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  A door is open in the hall, blocking the path. A storage room door. As I’m about to push it shut so I can pass, Jaxon steps out and bumps into me.

  His hand shoots out and grabs me before I can bang my head against the side of the door.

  “Easy, there.”

  “Sorry.” I right myself and quickly step out of his grasp. “I was trying to— what’s that?”

  From his two long fingers dangles a hanger with what looks like a female bank teller’s uniform. Navy-blue A-line skirt, long-sleeved sky-blue shirt, and a red silk scarf.

  “For the prospect,” he says.

  Ha. This should be interesting. Melanie doesn’t wear skirts.

  “Oh.”

  He checks my hands. My right hand is clutching my cell phone while my left grasps desperately to my sanity. “So, you left my bed unmade, and now there’s a dirty cereal bowl on my desk.”

  On the inside I wince, but my mouth says, “Oops. Sorry. That’s going to be a downside to having me as a housemate. I forget to clean up after myself.”

  He studies me, then murmurs, “You’ll learn.” He turns and continues down the hall.

  Okay. As long as he will be teaching me all the laws of tidiness, I won’t mind learning, at all.

  Melanie’s still at the kitchen table when I trail in behind Jaxon. He throws the uniform over the back of the chair next to her. “We have less than two hours. Go put that on.”

  Nonplussed, Melanie peers up at him. “Less than two hours for what?”

  “Your first test. A job originally meant for Col. I told him to sit this one out. But the payout is still his.”

  “Golly!” Melanie exclaims, her eyes lit with excitement. And then she does a double take at the uniform. “Um, I don’t wear skirts.”

  “I don’t wear suspenders, Speedos, or bolo ties, either, but when the job calls for it, I do. Now, go put that on and make your hair nice. Clock’s ticking.” His tone brooks no argument.

  Melanie is expressively unhappy with this, but she doesn’t argue. A true pro, she just picks up the uniform and leaves.

  Spoilsport.

  As he selects a banana from the fruit basket, I lean against the counter and ask, “Can I come?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You talk too much.”

  “I do not!” I straighten, indignant. But then I remember, Yeah, I do. I lean onto the counter again. “At least, not when you’re around.”

  In mid-bite of his banana, he pauses, brows lifted. Then, he bites off more than half the banana. Chews. Swallows. “Now that I think about it, you really don’t. When I’m around. Why is that, Timber?” He does that head tilt thing. “Is it because I make you nervous?”

  I snort and wrinkle my nose. “Your ego is lots too tall for you, sir. You might want to adjust it, yeah?”

  His expression doesn’t alter, as usual, but I’ll bet the 200K I stole from him that he really wants to scowl at me.

  I explain, “I don’t talk because you’re a brick.”

  “A brick?”

  “Yes, a brick. You have no expression, no personality, no…nothing. You’re just there. Blank and impenetrable. Like a brick.”

  No holding back this time, he flat out scowls.

  Yes, victory! For about three seconds.

  Then he’s impassive again. “I tried. Last night. You didn’t want to talk.”

  “Rubbish!” I straighten again. “You didn’t try to talk to me. You tried to mess with me. And my sleep.”

  He tosses the banana peel in the trash can. “I messed with you so I could get to talk to you.”

  Huh? What?

  “You did?”

  Of all the moments. Of all the moments, Melanie picks that one to walk in. Hands on her hips. “So?”

  We both look to her, with a mixture of annoyance and confusion on my end. The uniform fits her like it’s hers. Her black hair is knotted in a tight bun. Simple black pumps and stockings complete the picture.

  My bestie looks…like a woman. A very gorgeous woman. I’m seeing curves I never even knew she had.

  She points to her feet. “I found these in Jo’s closet. The only corporate type stuff in there.” She rubs her palms together. “So, what’s the mission? Are we robbing a bank?”

  Jaxon fetches a bottled water from the fridge and starts out of the kitchen. “C’mon. I’ll explain on the way.”

  “I’m coming, too,” I call out as I skip to the fridge to grab a bottled water for myself before hurrying after them.

  I don’t hear Jaxon object again, and as far as I’m concerned, silence means consent.

  The flat has three stories. The top floor, split into two separate wings by a T-hall and a large open room filled with exercise equipment, has four bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. The second floor has the living area, kitchen, lounge area, powder room, and another long hall leading to Jaxon’s office and the master bedroom suite.

  The ground floor is being used as a very large garage, of sorts. At the back of the building is a garage door that opens onto the back alley. And to the front of the building are wrought iron double doors—the main entrance. A rustic staircase twists up to another steel door, which leads up to the second floor—this is the one Melanie blew off.

  Parked down here are two Escalades—one black, one white—a ninja bike, a black limousine, and two taxi cabs.

  Who drives in this city except for cabbies? People who need getaway vehicles, that’s who.

  The white Escalade beeps to life as Jaxon approaches it. I’m itching to ask questions, but I remember his reason for wanting to leave me behind and prudently keep my lips zipped.

  Melanie gets in the front with him, and I climb in the back. The garage door whines upward, and the Escalade rolls out.

  “To answer your question,” he says, “yes, we’re robbing a bank.”

  Whoa.

  Whoa!

  Mel gives no reaction. She’s fearless. I, however, am not. Guess I should have stayed home, after all. “You’re going to rob a bank right now?”

  His eyes find me in the rearview mirror and he shoots me a wordless warning.

  I clamp my mouth shut and slouch down into the plush leather.

  “We’ll have approximately seven minutes to carry out this task.” As he explains the whole plan at a lucid pace to Melanie, I listen intently.

  The bank we’re headed to is small and fairly new. He’s gathered inside information on their security system and aims to capitalize on its weakness rather than hacking it and risking triggering any backup traps. The goal is to get in and get out with no one the wiser, or even remotely suspicious.

  They won’t be targeting the whole bank—thank heavens. Just one particular safe deposit box. A box to which Jaxon has acquired a key.

  His job is to ensure Melanie has a safe, undetected entry. Her test is to get into the vault, locate the safe deposit box, remove the item he wants, and walk right out again.

  How will this work? Apparently, he has been seducing the section manager for a while now—long enough that she turns stupid whenever he walks in. His plan is to distract her while he swipes her key card to the vault. Once he’s successfully acquired the card, he’ll signal Mel by removing a pen from his pocket. At that signal, she will walk by him and surreptitiously take the key card.

  How will she just walk in as a new employee? The bank recently hired a new teller. Today is her first day. However, thanks to a fake email from the bank terminating her hire, the real new girl won’t be coming in. Therefore, the employees of that section, who do not yet know what the new girl looks like, will assume Melanie is the real new girl.

  What about cameras?

  That’s the weakness Jaxon’s taking advantage of. A security camera video download occurs at 11 a.m. daily…of all the cameras in the bank. It takes precisely seven minutes and three seconds, during which the monitors and video go dark. That is all the time Melanie has to get in and out without being caught on camera. />
  “So, I can just walk in and start working?” Melanie asks. “Won’t the section manager be all over me?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jaxon tells her. “I’ll keep her occupied.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we pull up across the street from the bank. It’s small, nondescript, and on my own I probably wouldn’t have even noticed the building is a bank, as the small sign that says NYBS is, well, small.

  Without an ounce of nerves, Melanie undoes her seat belt and hops out of the vehicle.

  Jaxon cracks the windows a wee bit, switches off the engine, and twists in his seat to look back at me. “Stay in the car.”

  “Okay.”

  He frowns. “I’m serious. In the car.”

  I give him wide, innocent eyes. “I know.”

  Aiming for intimidation, he glares me down. But just exhales something akin to a resigned sigh, then jerks open the door and climbs out. Melanie moves to stand beside him. He dips into his pocket for something and passes it to her.

  The key to the box.

  Brief words are exchanged, then they both nod and jaywalk across the street.

  He opens the bank door like a gentleman, allowing Melanie to go in ahead of him, and glances across the street, to the vehicle, to me. He can’t see me through the tinted windows, but I’ll bet he knows I’m smiling.

  I’ll bet he knows I have zero intention of staying in the car.

  After they’ve gone inside, I wait a good six minutes before I snag the dangling key from the ignition and jump out. Once I’ve locked up, I tuck the key into my bosom.

  I smooth my dress, straighten my cardigan, and cross the street.

  Cool air conditioning blasts me as I walk in. A number of people are waiting in lines, and the tellers all seem to have their hands full. On either side of the room are glass double doors with golden bar handles. An acrylic sign hanging over the doors on the right reads Mortgages, Loans, Transfers while the sign over the doors on the left reads Credit Cards, Safe Deposit, New Accounts.

  I go left.

  The security guard in a navy-blue uniform standing by the doors doesn’t even spare me a glance as I swing the door open and walk through. Guess the mounted telly across the room is more interesting than a nonthreatening dweeb like me.

  The section has three workers. A pimply, gangly white male; a cute, petite young female; and a raven-haired Indian with high cheekbones and a smirk. Melanie.

  Across from the cute young woman sits Jaxon, elbows on her desk, his lean-in posture intimate. This must be the section manager. Her cheeks are blushed tomato red, and her smile is coy. And, yep, she looks smitten stupid, her mind wholly occupied with romantic fantasies of the prince in front of her, no doubt.

  Mr. Pimply Gangly types away at his desktop computer with intense focus while Melanie shuffles papers at her desk, giving the illusion of acclimatizing to her new environment.

  Five people sit in the waiting room—one reading a book, one reading a magazine, and three on their phones. I take a seat next to the one with the book and cross my legs. But as soon as Melanie spots me, she gets up and walks—with impressive confidence in Jo’s pumps—over to the waiting area.

  “Miss Morris,” she greets with a wide smile. “So glad you could make it in. Please, follow me.”

  I’m sure the others will rise in complaint that I get to go ahead of them, but no one as much as gives me the stink eye.

  As Mel leads me off, she murmurs, “No one wants to be assisted by the new girl. And thank God for that, because I know hell all about assisting these people. I’d probably end up playing the clueless card. Oh, sorry, I’m new. I don’t really know my way around here yet. Please, be patient with me.”

  I snicker, and she gestures professionally for me to sit in the chair at her desk while she lowers onto her own chair.

  “I trust your day is going well, Miss Morris?”

  “Splendidly.” I’m grinning now. This is so fun.

  “I bet it is.” She picks up a sheet of paper and slides it across the desk. “You will need to fill out this form before we can proceed.”

  I pick up the paper. It’s a standard personal information form, but under each sentence, there are scribblings in Pig Latin.

  As I mentally unscramble the words, Melanie slides a pen across the table to me.

  I have the SCA hacker in my bra and T63 in my scarf. Jaxon is behind with the key card exchange. We might have to do this without his help.

  With a double tap to the side of my glasses, I let her know I understand and then go about filling out the form with fake information.

  I slide the pen and paper back to her when I’m done. Keeping up the act, she skims it and promptly begins to type on her keyboard.

  For the next few minutes, she asks me bullcracker questions, and I spout off bullcracker answers, all the while watching the clock, waiting. At one point, Jaxon sweeps a casual glance around the room and notices me. Although he makes a teeny, tiny shake of his head, he’s clearly not surprised.

  Whatever.

  He has yet to swipe Miss Cutie’s key, so I don’t care what he thinks right now.

  “All right, Miss Morris,” Melanie says as she gets to her feet. “I believe we’re all set. Come with me, please.”

  I’m up and about to follow when Mr. Pimply Gangly passes by with a customer. A quizzical string tugs his brows together. However, he doesn’t break to question Mel, because his customer—a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair in an expensive suit—looks important. He walks alongside him, clapping him on the shoulder, kissing arse.

  “Your co-worker is suspicious of us,” I whisper in French to Melanie’s back. “We need to do this quickly.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s 10:59. In one minute the cameras will be out of commission for seven minutes. We have only that much time to get in and get out.

  I follow Mel through a door that leads down a narrow hallway made of stainless steel. After about twenty seconds of brisk walking, we halt at what resembles a prison grill with swipe-card access.

  With nimble hands, Melanie retrieves the SCA hacker from her bra, swipes, and the grill opens as smooth as olive oil. Once we’re through, it relocks with a loud beep.

  We resume briskly walking down the claustrophobic hall for another twenty seconds. When we finally get to the end, the only way to turn is right, which slams us straight into a vault door.

  “Bloody beheaded wife of a fickle king,” Melanie curses under her breath.

  Yep, that’s correct. The vault door is nothing like we expected. No swipe-card access, or keypad, or monitor. Nothing we can hack. This is a back-to-basics vault door with a manual puzzle lock and bolt. Old school—a huge circle made of tons upon tons of steel, with all different lengths of steel going this way and that. Not even Iron Man could break through this thing.

  “What the bloody hell am I supposed to with this?” Melanie hisses. “That arse-face American sod has set us up. For failure.”

  “Shh…” I study the door intently.

  “We don’t have time, Tim,” Melanie says urgently. “We need to call this a loss and get out of here.”

  “It’s a distraction,” I mutter as I move in and attempt to spin the vault wheel. It doesn’t budge. Because it’s not real. I actually grin.

  “Huh?”

  “This wheel. This unnecessary crisscross of irons and bolts. It’s meant to intimidate, to throw off potential thieves, but serves no real purpose. I do the same thing when I build car engines. Helps the manufacturer make money—a regular mechanic gets confused by an engine that looks nothing like what he’s used to working with, so he sends the customer right back to the manufacturer. The manufacturer then charges a hefty fee to fix something as simple as a disconnected wire because, Hey, our engines are unique. Only we have the correct parts, only we know how to service it.” As I speak, I’m running my fingers along and under crevices and hidden pockets. “The real access to the vault is small and inconspicuous. Hidden. If you
were a real employee, Miss Tahira, you would know where. Help me find it.”

  Without questioning, she jumps into action, watching and mimicking me as I search with laser focus.

  A whole minute later, I find it—a switch behind one of the crisscross irons. I flip it. Something beeps. I step back.

  A square pocket in the middle of the wheel flips open and a small monitor pops out, asking for the employee’s PIN.

  PIN access. Good. Easy hack. “You said you brought T63, right?”

  But she’s already untangling the small case from her scarf. Within seventy seconds, the vault is successfully opened. We exchange quick glances of relief but waste no time swinging the door open and stepping through the circle.

  “Tim, what’s the number of the box, again?”

  Of course, she knows my overactive brain stored every last word Jaxon spoke in the car. Unlike him, she’d known I wouldn’t not come in to help.

  “4329.”

  For a small bank, the vault is massive. Melanie runs back and forth scanning the right wall while I scan the left. It’s taking us a lot longer than we have time for, but I eventually find it. “Over here.”

  The box is higher up, so I run down to the back where there’s a four-step ladder and drag it over. I climb up and wiggle my fingers, “Key, Mel.”

  The key hits my palm, then it’s in the keyhole, and the rectangular door cracks open. Seizing the handle of the cast-iron box, I pull it out of its slot and climb down the ladder.

  We both rush to the stainless-steel table in the middle of the room, set the box down, and slide the top open.

  Within it lies a black handgun, a thick stack of Euros, a cassette tape, and two velvet pouches—one small and black, the other red and twice the size.

  Melanie was instructed to take the red velvet pouch.

  Picking it up, she tugs at the strings and peeks inside. “Krugerrands.”

  The curiously inquisitive part of me wants to know what’s inside the other pouch, but we don’t have time, so I slide the cover back in place, rush back to the ladder, and return the box to its slot.

  I step down from the ladder to find Melanie staring at me. “What?”