Bishop smiled and Bateau returned her smile. “Always remember, for Francesca it is just a game, one she is very, very good at playing. He is the mouse to your cat, nothing more.”
 

by Randalynn

 

---

 

 
The Fountainbleu was the grand old girl of the Miami hotel trade. It was the first choice for kings, princes, and other heads of state who needed somewhere of quality to stay in Florida’s most populous city. Younger, hipper rich kids chose other luxury hotels as their stomping grounds when they headed south for the winter, but the older scions of America’s wealthier families always stayed at the Fountainbleu when the need arose.

The lobby was a monument to understated wealth, crafted from brass, wood, marble and leather. Its huge but elegant interior held many plush armchairs and sofas, covered in the softest glove leather. They were arranged in conversational groups, so meetings could be held if guests wished to do business, but far enough apart to ensure privacy. A waterfall three stories high made its way down the wall behind the front desk, to empty into a massive reflecting pool full of koi, drifting fat and lazy. And at the slightest word from an always-attentive concierge, a veritable platoon of busmen waited for the opportunity to leap into service if a guest required it.

Although the Fountainbleu lobby was often busy, it was also extremely quiet. Hushed tones were always employed by both guests and staff alike, almost as if the history of the place alone demanded that everyone involved conduct their affairs with a mixture of quiet respect and sober reverence.

Unfortunately, the afternoon it all began, the Fountainbleu and its guests would receive neither.

 
Harlan Straker stands by the front desk, supposedly waiting for his limo to be brought around but actually holding an impromptu press conference with the society reporters for Miami’s media outlets.

“Why hold a party for a jewel collection?” The Herald’s social editor asks, her tone curious. The question is an honest one. As a woman with too many years of experience filling the society pages, she has attended way too many social events over the years. After a while, she reached the point in her career where she wonders why anyone throws a party at all anymore.

“Why not have a party?” Straker responds, throwing her a Burt Reynolds smile that peeks out from under his mustache. “Hell, can’t a man throw a party if he wants to? I’ve got a whole lotta precious stones and a hankering to show ‘em off. If that ain’t a good enough reason, I don’t know what is.”

“Isn’t it a little dangerous?” This time, the question came from the reporter for the local NBC affiliate, a small man with thinning hair and a cameraman at his side. He holds out a microphone to Straker like he’s trying to feed bamboo to a panda, and the millionaire responds by looking down his nose at the reporter like he’s considering gutting him where he stands. The reporter looks up at him, unimpressed and unafraid, and continues. “I mean, a collection worth as much as yours is bound to attract … attention.”

“You mean thieves, don’t ya?” Straker grins so wide his dimples have dimples. “Who’d be stupid enough to try? My collection is so damned big, they’d need an armored car to get it out of the building. Besides, there’s guards and all manner of alarms … and I know the Miami police got their hands in all this somewhere. I ain’t worried, boy. Why the hell should you be?”

A few steps away, a large man in a well-tailored Italian suit is speaking urgently with the hotel manager.

“Are you insane, perhaps? Did you not understand what I told you when last we spoke?” The man’s voice begins to rise, a slight accent coloring the frustration in his voice as it grows louder. “She is due to arrive this afternoon. She specifically ordered me to keep her visit quiet.”

He raises a finger and shakes it at the manager. “I paid you good money to ensure her privacy. I paid YOU, sir. And yet, what do I find when I arrive? Media! In your lobby!”

"And what a job it was getting them there,” Finn mutters in his ear. "I had ta fake a call from Straker’s PR lady to each and every one of them, then use emails from higher-ups to get whoever was just above each of them in the food chain to give them all a push."

Bateau ignores Finn’s barely restrained bragging to continue. “This is totally unacceptable!”

“My sincerest apologies, Signor Aldafieri,” the hotel manager replies, his hands held up to try to quiet the irate Italian. “We had no idea Mister Straker was going to be holding a press conference in the lobby.”

“Really? Is this a normal thing for a five-star hotel?” Bateau blustered, finally catching the attention of a few of the outliers from Straker’s press group. “I was assured the Contessa’s presence here would be kept quiet, and yet there they are, like vultures waiting to pounce. Like jackals!”

“Please, sir, you’re attracting the very attention you wish to avoid!”

Several other members of the press pack had turned at his last outburst, and Bateau looked over his shoulder at the group, then back to the manager as he realized what he had said.

“Porca Puttanaccia! What have I done?” He looks wildly to the right and left. “It is not too late to save this. Is there another entrance we could get her to enter through? Some other place, a back door, anything!”

The hotel manager looks past his shoulder and sighs.

“Too late,” he replies. “I believe … she is here.”

Bateau spins around to find a raven-haired beauty ignoring the revolving door and entering the hotel through the standing door beside it. As a platoon of bell men unload the trunk of her waiting limo, she struts through the lobby in a Paris ensemble that hugs every curve, covering everything but leaving nothing to the imagination. She talks non-stop with the woman at her side, a tall dark-skinned beauty in a long white sleeveless dress, who smiles and nods at everything she says.

Some of the photographers and cameramen turn towards her, and flashes begin to strobe. She holds up a hand and speaks.

“Abramo!” Her tone is clear and commanding, and clearly not happy. Her voice fills the lobby. “You said you had handled everything. You said you had taken care of our privacy. Is this how they do that where you come from? By inviting the paparazzi to greet us?”

The huge man seems to wilt before her, becoming a flustered non-entity as everyone watched. “My apologies, Contessa. I am so very, very sorry. This was completely unforeseen. This gentlemen was talking to the press, and it was just coincidence it should take place now, when you were due to arrive.”

"As if," Finn snorts, and Amy suppresses a smile. Bishop doesn’t seem to even hear him, and gives Bateau a long angry scowl before softening, just a bit.

“Well, we are here,” she says, throwing him the barest hint of a smile, “and I am tired, and I know you cannot be responsible for everything — as much as I would like you to be.”

The flashes continue, and some of the reporters begin to throw questions at her. She ignores them and walks to the front desk. The crowd tries to follow, but the large man raises his arms and holds them back.

As she approaches, the hotel manager’s eyes drift to her chest, but rise upwards quickly when her palm slams down onto the desktop.

“A typical man,” she snarls. “You fail so spectacularly at the simplest of tasks, but the first thing you do when you meet me is look at my chest. Are my breasts so magnificent that they can distract you from your failure, even now?”

“No!” Her eyes narrow and he thinks about what he said. “I mean yes … I mean —“

‘What you meant is unimportant, just like you are. And just like you, your words do not matter. Whatever you think of them, they are my breasts, and you will never touch them, not now, not ever. Even having you look at them is an insult.” He opens his mouth and she reaches up and closes it for him with a finger. “Silence. I know it is difficult for you, but try to restrain your disappointment — and your eyes — and pay attention.”

His eyebrows raise, but he listens. Her voice becomes an exquisite growl.

“You were paid to make sure this did not happen, and yet it did. Since I cannot hold Senor Aldafieri accountable, I will blame you instead, because this is your hotel, and your city. Even though you failed me, I will stay … for now. And I will give you one more chance to impress me.” She leans forward. “But if you should fail me again, in even the smallest way, know this. I shall make sure that everyone who is anyone knows of your failure, and your hotel will pay the price. No one who wants to keep their lives away from the press will ever trust you again. Do you understand?”

He nods wordlessly. In an instant, her face relaxes into a smile. She reaches up and pats his cheek softly.

“Good. We are going to our floor now. Make them all go away.”

“Allow me, miss,” A deep voice comes from behind the crowd. “All right, ladies and gents, move along. Let the lady and her friends get where they’re goin’.”

The group hesitates a second, and the voice continues. “Let me put it another way. I’m gonna start countin’. Anybody that ain’t outta here by the time I hit ten won’t be getting’ an invite to the party. You won’t get a guest list or a menu, and you sure as hell won’t get pictures. I’ll make damned sure you won’t get nothin’ from nobody. Now git. One … two … three …”

The hoard of reporters walked as quickly as they could towards the exit, with several of them getting jammed up in the revolving door before managing to untangle themselves. The woman looks up at Harlan Straker and smiles.

“At last, a man of action.” She takes a step towards him as he smiles back. “Someone who can do what needs to be done, without staring at my chest like … how do you Americans say, like a deer in the headlights?”

“Thank you,” he says, reaching out to take her hand. She places it in his, and he bends slowly as he raises it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“No, thank you.” She takes her hand away from him gently. “Do you not like my breasts, Mister …? “

“Straker, miss. Harlan Straker.” He grins at her. “And I like ‘em just fine. But it seems a mite rude to be starin’ at ‘em when we haven’t been formally introduced.”

Aldafieri steps forward.

“This is the Contessa Francesca of Monteferrat.”

She looks at him through her eyelashes and gives him a small smile. “And now we have been introduced.”

The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. Francesca’s deep brown eyes don’t move from Straker’s, and he finds himself getting lost in her gaze, just a little.

It’s an unsettling experience for him.

“Are you staying here also, Mister Straker?”

“Harlan, please. And yes, I’m stayin’ here. Holdin’ a party here day after tomorrow.”

“Do you hear that, Amelie? A party!” She places a hand on his chest. “Let me guess. Your birthday?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’ quite like that. Just wanted to have a good time is all.”

“I like a good time, too.” She throws him an impish grin. “Maybe we could have a good time … together, yes?”

Straker clears his throat and swallows.

“Would you … like to come?”

The Contessa smiles, her white teeth flashing.

“Ooooh, Harlan,” she says softly. “I love to come.”

His brain freezes, and she covers her mouth as she tries not to laugh.

‘Did she say what I think she said??’ Thinking about whether or not she knew what she said, his eyes stray downward for a second before snapping back up to hers again. He can tell from the look in her eyes that she noticed. She gives him a mock pout.

“And here I though you had so much willpower.” She raises a finger and touches his chin. “Look at you. My man of steel, now just a man after all.”

“Contessa, please … the elevator.” Aldafieri pleads from behind her.

Francesca stands on tiptoe and whispers in his ear, her breath hot on his cheek. “Still, you resisted so well, and for so long. That must count for something.”

Smiling, she moves away and begins walking backwards towards the rest of her group. “Very well, Harlan. Amelie and I will be at your party. Tell Abramo where and when it is. Maybe you and I, we come … together, yes?” Another grin, and she pauses before she gets into the elevator.

“And maybe, just for you, I will wear something that lets you look at these as much as you want.” A finger touches her chest gently, and she smiles. “A present … for your not-birthday.”

She steps back and the doors close in front of her.

“Damn,” he says aloud, and the manager, concierge, and the rest of the bell staff all nod behind him in unison.

 
When all of their luggage arrives and the last of the bellmen leaves, Maggie collapses on the sofa with a groan, knees together and feet apart.

“That was incredible!” Bateau looks at her, fairly bursting with pride. “I knew that you could do it, cher, but that was absolutely inspired!”

Amy sits down next to her and hugs her gently.

“Damn, girl, you’re trembling!” She holds Maggie a little tighter, and the thief responds with a small squeal, burying her face in Amy’s chest.

The smile slowly leave Bateau’s face, and he reaches over and places his hand softly on Bishop’s shoulder.

“What is wrong, ma grande? You were perfect!”

Maggie turns her head and looks up at him.

“No, I wasn’t,” she whispers. “I was terrified. But when I walked through that door, something changed. It was like I became Francesca. Every word, every gesture … everything I did, it was all her!”

“But if it wasn’t art,” he says slowly, “then where did it all come from?”

Her lower lip begins to tremble.

“I have no idea!”

 
12 hours before …

Bishop knew standing alone in a motel parking just outside the Miami airport late at night was a bad idea. But she also knew she was not alone. She knew Bateau had been watching over her since the instant she left the room, and she smiled to herself as he walked up behind her.

“How is Amy holding up?” She spoke without turning around, feeling strangely comforted by having him at her back. She can almost feel him smile.

“Discovering she is fluent in French was a blessing,” he replied. “Finn has been inside the French state department computers practically since my government had computers to hack. Having her play Amelie to your Francesca will give your own role more credibility. The fact that she is such a gifted actress as well was almost too much to ask for. You chose well, mon ami.”

“Love doesn’t choose,” Bishop said, turning her head to look at her friend. “You taught me that.”

Bateau shook his head. “You already knew. I just had to remind you.”

“How are you getting used to the new look?” He touched her hair, now a deep brown, almost black.

“I’ve had to get used to a lot more than this in the past few weeks,” she said with a smile. “Hair dye, colored contacts, and a full-body skin dye hardly measures up to a Bay City makeover, don’t you think?”

The Frenchman nodded, and let his hand fall. Bishop returned to looking at the skyline, and they stood in silence together for a time before she spoke again.

“I’m afraid, Bateau.”

“That is understandable, but you need not be.” He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him. “You have been the Italian count before, you know. Being the contessa is not so very different, is it?” Bishop nods, just a little. “After all, you have known your fair share of women just like the Francesca you must portray. Trust yourself, cher. We all do.”

“But … seducing a man?” She looks up into his eyes. “How could I … where would I begin?”

“First, you must know it doesn’t have to go any further than you wish it to.” She nodded. “If you remember that, it will be easier. Francesca enjoys the effect she has on a man. Also, both you and she know what kind of man Harlan Straker is. Do you honestly think the contessa would WANT him in her bed?”

Bishop smiled and Bateau returned her smile. “Always remember, for Francesca it is just a game, one she is very, very good at playing. He is the mouse to your cat, nothing more.”

“Now, as for the seduction itself, I want you to think back to when you were Mark. We both know that women just as alluring as you are now have tried to seduce you in the past. And you enjoyed it, I know you did, even though you never let it get past the flirting unless you wanted it to. Still, you enjoyed the dance, yes?”

The thief nodded, and Bateau smiled. “We all do, mon ami, men and women. Even though you never needed the affirmation, you enjoyed feeling desired. But just as when I taught you the art of the con, you were genuinely curious about the things women did to try and tempt you. The process of seduction itself was … seductive. And it is all there in your head, is it not?”

Maggie blushed and lowered her head, then nodded.

“Then you will have plenty of tactical approaches at your disposal, should you choose to use them. As I know you will.”

“And if I fail? What happens to the plan then?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “Then you will come up with another option, as you have always done in the past. But you won’t fail. Certainly not with someone like Straker.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because of who you are, and who he is.” Bateau touched her cheek, and Maggie looked up. “In the past, women used everything they had to bring you to bed. Not because you were so very handsome or rich, but because Mark Bishop was confident in himself. He did not need anyone to tell him who he was, because he had figured it out long ago.”

“But Harlan Straker needs everyone to agree that he is special. He is always acquiring new things and showing off his wealth. Like a little boy waving his arms and yelling ‘look at me!’ He treats every woman as nothing more than just another conquest — as just another way to show the world he can have any woman he chooses. He wants to make sure that everyone knows he is what you Americans call a ‘big shot.’ And an Italian contessa would be quite a prize indeed.”

“Maggie, in the world of men, Mark Bishop was a diamond, and he always will be, even when he is a she. But Harlan Straker has never been anything more than clay, shaped by the opinions of everyone he tries to impress. He will be putty in your hands, you will see.”

 
Now, the Empress Suite at the Fountainbleu

Amy strokes her hair and cuddles her.

“Maybe the woman you were isn’t as lost as you thought, baby,” she says softly, and Bishop freezes, just for an instant. “You told me you did this kind of thing before, lots of times. Maybe that part of you comes out when you need it, like when you needed to move in a skirt or wear makeup, remember?”

Maggie raises her head and looks first at Bateau, then turns to face Amy.

“You think so?”

“Best guess, Mags. For my best girl.” She kisses her gently. “What do you think, Bateau?”

“I have never seen you better, cher.” He sits down beside them both. “Maybe all of your worrying was for nothing, yes?”

“And if its true, honey, it’s something to be happy about, isn’t it?” Amy takes her hands and squeezes. “It means you’re getting better, right?”

‘Or worse,’ Bishop thinks. ‘Moira was studying to be an actress, and now I go and pull off a perfect seduction and an Italian contessa at the same time, practically in my sleep. Just how much of that was me … and how much of that was the part of her I’m still carrying with me?’

She smiles for Amy’s sake, and takes a deep breath.

“I hope so,” she says out loud. “It was just really scary, like I wasn’t in control at all.”

Finn’s voice echoes in everyone’s ears.

“I’ve been listenin’ in on Straker’s suite. He sent his limo away and came back upstairs. It sounds like he’s totally besotted with your Italian bitch queen, Your Holiness, but I think he’s more than a bit afraid of her, too … though he’s doin’ his best to hide that from his crew. He’s got some of his people checkin’ into your background, sniffin’ back on the trail I left on the airport and state department computers. But he’s also sendin’ his right hand guy, Curtis, out to talk to the manager, see what he knows.”

Bishop nods. “Makes sense. He’s already treating Francesca like a project, trying to find a way to get her where he wants her. He doesn’t like how easily she handled him in the lobby.”

“Worse, Curtis has more marchin’ orders. After the manager, he’s supposed to track down Amelie and try to get her to spill what she knows about the contessa.”

Bateau stands up and moves away, thinking on his feet.

“Then we must let him find her, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Bateau. This wasn’t the plan, yeah? It was supposed to be him lookin’ for the contessa, and findin’ both ladies at the pool.” Finn pauses, then continues. “You were too good at being in control, Maggie. You scared him more than you were supposed to. So now he’s sendin’ the help instead of huntin’ for you himself.”

“And Mister Curtis is hunting for Amelie instead of you, mon ami.”

Bishop looks up at Bateau and shrugs. “No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy, remember? And Amelie is more likely to let things slip if Francesca isn’t around.” She faces Amy. “How about it, girlfriend? Want to take that white bikini we bought for a spin and see what you catch?’

It’s Amy’s turn to look scared. “You want me to solo on my first flight?”

Bateau speaks from across the room. “You have nothing to fear, Amy. You are a natural. I was nothing but impressed with you the entire time we were working together.”

‘That’s not quite how I remember it.”

He smiles. “I pushed you because I wanted you to be as prepared as possible. You have never been someone else before, let alone a rich French woman with a much different history. But as I said, you have gifts you never suspected you possessed, and I have faith in you.”

He walks to Amy and puts his hand on her shoulder. “I would not send you alone to the pool to toy with Mister Curtis unless I knew you could be Amelie for as long as you need to be. And I would never send you unless I was sure you were ready. Trust me.”

Amy turns to look at Bishop. “Mags?”

“If Bateau says you can handle it, you can.” She reaches up and touches Amy’s cheek. “I have faith in you too, honey. So go tell Mister Curtis what we want him to hear, and make him believe it.”

“How?”

Maggie shrugs. “Amelie knows she’s beautiful. Men approach her all the time, wanting what she has no desire to share. So be a French goddess to the crass American. I bet when you’re through with him, he’ll be happy to get anything from you at all.”

“You’ll be awesome, Amy. I know it.” Bishop gives her a hug, then grins. “I only wish I could be there to watch!”

 
Curtis slips into the rooftop pool area, his eyes searching for his target. His talk with the manager was singularly unhelpful. The woman that had made his boss turn into a damned lovesick schoolboy had scared the manager so much, he could barely remember what happened. A few minutes with the lobby staff (and a few hundred dollars changing hands) got him a detailed description of what happened in the lobby, including what the countess’s girl friend looked like. Model pretty, he’d heard. The color of milk chocolate, and dressed in a white dress that hugged her body from tits to ass.

‘Any bitch who wears a dress like that wants to be noticed,’ he thinks, ‘and a man like me is exactly who she wants doin’ the noticing.’

He checks his own reflection as he passes the pool house bar window, and smiles at himself.

“Still lookin’ good,” he whispers, and the smile turns into a grin.

Curtis knows he’s never met a woman who could resist him for long. It might take a little time, but when he finds her, he’s going to unwrap this chocolate girl, and lick her until she melts.

‘She’s going to be so sweet,’ he thinks, scanning the rooftop.

‘And then she’ll tell me everything I want to know.’

He sees her on the other side of the pool, lying on a lounge chair. She is wearing sunglasses, and a white bikini that’s covers so little, he wonders why she even bothered wearing it. Curtis takes his time wandering around the perimeter of the water until he stands a few feet away.

She is everything he expected from the descriptions he’s heard, and more. Her exposed skin glistens from a coating of sunscreen and just a hint of perspiration, and the lust that rises in him is almost enough to render him speechless.

Almost.

"Hello," he says, flashing her his best smile.

She speaks without moving anything except for her lips. "Can I 'elp you?"

"Maybe you can. Isn't that what angels do?"

She shrugs, still lying down. "I do not know what other angels do. This angel wants to lie in the sun without being bothered by strange men."

“I’m not a strange man.”

The woman sighs. “All men are strange. You are just the latest in a long line of men who think having me will make their lives complete. All of them remain … disappointed. You will, too.”

“You seem so sure of that.”

“I am.” She smiles. “After all, you don’t even know me. It is my body you want, n’est pas? If I have no intention of giving it to you, you will not have it.”

He looks down at her. “Not that I’m sayin’ I’d ever,” he says slowly, “but what if someone wanted you and decided to take you … whether you wanted them to or not?”

Without looking at him, she raises the hand closest to him and twists it into a claw. Her nails are long, and painted blood red.

“He could try.” She licks her lips, just once. “Then he would be forced to learn what it would be like to live his life without being a slave to his … desires.” She closes the claw into a fist. “My grip is very strong, pretty boy. And my nails are very, very hard. Not so sharp, but that is okay. I would think sharpening them would be a mercy. Just imagine how much worse it would feel to have your testicles removed with five very dull knives, yes?”

Curtis shudders in spite of himself. “I’d rather not.”

She lowers her hand. “And I would rather not be talking to you. If you continue to bother me, we might both get our wish. After all, you are sitting very close, are you not? Well within … reach, I would say.” She smiles without an ounce of humor. “Leave me alone, or you won’t have to imagine at all.”

He doesn’t move, but he keeps quiet for a moment before continuing.

"It's a beautiful day."

"It was." She sighs. "Until you arrived."

"Oh, come on, miss, I'm not that bad. Once you get to know me ..."

"I do not wish to know you. I thought I had made that clear. And I am Amelie, not 'miss.'"

"Hello, Amelie. I'm Keene."

"You certainly seem to be. That mean eager, yes?"

"No, it's my name. Keene Curtis."

"It may be your name, but it seems to me you are also very eager.” Her lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile. “After all, you do not seem to want to leave me alone.”

He shrugs, not knowing if she can see but not caring, either. “A guy does what he has to do to make a beautiful woman notice him.”

The woman in question raises herself onto her elbows, then reaches up and pulls the sunglasses away from her eyes and gives his body a long, lingering appraisal. Finally, she looks directly into his eyes.

“Well, Keene,” she says slowly. “I will not say I am pleased to meet you, since you have been both rude and insistent the entire time I have known you. But you have also been … entertaining, in your annoying American way, and it has been a while since I met a man who tried as hard as you do to get and keep my attention. Also, you have been surprisingly brave.”

Curtis raises an eyebrow, and she purses her lips. “I did threaten your manhood with my dull, hard claws, and yet, you refused to run. Either you do not treasure it, which I doubt, or you do not fear me. If it is the latter, you are very brave, indeed.”

Her teeth flash in the sun with a sudden smile. “So, with all of this in mind, I have decided that I will let you buy me a drink. Not because I am at all taken in by your flattery or persistence, you understand, but because I am gracious beyond words, and I know you need to do something to apologize to me for being such an impolite boor. Am I correct?"

He nods once and smiles. "Oh, yes. Thank you for the … opportunity."

"Good." Amelie holds up her hand. “Then help me up, eager boy. I am thirsty.”

 
When Amy arrives back at the room, she is immediately wrapped in Maggie, hugging her tight.

“You were terrific!” Maggie whispers in her ear, and she finds herself smiling. A distinctive pop she recognizes as the cork escaping from a champagne bottle makes her turn her head to find a smiling Bateau, bottle in hand.

“Indeed, Amy, you were magnifique!”

“How could you know?”

“The comm set in your sunglasses, of course,” Maggie says, letting her loose and taking two glasses to Bateau to be filled. “We were all linked up the entire time. We stayed quiet because we didn’t want to break your concentration, but you were every bit the professional.”

“Right enough,” Finn adds through everyone’s comms. “Never seen Maggie do any better. Bateau’s right, you’re a natural.”

“Thank you, Finn,” Amy says, taking a glass from Bateau.

“Credit where credit is due, yeah?”

“I wish you could be here for the champagne, Michael.”

“Not part of the plan, Your Holiness. Besides, you know that’s not my style. Anyway, I got a pint of Strongbow right here, so I’ll be toasting right along with the rest of ya.”

“Not Guinness, mon frere?”

They can almost feel him shrug through the com link. “I need to pull up and check in soon. Last thing I need when I’m tryin’ to talk like a Yank is carryin’ around the weight of a pint o’ stout.”

Bateau raises his glass. “To Amy, our sister in arms!”

“To Amy!” Maggie and Finn repeat, and Amy hides behind her glass, embarrassed.

“And to crime!” Finn adds, and this time Amy joins them. “Long may it pay!”

After they touch glasses and drink, Finn interrupts. "Keene’s back in the room. Let me send it through."

There is a brief pause, then they hear the sound relayed from the hacked cellphones in Straker’s suite.

“Well, you picked yourself a winner this time, Harlan.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, son.” They could hear the smile in his voice.

“According to her friend Amelie, Francesca is a challenge and a half. She knows she’s beautiful, and she knows that men want her. In fact, she’s more than happy to let them have her — but only on her terms.”

“And those are?”

“As near as I can tell, different for every guy.”

“You’re not making me happy here, Curtis.”

“Just telling you what I know. You want me to make up something, tell me before the next time I have to climb a 100-foot wall of ice put up by a French bitch just to get you the truth.”

Maggie looks at Amy and grins. Amy shakes her head, then grins right back.

“Don’t go gettin’ all madder than a Wompus cat, son. You can’t tell me she wasn’t worth the time or effort. I seen her in the lobby, I know what you was gettin’ into.”

“She was easy on the eyes.”

“And I bet you’re gonna see her again, too, ain’t ya?”

“What makes you say that?”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Curtis, and it sure as Hell aint yours either. I see you with women before. Just climbin’ that ice wall of hers probably earned you more than a little respect. And damn if I bet you didn’t like gettin’ past it either. Hell, son, we both know that’s why women really put them walls up anyway. So we can climb over ‘em or rip ‘em down. We both know you’re gonna get to bed her before we leave town, and that’s a fact.”

There is a long pause while Curtis thinks it over. “I suppose.”

“So stop getting’ all riled up and get back to the Contessa. What kinda man does she let into her bed?”

“Amelie says the men Francesca really likes are the ones who are … well, confident, I guess. Guys who are strong and not afraid to take charge, but still respect her.”

Straker’s snort is clearly audible. “Respect her? That’s a laugh. She ain’t nothin’ but a fine-looking rich bitch with a fancy title and an attitude. Just a well-bred heifer who needs to be tied down and taught who’s boss.”

“She may be a heifer to you, but if you want to rope and brand her, you’re gonna have to treat her like a lady … like she’s something special.”

“Oh, don’t you worry none ‘bout ol’ Harlan. She’s gonna feel like the queen of the cows, right up until I brand her. And I will brand her, Curtis. You just bet I will.”

Amy looks at Maggie. “How ‘bout it, girl? Feeling the love yet?”

Bishop looks back at her with her newly brown eyes, adopts a vacant expression, and moos. Amy grins, and Bateau shakes his head with a smile.

“So, what now?”

“We watch her, son. Hell, we watch ‘em all. We’re in the same hotel, it ain’t gonna be that hard.” Harlan’s voice is smug and self-assured. “Meet her a few times, by ‘accident,’ maybe set up a few scenes where I get to show her how strong I am, all casual-like. Set her up ta trust me, so I can make my move. But if she won’t take the bait? Well, I’ll just slip some of that stuff into her drink at the party, and she’s mine.”

Maggie and Amy lock eyes, and Bateau’s smile becomes a hard frown.

“You need some?” Curtis’s voice sounds like drugging a woman is something they do all the time.

“Naw, I still got plenty from the last time. Although if I use it on her, I’ll be out.”

“Can’t have that. I’ll take care of it. I’ve got somebody in Miami I can tap. I’ll get more.”

“That’s why you’re mah Numbah Two, Curtis. Resourceful, that’s what you are.”

“Thanks, boss. We aim to please.”

The connection goes silent for a moment.

“They’re done.” Finn’s voice holds nothing.

“And so are we.” Amy turns to Bateau, and he smiles at her.

“Not at all, dear Amy,” he replies. “What we have is not an obstacle, but an opportunity.”

Confused, Amy turns back to Maggie, and she nods.

“It's true, honey. He said he’d only use it if I didn’t ‘take the bait.’ So at the party, I shall be sure to create the impression that the one place I want to be that night is in his bed.”

“And that’s when the fun begins,” Finn says, his grin coming through loud and clear. “For us, anyway. That’s where it ends for Mr. Straker, I’m guessin’.”

“Michael,” Bishop says, grinning herself. “There’s something I want you to find for me. Better yet, have it custom-made ... and charge it to Mister Straker. For this, money is no object. After all, doesn't Harlan Straker deserve the best?”

“Oh, absolutely, Your Eminence!”

“What about Curtis?” Amy asks.

Maggie takes her hands. “Oh, once you hear my idea, I’m sure you can come up with something … appropriate.”

Bishop leans over and whispers in her ear. Amy grins slowly, and a devilish glint appears in her eyes.

“Oh yeah. I think I know just the thing.”

 
Standing in the office above Gino’s gambling club, Lou Rossi watches the marks playing down below. He’s in an expensive suit, in case he has to step in and handle something the floor manager can’t, and doesn’t turn around when Donnie walks up behind him. He can see his lieutenant’s reflection in the big window that mutes the sounds coming from the gaming tables.

“Any photos the club had of her are gone, Lou. The management didn’t even know they were missing until we asked for ‘em.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“That she’s what the cops call ‘a person of interest.’”

“Shit, Donnie, we already knew that.”

“We suspected. All we knew before was that she left early with a couple of guys in a white van. But the fact that they went to all the trouble of getting any pictures they had before they drove off tells me they didn’t want to leave anything behind anybody could use.”

“That means they would have had to think someone would come lookin’.”

Donnie shrugs. “It just means they’re good. The sharpest guys in our business plan for the worst and hope for the best, you know that. They took the pictures in case someone came lookin’, not cause they expected it. Whoever they are, they’re pros.”

Lou turns and walks over to a bottle on the desk. He pours himself a drink. “It’s still a mystery. And it’s not getting us any closer to Khaleel. Or Magdalene.”

“No, but I been askin’ around, and I got somethin’ else. One of our guys was pretending to be a State Trooper on one of the roadblocks outside of Bay City, lookin’ for Bishop before we found him dead. He don’t remember much, but he remembers stopping a white van with a big guy at the wheel and a blonde in a short black dress on the passenger side. He said the blonde in the video from the club coulda been the one in the van.”

‘Coulda been?”

“He wasn’t looking at her face. He said her tits was this close to poppin’ outta the top of the dress, and he didn’t want to miss it if they did.”

Rossi shakes his head, and Donnie gets a little irritated. “Whaddaya want, Lou? This guy ain’t smart. If he was, he never would have agreed to be stopping cars in the middle of the night in a Troopers uniform. Anybody bright enough to tie his own shoes would know that he was a heartbeat away from being busted for ‘impersonatin’ an officer’ the minute somebody from the local barracks tripped over him.”

Lou nods. “Okay, okay, I get it. Anything else?”

“He said the guy’s name was Barry, or Benny, or Henny. And he said the guy had an accent.”

“What kinda accent?”

“He didn’t know.”

“So now what?”

“He said the van was heading east.” Donnie shrugs again. “So we follow it and see where it leads.”

“They’re probably long gone.”

“If they’re as good as they seem to be, yeah. But we got nothin’ better. Right now, we’re just playing the percentages and hopin’ something falls our way.”

“Because we think this blonde knows somethin’?”

“Because she’s all we got, for now.”

Lou sighs, pauses, then digs into his pants pocket and hands Donnie a bunch of hundred dollar chips.

“Nice work. You’re doin’ the best you can with what you got, kid. So take a break. Go on down and grab yourself a drink or two, play a few games. We’ll pick it up tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay, boss. Thanks.”

Donnie turns and leaves, and Lou turns back to the big window overlooking the casino floor.

‘Playing the percentages,’ he thinks, then shakes his head. ‘Too many damned wild cards for my taste. Better hope the house wins, though. If Magdalene makes a play, all bets are off.’

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