I checked the door and checked Bricks. She gave me a subtle over-the-shoulder look and made her eyes go wide in frustration. If he didn’t show in the next ten minutes I’d call it and we could come back tomorrow night. Maybe he’d already found a willing slut to take back to his room so she could spank him and call him Shirley or whatever sick bastard shit he was into.
But another night meant another hotel for me and Bricks. The payday on this job was good, but not knowing when the next gig was coming made us both a little tightfisted when it came to the bank accounts.
I decided fuck it and downed the last swallow of my beer and looked around for the college girl to get me another. Mr. Swiss walked in the door. One of the frat boys told another whopper and the laughter nearly drowned out Rick Springfield’s lament for Jessie’s girl.
I wiped my palms on my pants when I realized they’d suddenly gone sweaty. Game on. I was ready for my part. Now it was Bricks’ turn to snag him in that web of hers.
2
BRICKS
A honey trap. That is the last con I ever imagined I’d play a part in. Those kind of gigs usually involve some slutty siren who drips sex appeal. About the only thing I ever drip is sweat from a hard aikido workout.
But I am a woman, and damnit, every woman can be sexy, right?
Right?
We’d see.
The Swiss answer to sexual deviancy stood near the door, scanning the room. I glanced at Cam to make sure he’d seen our mark, then turned away, managing to flip my hair in the process. I’d been letting it grow and now that my curls reached shoulder length, they actually did something when I flipped my hair.
Which was never.
At least I didn’t have to giggle at the same time, or croon the blonde mating call, “Oh my God, I’m sooooo drunk!”
The stool next to me was the only one along the entire bar that was still open, so it wasn’t like Swiss Boy Robinson had much of a choice. True to form, he appeared at my shoulder less than a minute later.
“Is someone sitting here?” he asked me. His accent was thick and haughty, though I’m sure he thought it was slick and hottie. I gave him a bored look over my shoulder, then hesitated just long enough to let a little interest seep into my expression. When I was pretty sure he’d noticed, I dropped the disinterested mask back into place.
“If he is, he’s invisible,” I said.
A touch of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, a touch of New York, here in Boston. How cosmopolitan.” He sat down on the chair next to me and signaled the bartender.
I’d already decided that the hard ass, hard to get mistress was the card to play with this guy, but his comment gave me an excuse to continue the conversation while staying in character. Besides, I was a little curious how he’d pegged my accent. “How’d you know I was New York?”
“Your accent, of course.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“But you do. And it is very definitely a New York accent.”
The bartender appeared in front of us, looking at him expectantly.
“I will have an old fashioned, bitte.”
The bartender scrunched his brow. “You want it bitter?”
“No, I’m sorry. Just a standard old fashioned. And please bring the lady another of whatever she is having.”
I held up my half-full glass of red wine. “Vino. House.”
The bartender nodded and was gone.
I gave our man a sardonic look. “You get on my accent, but at least I came in here speaking English, pal.”
“Is that what they speak here in Boston?” He shook his head. “Well, if it qualifies as English, it is only as a regional dialect.”
“You sure you’re not British? That sounds like something a Brit would say, all pissed off at what we Americans have done to his mother tongue.”
“And where do you suppose they stole most of that mother tongue? From Deutsch.”
“From the Dutch?”
He smiled indulgently, then leaned in towards me conspiratorially. “Let’s not pretend that you are a stupid woman, or that I would be interested in any such thing. I believe we will get along much better if we do so.”
“Who says I’m pretending? Maybe I’m just breaking your balls.”
His smile widened. “A curious expression. Very American. I rather like it, though I wish it had a different meaning.”
“Like?”
“Something not quite so painful.”
I took a slow sip of my wine, thinking. I’d hoped to charm him with the gritty, hard to get angle. Being the femme fatale wasn’t in my wheelhouse. But my pops always told me to follow my gut, and that not to was a big mistake. Where he came from, and where I grew up, there are some mistakes you don’t come back from.
So I shifted into unfamiliar territory. I eyed him up and down and took another sip. That gave the bartender time to return with our drinks. My new friend ignored his while I polished off the rest of my glass of wine and placed it next to the full one he’d bought for me. I made sure to leave some lipstick on the rim for good measure, as I tapped my fingernail on the glass.
“You’re very forward,” I said from low in my throat. I was hoping for a husky growl, something along the lines of Mae West, but it came out sounding more like Kathleen Turner with a cold.
“Yes. But I’m afraid I must be. You see, I am only here for this final evening before I return home.”
“Where’s home, exactly?”
“Dusseldorf.”
“Is that in Switzerland?”
His eyes narrowed. “No, of course not. It is in Germany.”
Shit.
I reached for my wine glass. “Oh, I though you sounded Swiss. They speak German, too, right?”
He contemplated me for a long uncomfortable moment. I drank some vino and gave him a look with just a hint of smolder in it. At least, that was what I was shooting for. If I had the same luck as my Mae West voice, I probably just looked like I was constipated.
His expression softened, though, and he picked up his drink, took a gentlemanly swallow, and smiled. “The Swiss cannot choose a side in war, politics, or business. Nor can they choose a language. They speak German, true, but also French and Italian. Really, all they are good for is making watches and banking. Especially banking.”
“And chocolate.”
“German chocolate is far superior.”
I made a pouty smile. “I’ll bet.”
“One might argue we are better at banking, too. The bank I work for is a particular example.” He took another drink, this one much longer. When he set the glass down, it was almost empty. “Tell me, what is your name?”
“Bella,” I told him.
“Bella,” he mused. “How appropriate.”
I smiled at him, but all I could think was spare me.
“Bella, I am Konrad.”
I held out my left hand like a debutante. “Charmed.”
He took it lightly, and then the bratwurst brain actually kissed my knuckle. I knew Cam was watching this, and that I’d never hear then end of this bullshit. But I smiled and acted impressed.
We sat there for another twenty minutes, though if you’d asked me at the time, I’d have said it was two hours. Or two years. As urbane and European as Konrad purported to be—and truth be told, his manners fit the bill—in the end, he was just another horny guy looking to get his rocks off. Just another man who thinks the most interesting conversation is one in which he talks about himself, or what he thinks, or what he plans to accomplish.
Only this one happened to piss off the wrong people. With some cash to spend. And the right number to call.
It took him most of that twenty minutes to make himself believe he’d wowed me with his sophistication. I’m sure he thought he had me so primed I was about ready to slide right off of my chair. Of course, I had something to do with that perception. I played up the sexy almost-vamp, throwing in the occasional innuendo to lead him down the garden path.