could feel the rush of knowing he was closing in before she slipped past the border in the middle of the night with Tara in tow.
Eventually she stopped stealing on a whim, stopped stealing whatever simply caught her eye. Eventually she started stealing things she knew his company insured just to mess with him, just to tangle the web that much more.
Sophie started to leave him notes and clues, her scrawl hasty but precise, her words always carefully chosen. She left treasure maps to lead him to things she had stolen and he wanted back. After a misstep on both their parts that almost landed them both in a Uzbekistan prison, she left a sixty-year-old bottle of bourbon – her favorite, not his – in his hotel room with a note that read: Think of me when you drink this, darling. Better luck next time.
When he finally caught up with her in Damascus, she wasn't quite sure it was because she allowed him to or if he was simply that good. Still, she didn't even see him, didn't even think to look for him while she made her way out of the house of the woman she had just spent weeks conning, another tiny Fabergé egg hidden in the lining of her jacket to add to her collection.
Nate spoke, his tone low and just for her just as the door shut behind her. "You are just borrowing that, right?"
Sophie stopped dead in her tracks, tried to devise an exit strategy on reflex, but all of her escape routes were too lengthy – her car was too far away, the subway was six blocks over, and she was surely not going to try to make a run for it in her brand new Jimmy Choo boots. So instead, she turned on her heel, the smile curling around her mouth practiced and learned as she faced him.
"I don't believe we've formally met," she said, voice smooth, smile dangerous. She started to cross the distance to him, her heels clicking against the concrete as she did so, but he shifted his weight, fidgeted with his jacket in just the right way. His gun gleamed proudly under the bright sun. Sophie took another step closer, unfazed. "Tell me, Mr. Ford, does my reputation precede me?"
"It brought me here," he started; he bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to contain the smile she knew was just twitching to cross his mouth. "To you. To that Fabergé egg you have in your inner coat pocket."
There was a pair of handcuffs in his back pocket, she could tell by the way he carried his weight, and that should have scared her, it should have made her take a step back and flee. Instead, she decided to test the waters: she took one last step forward, watched him smile, blush,and falter so quickly, so slightly that somebody who was not as skilled at surveying human behavior would have missed it altogether. His smile widened; her own grew brazen.
"She practically gave it to me," Sophie pointed out. "She just left it right there in a safe that I cracked in less than five minutes. Honestly, Nathan, you really need to teach your clients about proper security. Otherwise they're basically doing my job for me."
Stepping closer to her, he grinned. He looked handsome, she thought, there in the sun, his eyes solely on her. She stepped closer to him, crowding his personal space entirely, not about to give away the upper hand so quickly. "So," he broached, "you were just, I don't know, testing the security system for weaknesses. Helping me do my job?"
"Exactly."
Slanting his head towards hers, he whispered conspiratorially, "So, I guess we can call it even, yeah?" And suddenly he leaned in so close that she could smell his aftershave, the subtle hint of honey in the cheap hotel shampoo, count the freckles along his nose. It caught her off the guard – him, the moment, the closeness.
She breathed, "That sounds about right." With a smirk, Sophie regained her wits and pressed her palms flat on the lapels of his cotton jacket, fingers curling just slightly before releasing, before leaning in more closely, her lips a hair away from his ear as she said, "What kind of person would I be, after all, if I didn't help a friend in need?"
The closing of Nate's eyes coincided with a sharp inhale, a shaky breath, and she knew it was her opportunity to flee, so she did just that – pivoted on her heel, began to glide quietly in the opposite direction.
"Sophie." He called for her when she was a few yards away and she stopped mid step because his tone was not that of the frazzled, jaw-slacken insurance investigator she thought she was leaving behind. His tone was entirely way too smug for her liking. She turned to face him, anger thrumming under skin when she saw the beautiful, elegant Fabergéegg dangling from his fingers. "Forget something?"
She was shocked, livid, her mind already playing back the last five minutes to decipher the exact moment when he made the lift. Trying to rationalize how she possibly could have missed it. Ultimately, Sophie decided she'd rather not know. Instead, she merely smiled coldly, nodding appreciatively at her opponent that was proving to be entirely too inconvenient.
"Until next time," she said at last, her version of goodbye.The way he smiled then – wide, teeth bare, smug reminded her entirely too much of her own.
Just then, a car alarm blared in the distance, a horn beeped loudly down the street and Nate turned to look, his attention waning. Sophie had always been able to admit when she had lost, so she finally made her escape.
She ran. He chased.
The cycle continued, Nate tracing her footsteps across Europe carefully, but this time Sophie didn't allow him to get close, didn't linger in cities long after a con was complete. She amassed information concerning all things Nathan Ford from various sources – fellow grifters, thieves, other men and women he had pursued. She had a hacker ally break into IYS' mainframe and make her a copy of his file. Sophie tried to learn more about her opponent in an effort to outwit him, but all she had were facts and statistics, how much money he had saved the company, the name of his wife, his son, his address. She knew that his father was an ex-con, his mother a schoolteacher. Sophie knew that he hailed from Boston, but the accent had all but disappeared from his voice – more than likely due to a lifetime of practice because Nate Ford was not a man who was proud of his roots, of his history.
When he found her in Madrid some time later but only bothered to leave a replica of that damn Fabergé egg at the front desk for her, she decided she may never truly understand him. She may never understand his motivations, or just why he hadn't done his job and arrested her yet.
They didn't meet again until Paris, nearly a year later. She was stealing an entire art collection, pressed for time and committing a cardinal sin by painstakingly cutting the art out of the frames. He burst into the room, yielding a gun, and Sophie acted on instinct, on pure reflex: she grabbed the gun she had lifted from the mark's office, pulled the trigger, and turned to run.
Sophie never expected him to shoot her back. She definitely didn't expect him to allow her to escape after he did so.
There was a doctor in Lyon that didn't ask questions and Sophie went to him instead of stitching herself back together because she didn't want the scar the bullet hole left behind to be any messier than necessary. After, she started to feel guilty – the feeling foreign, biting as it lingered in the back of her throat, so she went to the hospital she knew the emergency services personnel would have taken Nate. Flirted her way past the doctors, smiled her way past the nurses, and waited until he came to.
It was late – or early depending on the perspective – and the sun was just starting to graze the horizon, turning the room a gentle hue of oranges and reds when he stirred. Sophie had spent the better part of the night in and out of consciousness, the painkillers she was given effectively doing their job, and his voice startled her when he spoke.
"You could have killed me." His voice wasn't kind, but it wasn't angry either. She thought she heard a smile in there somewhere, so she opened her eyes to look at him. She was right. Of course she was right. That insufferable smile was twisting at the corners of his mouth. Her own mouth tried to do the same, but she withheld the inclination.
"If I wanted you to be dead, you would be dead," she told him softly.
There was an edge to her tone she used on purpose and he heard it, she knew he did – his brow furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line. There was a certain amount of truth behind her words, and he saw that, too. Sophie wondered if she was killing the fantasy he had of her then. The fantasy of the thief that really wasn't all that terrible, that he moralized in an effort to make himself feel better about this game of cat and mouse that could have ended by now if either one of them had really wanted it to. Sophie wondered if she did it on purpose, if she steeled herself and shared a tiniest bit of truth with him to provide them with some much-needed distance, to draw the line more boldly and clearly between them.
Still, after all this time, Sophie heard Gabrielle's voice in her ear: Trust no one.
"You aren't a murderer."
"Perhaps, not," she replied. She shifted in her seat, crossing and recrossing her legs to get comfortable. She hated how he unhinged her, how his mere presence set her nerves on fire. "But I am a thief and not a very nice one at that."
For a while, Nate just looked at her, scrutinizing every aspect of her. She hated when he did that, when he looked as though he could see right through her and narrow in right on all the lies she had carefully spun. There was no need to worry, of course. Sophie was the best liar one could ever meet, and there was no way he, of all people, was capable of discerning the truth, but still she looked away.
After a moment he said, "Maggie... she's, uh, she's on her way." Sophie's eyes darted back to his and she saw something unsettling there, something she couldn't quite place. "My wife, I mean. They called her," he clarified, and she couldn't help but wonder if the correction was for her benefit or his.
Sophie smiled carefully. "I should probably go then."
"Yeah," he murmured quietly with a slight nod of his head and Sophie didn't need to be told twice, so she stood, smoothing some wrinkles out of her clothes and making her way to the door. "You ruined a perfectly good jacket, by the way," Nate said in parting, and she lingered in the doorway for a moment before turning her head to glance at him.
"You ruined a perfectly good exit strategy," she told him, a hint of teasing in her voice. "Call it even?"
Nate smiled and suddenly there was a nurse trying to shuffle her way past Sophie. "Not even close," he replied and it sounded like a threat with a just a subtle hint of promise.
Waiting a beat, she chose the exact moment he became distracted by the nurse at his bedside to disappear down the hallway.
