Chapter 7

In their business, Jules gave her the freedom to find and strip their marks by utilizing her refined yet seductive feminine wiles. He, in turn, stepped in only if their "companions" became too difficult to handle. Of course, he never played by the rules, hadn't done so since childhood. His teenage years found him in and out of juvenile detention centers, his adult life focused on his avocation, what he jokingly called their games for fun and profit, most of the time steeped in champagne and caviar on someone else's tab. A few prison terms had worked into the picture, though never long enough to disrupt his life, business as usual.

Now he went back to his coffee so she could get dress. Turning on her little television set, Jules pretended to watch the morning news, but every few seconds his gaze strayed to Allie, to watch her strip and dress. She possessed a full bust, curvaceous hips and slim, long legs. On occasion, he had basked in the feel of those legs around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, urging him to pump her harder so they could mesh together in a wild tangle of limbs and shared climaxes. On those occasions, she acted the tigress who not only wanted to mate, but to eat his soul. Then, she slipped away as the spider woman, sated and done with him.

He admired her choice of panties and bra, creamy, lacy pieces that she donned now. The clothes she liked remained too expensive for his tastes. Yet, he allowed her these little luxuries to compensate for his lack of outward affection. He did love her, in his own way. Since Allie—Allison—had become an integral part of his life for so long, he sometimes found it hard to separate the real woman from the assumed identity. When she wanted to go on a little vacation to take a breather, and do so alone, he let her come here, rent an apartment and buy a car. Now, the holiday was over and it had to be back to business as usual.

At forty-six, Julian Ferrer should have been retired, tanning on the beach on the Riviera, playing the casinos at Monte Carlo, lapping up champagne like water. Instead, he had to work for a living, and he couldn't afford her anymore unless they both went to work. He might not like her new "friend," but he always trusted Allie to know a good, honest, rich mark when she found one.

With canvas clogs in hand, she returned to the table, dressed in a striped crew top and white linen skirt. She had done her hair up in a loose ponytail and added hoop earrings.

"Very sporty," he remarked. "Where is he taking you today?"

She lit another cigarette. "I'm taking him, to Versailles."

"Get him to talk about his job, how much he makes, how much he's worth."

Allie looked at him as she blew out a smoke ring. "It seems daddy holds the purse strings. So, I might just have to marry him, the old May to December romance. It won't be so bad. He's cute and daddy's loaded, and soon daddy will like me, too."

"Don't!" he suddenly snapped, rising from her chintz-covered chair. "You know we only operate in terms of days, of months, not years! You marry that connard, and go live in Connecticut or somewhere in the sticks, and you'll be stuck there for life."

It was her turn to laugh, a hard, dry laugh. "Jealous, are we? Finally! So, you'd miss me if I went to live in the sticks! Of course, I would demand a mansion with two dozen servants, a limo, and mink coats coming out my ass. How's that for spending the rest of my life in backwoods luxury?"

She hadn't expected the slap. It seemed to come out of nowhere. One minute she savored the imprint of rage on his face, how she could goad him so easily; and the next, his hand had come to swipe the smile off her own face, with one quick, solid blow. Allie reeled back, stunned. The cigarette fell out of her fingers and dropped on the carpet. Slowly, she bent to pick it up and massaged her cheek.

"Don't you ever f**k with me again! Understand?" By now, Jules had his anger back in check, like a sudden dust devil swooped up by a powerful vacuum, his voice back to its even baritone.

Returning to the chair, he crossed his long legs. The sunlight coming through the balcony doors highlighted his western boots, and streaked across the iguana skin dyed a dusky olive green. He bought the boots on the Russian black market, the Russians, no doubt, purloining the boots from the Americans. The wheels of global commerce never stopped spinning as someone, somewhere, turned a healthy buck or euro or ruble.

"Get out," she said simply and firmly as she crushed out her Galois. "Just get out! You'll hear from me when I'm good and ready. Until then, stay away."

He held up a conciliatory hand. "All right, mon tristesse. We'll leave it at that; but you better be ready for this weekend. You know the set-up, the players."

"I haven't forgotten the job."

Allie went to pick up her canvas carryall, checked to make sure she had her keys, and then strapped the bag across her shoulder. "I'll contact you later, but until then, I want you gone before I return tonight."

"Just let me take a shower and eat something, and then I'll be long gone."

Taking him at his word, she slipped on her shoes and headed for the door.