CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Vaughn

Vaughn tripped, and spilled half his coffee on the table in front of him.

The woman in the wooden chair gasped. Her gaze lifted and met his.

“I’m so sorry.” He tilted his head. “Ms. Conway?”

Her eyes widened, and she closed her magazine in front of her latte. “Vaughn Ayers.”

He blinked, and feigned shock. Then grabbed a bunch of napkins from the counter to clean up the mess. “I didn’t get any on you, did I?”

Portia sighed, and a slight smile crossed her face. “No, dear man. I’m fine.” She helped him clean up the rest.

Thankfully, he hadn’t gotten any of the coffee on her black pants and Gucci cream blouse, which matched her purse on the chair.

“I didn’t know you lived around here.”

“Not too far,” Vaughn lied. He tossed the napkins in the trash can, and lingered by her table. “I want to apologize for the misunderstanding the other night.”

Her eyes fell to her ring-covered, knobby knuckles.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not Caroline’s associate.”

The magazine dropped to the table when she looked at him with surprise.

“She hired me to be her date. I’m a Knight.”

Her brow furrowed, but still alight with mischief. “A Knight? From that escort agency?”

Of course she knows about us.

“Yes.” He smiled. “When she made the booking, I had no idea—”

The older woman waved her hand. “It’s all right, Vaughn. In fact, I should apologize to you. Accusing you with no proof…poor form on my part. The police informed me you had nothing to do with it. Will you forgive me?”

Vaughn chuckled. “Certainly. May I?” He gestured to the open chair in front of him.

“Of course.”

He gave himself an invisible pat on the back for the ruse reaching this far. He’d half expected her to kick his shins and dump her coffee all over him. “You took quite a spill that night, too. Are you all right?”

Her eyes gleamed across the table. “Takes far more than that to thwart me.”

That’s what I heard.

“But, you say you’re really a Knight. Is that true?”

The bait worked.

“I am.”

“How long have you been in the business?”

“Just over a year.”

“Are you good at your job?” Portia’s tone conveyed she already knew the answer.

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

She grinned. “Modest, too.”

He hid a smile behind a sip of what was left of his coffee. The rules of discretion were still in play. This was just another potential client. So, Vaughn had to turn up the flirt. “Do you have a date for your next event?”

“I have no problems finding dates for my events.”

“Of course not. A woman like you?”

“However…” She batted her eyelashes. “You’re still invited as my guest, despite all that horrid business from Thursday.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you consider donating your services for the bachelor auction?”

“That depends.”

Portia raised a brow. “On?”

“Will you be bidding?”

She laughed, catching the attention of a few other patrons.

Vaughn smiled back at them.

“You’re such a flirt.”

“That’s what I do.” He took another sip of coffee. “However, in all seriousness, we don’t flaunt our roles as Knights in that manner. Draws too much attention. We try to remain discreet.”

Her smile fell slightly. “I understand.” She cupped her mug. “Then perhaps I could ask you to attend in another capacity.”

Here we go.

“Such as?”

“This event is a masquerade. Much heavier on the dancing, and I could use some facilitators. Entice people onto the floor and keep up the energy. Make the music…irresistible.”

He gave her knowing smile.

“I’m sure someone in your industry knows how to accomplish that.” The woman winked.

“How many guests do you expect?”

“Around a hundred.”

“Then you’ll need several more than just me, to keep them going all night.”

She cocked her head. “Do you have friends in mind?”

Cora

“It worked.” Cora grinned from inside her car, parked down the street from the coffee shop where Vaughn helped pull of the con with Portia Conway.

From her vantage point, she could see both of them sitting in the shop, the man layering on his thick charm, easily heard through the microphone she’d taped to his chest under his shirt.

This time, she wore a black wig, pixie hairstyle. She couldn’t use the blonde wig anymore, since that was on a dozen video cameras at the bank from the safe deposit box heist.

She certainly couldn’t be seen this close to Portia Conway with her normal appearance, either. The woman would recognize her instantly.

This wig was just as itchy as the blonde one.

“Now we just need to find a way to get back inside her house.” Tom’s voice came through the speaker on her cell. He’d overheard the entire exchange, secure in the safe house she’d set him up in when they arrived six months ago.

“I’ll find a way.” Cora kept her gaze on Vaughn, his smile so captivating, even from a distance. “I always do.”

“I didn’t expect him to be able to pull this off.” The condemnation in Tom’s voice thickened. “He could still be using all this to set you up.”

“Not Vaughn.”

A few keyboard clicks sounded in the background. “You’re far too trusting.”

She seethed through her nose. Telling Vaughn everything last night about the Conway job had never been part of her plan. Confidentiality of her jobs was the ultimate priority for every mark. Which she clearly blew out of the water with Vaughn. Not to mention, she’d broken her father’s cardinal rule. Never involve friends.

But it felt good, sharing her secrets with someone. Her career could be so lonely.

“If I hadn’t been at least a little trusting, you’d be sitting in a federal prison right now.”

“Back at you, Cor. This job doesn’t get done without someone like me.”

“I know that. Stop questioning my choices, and I won’t question yours anymore.”

He laughed. “Which of my choices could you possibly question?”

She smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Your habit of not showering for a week. Your fetish for setting off the fire sprinklers in the lobbies of every company you couldn’t hack within an hour. Or how about your preference for boy band music.”

“Is this you not questioning my choices? Because you suck at it.”

Cora laughed.

Vaughn stood, and Portia Conway rose on her tiptoes to kiss him on either cheek.

She smirked.

The older woman was a red-blooded American, but she insisted on European farewells, as if raised with French aristocracy.

“They’re on the move.”

“I got ‘em.” More keyboard clicks in the background. Tom was recording the whole exchange through the coffee shop’s surveillance system he’d hacked into that morning.

Portia left first, with her chauffeur pulling up in a black Cadillac to drive her away.

Vaughn stood on the corner, finishing off his coffee. He chucked it in the trash can. Dark jeans and a form-fitting, forest green T-shirt oozed confidence and capability. The sun peeked through the clouds, and caught red tinges in his hair, giving him a rugged, Irish look.

Then he glanced down the street, toward Cora’s car.

Their stares met.

He blew her a kiss.

Her cheeks warmed. There was no helping it. She blew a kiss back.

“Hey, lovebird,” Tom chastised. “Can you bring me a frappuccino?”