Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(15)

Polly looked away quickly before Erin could see the alarm she felt transforming her features. She wished she could crack open her skull and remove that inconvenient information. She didn’t want to know. How could she ever feel him watching her again and not replay those words? They couldn’t be true, anyway. This was one of those times where Erin’s perceptiveness had failed and the crazy had crept in. “I’m no one’s freedom, except my own. From now on…” She reached over and took a forkful of Erin’s pancakes. “Please don’t aid Austin in ruining my plans.”

Erin’s expression was grave. “What are your plans? Why do they require those eyelashes? Are you moonlighting as a Liza Minnelli impersonator?” She ran a single finger over her own black lashes. “If so, it’s more serious than I thought.”

Polly was saved having to lie or even worse—spill the truth—when Connor blew into Denny’s like a category five hurricane. He grumbled something to the hostess and advanced on their table. Erin’s lips lifted into a smile, even though she hadn’t seen him, being that her back was to the entrance. “Saved by the SEAL.”

Connor stopped at the end of their table. “A note next time, Erin. I’m only asking for a note.”

“I left a lipstick kiss on the mirror.”

The surly ex-street enforcer was not impressed by his girlfriend’s statement. He crooked a slow finger at her. “We’re going.”

“Home Depot isn’t open this early, baby,” Erin complained, but contentment and pleasure were evident in every line of her body. She handed Connor the to-go bag and launched herself onto his back, giving Polly a thumbs-up on the way out of the restaurant. “Go with God, Liza.”

Polly waited for Connor and Erin to leave the restaurant before she blew out the breath she’d been holding, peeling off the false eyelashes. The conversation with Erin had given her a lot to think about, filled her with restless energy. First order of business? Track down a certain elusive Brit and obtain a satisfying explanation for his underhanded actions. And make damn sure no other satisfaction was garnered in the process. She’d faced fiercer obstacles than Austin Shaw.

When Polly realized her fingers were pressed to her lips, the lips that had been moving in a frantic coupling with Austin’s just hours before, she curled them into a tight fist.

Oh, yes. It was high time to regain the upper hand. Starting this morning.





Chapter Five


Austin unlocked the fifth and final lock of his one-bedroom flat in Lincoln Park and pushed open the door with a weary hand. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, so heavy that if he had the energy to turn his head, he would probably find them decorated with lead parrots. He’d gone far longer than one night without sleep in the past, but it appeared his gluttony for punishment knew no bounds at this particular juncture of his life.

It had been a terrible idea, going to see his daughter after what had taken place with Polly. Any day of the week, he had zero business being anywhere in the vicinity of three-year-old Gemma Klausky, red-headed ballerina dancer…and illegitimate offspring of an international grifter. The product of a con gone terribly wrong. His greatest shame, while simultaneously being his foremost pride. Pride he had no goddamn right to feel, since he’d played no part in her upbringing. He merely caught glimpses of her from behind newspapers or through shop windows, when he felt the need to punish himself for his unforgivable lapse in judgment one night in S?o Paulo. A night not so long ago, but one that felt ten years in the past, probably because finding out he’d created a child with his then-mark had thrown his guilt-free existence into a tailspin. What had followed with his partner, Charles, the betrayal…well, he hadn’t quite recaptured his ability to give zero f*cks since then? and it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Yes, guilt was a cruel mistress he wished would shove off, right enough. The old bat had put quite a damper on his lifestyle, hadn’t she? Furthermore, he’d let her. After S?o Paulo, his cons had grown steadily less organized. More spontaneous, almost as if he’d wanted to get caught. And he had. By one Captain Derek Tyler.

Austin’s being in Chicago hadn’t been a coincidence. A hired investigator had passed on Gemma and her mother’s whereabouts to him, a moment still crystallized in his mind. He’d met the investigator at a public park in New York City, could still remember the manila folder being handed over. The feel of it in his hand, accompanied by the knowledge that once he opened it, he couldn’t go back. As he’d flipped open the file and seen pictures of his daughter for the first time, the irony of a group of nearby children playing hide-and-seek hadn’t been lost on him.

It had taken him over a year to leave New York and venture to Chicago, but he’d wasted no time writing bad checks. Putting a target on his back. His actions hadn’t been conscious at the time, but looking back with twenty-twenty vision, Austin knew what he’d been about. Getting caught meant he wouldn’t be able to leave Chicago. He’d be forced to remain and face his mistakes. If that wasn’t pathetic and twisted, he didn’t know what was.

He’d met Derek on the afternoon of his arrest in an interrogation room with abysmal lighting and the stench of decaying cold cuts. It had been impossible to lump the captain in with his gray surroundings, however. With the opening line of, “You’re too good to write a shit check. What gives?” Derek had earned his respect. Not only because his staunch observation had been so damn true—he was good—Derek had been smart enough to stroke his ego without them exchanging a single word. Not bad. He’d signed on for the undercover squad that same day, giving him proximity to his estranged daughter and the chance to assuage his damnable guilt.