Page 71 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

“No. But Lucien, my handler, watched the whole thing go down. He cut me off a few streets over and scared the shit out of me, but he didn’t call the cops. He asked if I was okay and had somewhere safe to go. When I avoided the topic, he praised my skill, then kind of cut himself short. He gave me fifty bucks before he left and a business card. Told me to call him if I ever needed help.”

She let Ricky pick at the endive on his own, while she picked at her nails. “I kept the card. Figured if he had fifties in his wallet, there was more where that came from. That if I hit a snag, I could prey on his decency. Not the noblest thought, but I was fourteen and scared. Then things got worse in the house. I tried to tell the social worker, but when the others found out I snitched, it got really bad.”

Her face paled slightly, her first sign of emotional trauma. “I woke up in the middle of the night with a switchblade pressed to my throat, and a promise that I’d be killed if I ratted out our lovely foster siblings again. I ran away the next morning. Tried to take Nyomi with me, but she wouldn’t leave. Tried living on the streets until that became scarier than foster care. So…” Her next swallow took so long his throat ached. “I eventually called Lucien.”

“And he took you in, just like that?”

“Not at first. He said he’d let me stay with him while he tried to find me a better foster home, but I freaked out and told him I’d call the cops and claim he kidnapped me. That ended his attempts to deal with the system. He even admitted he had a record and couldn’t afford a police visit. Having that power over him boosted my confidence, and he was so nice. I felt safe for the first time in a long time. So I worked my ass off to do things for him—dumb things like get him coffee, clean the bathrooms and kitchen, stay as quiet as possible when he read or watched TV.”

The desperation of a child crept into her tone: to be loved and protected. The simplest of needs. “You tried to make him like you so he’d let you stay.”

She finally looked up, fastened her uncertain gaze on him. “Pathetic, right?”

“Pathetic is playing with your yo-yo instead of socializing with other kids.” The highlight of his teen years.

A watery laugh escaped her. “Such a dork. But I do love the color of it. Hot pink suits you.”

“You should see me in my pink Elvis jacket.”

Her eyes dipped down his bare chest, lingered on the waistband of his briefs. “I prefer you without it.”

He’d loved her naked and surrounding him earlier, but he also loved her like this, open and honest. “Did Lucien legally adopt you?”

She shook her head, her amusement draining. “Not possible with his line of work, which I didn’t clue into at first. I begged him to let me stay. He flat out refused and gave me a month to figure things out. When I asked why I had to leave, he told me I wouldn’t understand what he did for a living, that he didn’t feel right bringing a child into his world. I’d been on my own long enough to sense something shady, and my instincts went on high alert, so I followed him. Did it for three weeks. I never saw him steal. He was too good for that. But once a week, he’d go to different homeless shelters or charities and drop off anonymous gifts.”

She described how she’d watched people open his donations and cry and hug each other, so overcome with joy, how Lucien had finally admitted what he’d been doing and how he’d acquired the money, and that his father had died homeless and alone, the two of them estranged, his work a way to staunch that failure. “I was hooked,” she said, resignation weighting her words. “I wanted to impact people like that. I was so enthralled by the end results I didn’t care about the stealing.”

Meeting a caring man willing to raise Clementine when she’d been scared and alone had been a lucky stroke by all accounts, or had it been? He might have homeschooled her and provided food and clothing, but he’d taught her the tricks of the trade: breaking and entering, stealing jewels, paintings, priceless artifacts. Nothing a kid should learn. When Clementine spilled the story of her vicious stabbing, how her ambivalence in their work had led to it, and that she’d continued to steal for another five years afterward, Jack was livid.

“He shouldn’t have let you risk yourself.”

“He gave me the choice to leave, but I couldn’t handle it.”

“It shouldn’t have been a choice. He should have insisted.”

“He needed me as much as I needed him. We were both selfish in our own way.”

She squared her shoulders, unapologetic in her choices. His torso was pitched forward, as though itching for a fight. He was angry, all right—for her, not at her. Sick for what she’d endured. But he couldn’t explain that from where he sat in his extravagant home, nothing but love and support in his childhood. Dealing with taunts and ridicule from teens didn’t compare to fighting for survival.

He lifted Ricky from between them and placed him on his favorite pillow. Jack lay on his side and spooned Clementine against his chest. “And now? What’s changed that you want a fresh start?”

She didn’t relax into him. “It’s been brewing awhile. I have no real friends. I hate lying about what I do, and the pride I used to feel is getting…tainted.”

“Pride in the philanthropy?”

She nodded. “When it came to burgling, I was a stellar pupil. Our heists got bigger. I wasn’t working solo yet, but we did this crazy job in New Orleans. A friend of Lucien’s told him about a collection of diamonds. Massive, acquired by a real shady guy. We worked with Lucien’s friend, a total eccentric—a magician named the Marvelous Max Marlow. And the score was huge, even after we gave him his cut.”

Her body flexed against him, and he tightened his hold on her. “What did you do with the money?”

“We were funding area shelters at the time, kids programs and stuff like that, but Lucien got nervous. It was too much money to spend solely in the U.S. So he did research and took me to India. He showed me what else our scores could fund. And God, if you saw what it was like, how awful the conditions were, maybe you’d understand. It spurred me on and was enough for a while, but I’m finding it harder for the end to justify the means. The orphanage might close soon because I didn’t do this heist, but I just couldn’t follow through,” she said more quietly.

She traced slow circles on his hand. “I want to like who I see when I look in the mirror. I want to do things legally, even if the results aren’t as dramatic. I want to plant roots and grow.”

He’d been to India and had a business trip scheduled there soon. He’d been to Africa and Asia and had seen his fair share of malnourishment and struggle. Through Marco, David Industries had spearheaded amazing philanthropic work, abroad and at home. He didn’t need to see those things to understand Clementine, though. He only had to feel the rapid flutter of her pulse, hear the passion in her voice, try to imagine her devastating childhood. He couldn’t fault her for what she’d become.

He faulted the man who’d taken her in, who could have altered the course of her life. For now, all he wanted was to move forward with this fascinating woman.

He hooked a leg over hers. “Can our roots co-mingle?”