“I saw your place. There’s nothing in there.”
He tugs on his ear. “Maybe all the money goes toward the mortgage.”
“Please. We both know you’re not paying a mortgage.” I huff and lean back in my chair, gazing out the window. Let him think he’s disappointed me.
After a long moment of silence, he says, “It goes to my family in Argentina.”
“Why?”
The serious look on his face vanishes and hetsks. “That’s a second question. I only agreed to one. Now, what’s so important about this book?”
I decide on the truth. Repay his honesty for a little of my own.
“It’s supposed to be a grimoire.”
He snorts. “What, like a book for magic spells?”
“Apparently.”
“And you want it because…”
This time, Itsk. “That’s a second question. I only agreed to one.”
Just before the plane reaches the gate, Ezra tells me to watch him closely. During the clamor of everyone unbuckling their seat belts and gathering their stuff, he reaches up to the overhead bin, as though he’s going to get his carry-on. His backpack is still under the seat in front of him.
He’s short enough he has to stand on his toes, and when he loses his balance, he knocks into the guy who was sitting behind me, also reaching for his carry-on. Because I’m watching so closely, I see him ease the guy’s wallet out of his back pocket and into his own.
“Watch it, shrimp,” the guy says, like he’s a bully in an old movie.
“Sorry, man,” Ezra says, sitting back down next to me.
It’s hard to keep the grin from my face as he hands me the wallet.
I take out the cash and ditch the rest in an airport garbage can on the way out.
Fourteen
Malibu smells like sea salt, citrus, and gasoline. It slams into me as soon as I step out of the limousine, heel hitting the concrete, bare calf exposed by the slit in my dress. I’m offered a gloved hand in assistance, and I look up into Rook’s gray eyes. His hair is slicked back like a thirties movie star’s, and his tux is immaculate.
The sequins on my dress sparkle in the setting sun as I follow Rook onto the red carpet leading up to the museum. Lowering my head, I let my hair shield my face from the flashing cameras and cell phones. Luckily, they’re not here for us, and at most we’ll be background characters in someone else’s portrait.
These photographers are not from the media. Well, they are, but their readership is niche, their journals and magazines esoteric. Many of the Coven will be in attendance tonight, but they’ll have no memory of it. They’ll want photographic evidence of their evening.
I’d given Rook a brief tutorial on avoiding being photographed and he’s doing better than expected in nonchalantly facing away from the cameras. He effortlessly directs us behind the red carpet’s backdrop to a small concrete path sheltered by firs and pines.
“Well,” he says, adjusting his bow tie, “Part One is a success.”
I roll my eyes, my hand still in the crook of his arm. “Yes, I was worried about the getting-out-of-the-car part.”
“Now for Part Two,” he says, and even though he appears as confident as ever—his posture sure, his voice steady—something makes me think he’s nervous.
“Do me a favor?” I pat his forearm.
He raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“Stop announcing which part of the plan we’re on.”
“Right.” He clears his throat and tugs at his bow tie again.