Page 135 of Brazen Deceits

That tells me everything I need to know about how this meeting is going to go. The urge to turn and run away is almost overwhelming, but I follow the hostess anyway. This mess needs to be cleaned up, and Jasmine’s our best bet at figuring out how everything fell apart.

I claim the chair opposite Jasmine, the scratch of the legs on the concrete floors causing her head to pop up. Hanging my coat on the back of the chair, I watch her.

We perch across from each other, neither of us saying anything, neither of us knowing where to start. I set the portfolio on the table next to me as a waiter comes up and takes my coffee order. Black coffee with a shot of espresso.

I’m in a bitter mood this morning.

Jasmine clears her throat, tucking her phone into her purse. “I’m glad to see you’re in one piece. Is it reasonable to assume we can say the same for your team?”

I nod, tapping on the portfolio, my anxious fingers picking up their familiar rhythm. “Luckily.”

Jasmine glares at nothing, shadows crossing her face. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I hope you know I try to maintain the utmost clarity in my dealings with my suppliers.”

My coffee comes, and I splash in a touch of cream, watching the clouds ripple through the dark. “I’m having trouble seeing that, Jasmine.”

Her eyes meet mine, honesty in her gaze. “I have run into some unforeseen complications in my business and personal life. I am working to remove these obstacles and prevent future problems. That, however, doesn’t help you now. Iamsorry, Clara. And I truly am glad you and your team are all in one piece. The police report reads like a pulp fiction novel.”

My curiosity pushes me past the unease I feel. “What do the police think happened?”

She smiles, taking a sip of her tea. “They think the other team broke into the Art Institute of Chicago and beat up the security guards before realizing they’d broken into the wrong museum. The intended target was the Museum of Contemporary Art, of course, with the goal of exchanging a recognizable but poor forgery of Gem Black’sContainmenton exhibit there. The police assume that mistake led to a rift within the group and a fight broke out. None of the men involved have said anything, as they value their careers enough to fear being blacklisted, so there is nothing to counteract the cops’ theories. It’s almost perfect, but with two notable problems: one—why was the entire team unconscious when they arrived? And two—why would one man blow off another’s cock?”

“Good riddance.”

Jasmine locks eyes with me, and we both know what doesn’t need to be said.

Some men deserve to be castrated.

She picks at her napkin, chewing on her lip. “I didn’t call in the second team, nor did I know they were being given the job behind my back. I want that to be clear. But unfortunately, until we are both able to clean house, I don’t think it’s wise to continue this relationship.”

Once again, she’s trying to give me a clue. There is a link between her problems and our own. “How long do you think it should take to clean house on your end?”

Her entire demeanor changes, suddenly small, scared. It only lasts a moment before she slips back into her confident skin, but I’ve watched Walker put on and take off masks often enough to catch it. “I’m hopeful my house will be in order by this time next year.”

That’s…a long time. “And our house?”

A harsh smile touches her lips. “I can’t say for sure, but your rat should come out in the open soon. He’s not one for silence, that one. He’s a chatty, boastful rodent. And to clarify this too: that rat is no longer a client of mine. I can’t have clients endangering my suppliers. It’s bad for business. I’m hopeful I haven’t permanently lost the best up-and-coming team I’ve seen, but if so, I understand.”

Recognizing that dismissal for what it is, I stand, sliding the portfolio across the table. “I guess we’ll touch base again once things are…safer.”

Jasmine glances inside the portfolio, a small smile on her face as she takes in the Rubens. Then she pulls out her phone, tapping out the transfer. Looking at my phone, I wait for my confirmation from the guys that the money made it. “I’ll put in a good word with one of my competitors,” she says while I wait.

I try to smile, glad that we aren’t totally without work. Once the message comes through, I drain the last of my cup, the cream barely muting the sharp cut of the acid on my tongue.

I hold out my hand, and Jasmine takes it, some of her mask shedding, letting me see genuine regret in her blue eyes. “Tell Walker his work is transcendent. And that even his last-minute mock-up has more heart than it ought to.”

“I will.” Turning toward the door, I pause, not wanting to burn this bridge. “I hope things come together quickly for you.”

A hint of the sad, scared woman returns, but she forces her shoulders back, pulling her purse onto her shoulder. “Me too. Until next time?”

“Until next time.”

RJ and Jansen took off while I met with Jasmine so Jansen could catch his evening final. That means I’m stuck in the tiny Neon with Walker and Trips for the six-hour drive home.

The snow has stopped for now, but the roads are slick and the car is terrible, so we’re not making good time.

After Trips thoroughly quizzes me on what happened at the meeting with Jasmine, he falls quiet, staring out the windshield. Walker’s sitting behind me, a hand on my shoulder, rubbing the soft sweater against my skin, a tease and a comfort.

The longer I watch the white fields flash by in the silence, the more anxious I get. On a whim, I reach across myself, grabbing Walker’s hand. And I can breathe again.

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