Not that I give a damn. Art is my work, not my passion, and I generally find the idea of people paying millions of dollars for globs of color on canvas when others are starving or dying from lack of medicine the most callous of diversions.

  But regardless, I can see the technical skills and the beauty of the work. It’ll do, if I do my job right.

  “How the hell did you guys manage this?” I ask casually, almost like a backhanded compliment to JP and the organization he belongs to. But I really want to know. Who can produce work this good, this fast in this area? That’d be a resource I wouldn’t mind having in my back pocket.

  JP shrugs. “I don’t know, I’m just an errand boy like you. Mr. Big has a network of errand boys, all of us doing whatever he needs.”

  He wiggles his fingers in the air like a puppet master pulling strings while inwardly, I scoff. JP is no mere errand boy. He’s Mr. Big’s right-hand man, handling jobs like this regularly. But he likes to seem small so people underestimate him.

  I won’t make that mistake, and I definitely don’t underestimate his boss. Mr. Big is a mystery wrapped in a comic book-style enigma, a man who is whispered about by everybody and known to almost nobody. But like an invisible octopus, his tentacles wind through and around every kind of criminal activity in our area. There isn’t a bookie in town who’ll sneeze without asking Mr. Big for a tissue.

  But he’s especially known for art theft. Forgery, stealing, smuggling . . . if it’s art or art related in the United States, you know he’s involved.

  And though I don’t take well to being called an errand boy, this isn’t the time or place to argue semantics.

  “It’ll work?” JP, who’s not half the expert in art that I am, asks after another moment. “No one will know?”

  I take another look at the piece, humming to myself. I know it’s fake, obviously, but I can count on my fingers the number of people in this state who might be able to reach the same conclusion. The head curator at the museum might, one of the professors of the Art Department at the university, and maybe a few others. But even they’d need to be looking carefully.

  “It’ll do,” I tell him, standing back up and putting JP’s papers back in their envelope. “Someone’ll figure it out eventually, but not before I’m long gone and Mr. Big has his greedy hands on the original.”

  “Don’t think you’re in a position to say what’s greedy and what’s not,” JP warns, his eyes narrowed. “This is a notable job for you. Do this, and Mr. Big will be pleased and he’ll make it worth your time. But not if you’re insulting him.”

  The threat of consequences is crystal clear. Whoever Mr. Big is, he’s a man with eyes and ears in all sorts of places. And people who talk bad about him quickly find themselves, at the very least, frozen out of the criminal underworld and exposed to law enforcement.

  Nobody talks about those who really piss him off. Mainly because so few facts are known about people who disappear the way they do. But I know if I fail this mission, it might be my bodily fluids used as pigment in someone’s forgery. That’s Mr. Big’s touch of melodrama.

  It’s a lot of pressure, and a lot of people would crack or walk away.

  But I’m up to the challenge.

  “I’ll contact you after the dinner,” I tell JP simply, sliding the forgery of The Black Rose back into its case. Conversation complete, I get back in my truck and drive off, my mind already going through a mental checklist of what I’m going to need to get this job done.

  The ballroom’s set up nicely at one of the best hotels in town. Actually, now that I think about it, my high school prom might’ve been here. Not that I went. I was already well down the path to hoodlumism by that point. But I have been here before for various events, usually corporate or social ones when I was little and my parents were still trying to have me make the right impressions in the right circles.

  So . . . safe to say, it’s been a while. But my prep went flawlessly, and as I check my black cuffs for any sign of dust, I feel comfortable. Still, slacks and a button-up shirt aren’t my typical first choices for workwear. Despite what Pierce Brosnan may have shown the world in The Thomas Crowne Affair, stealing shit in a suit isn’t easy. And if I have to run, I prefer to do it in athletic shoes, not slick-bottomed Oxfords.

  I do a final scout around the perimeter of the room, mentally confirming escape routes and identifying the power grid location. Everything’s as I anticipated, and I’m able to make my final preparations without being interrupted. I give a few of the other security guards hard looks, but we’re all muscle for hire and no one’s looking to chat about our childhoods or make friends to drink a beer with after this gig. Communication is short, simple, and professional. We’re all on the lookout for various dangers. Never mind that the major risk in the room is . . . me.

  Finishing my perimeter check, I move to the stage, closer to my target. I’ve already been onstage, stashing the fake behind some conveniently placed curtains, but I want to check everything once more. Frankly, too often, jobs go south because someone decided at the last minute that a vase just has to be moved or that a projector screen can’t go here, it has to go there, and the operator’s caught unprepared.

  That’s not me. I’m good because I prepare with an obsession bordering on OCD. Still, even my cold heart skips a beat as I see the artwork up close. The Black Rose. In person, it’s a beauty, the portrait of a sad woman who has the weight of the world on her shoulders. It pulls at my heartstrings because it’s with bitter humor that I can empathize with this unknown woman. I know how you feel, lady.

  No time for that, I tell myself. I’m here to do a job, and the sad lady here’s just going to have to deal with her new life away from the public. I finish my walk-around, mentally adjusting my timing as I see how things develop and more staff start to filter in.

  It won’t be an easy job, I knew that, but pulling this off in a room full of people with several other guards keeping watchful eyes is going to be the trickiest job I’ve ever done. But I can do it.

  I have to do it.

  A side door opens, and a middle-aged woman in a black dress walks in. Her grey hair is pulled back in a French roll and her glasses have rhinestones along the sides. She walks with an air of sophistication, but the smile on her face seems warm and genuine. She’s among her kind, and everyone in the room is a fan of J.A. Fox. After all, according to my prep work, she’s the author hosting the dinner tonight. She walks directly toward the stage, talking to the woman at her side.

  “Everything’s all set?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Books ready, a box of Sharpie fine-tip, blue ink pens open, and The Black Rose on display.”

  I melt into the background, becoming invisible and looking for all the world like one of the staff the attendees will overlook. I’m like that special green paint Disney uses to hide doors in plain view, only dressed in black, not baby shit green.

  “Show them in,” J.A. Fox says.

  The woman nods at the guard closest to the door, and he silently opens the door. A small crowd of authors walks through the doors, looking eager and excited while at least keeping enough self-control to not rush the stage like Beliebers at a JB concert. A few gasp excitedly when they lay eyes on J.A. Fox, a few others wave as though they’re old friends, and most simply walk in as though they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be.

  All right, Connor, I think to myself, it’s showtime.

  Chapter 4

  Poppy

  My nerves are on fire, my brain screaming ‘oh, my God, oh, my God’ over and over again, and my stomach is threatening to give my buttered toast and coffee breakfast a repeat viewing.

  Lunch? Yeah, I didn’t eat that at all.

  But I stand outside the double doors of the ballroom like a statue, consciously not letting my feet tap or my body bounce around like a rubber ball in a concrete room. I do let my hand drift up to needlessly adjust my lucky earrings, the gold acorns my mother gave me when I turned sixteen that have become a constant companion when I need a little boost. They worked for my first meeting with Hilda, and hopefully, they’ll work today.

  Otherwise, J.A. Fox might look at me the same way some of the other women in the wide hallway are . . . with undisguised interest, confusion, and an occasional sneer of disdain. I get it. I do. I feel like a poser with these women, some of whom I recognize by sight, some by the names on their pinned tags, and even some from television interviews. And I’m just . . . Poppy Woodstock, author of one measly book that they’ve probably never heard of, much less read.

  I smooth my red dress down my thighs. It’s a dinner, and while it’s not a formal event, I’d wanted to look nice so I took a few hours to go shopping and to relax. I have to say, I like what I feel. It hugs my curves in a classy way, reaches the tops of my knees, and has a simple wide ballet neck that shows off my collarbones.

  Elegant simplicity, the boutique saleswoman had called it, except did I mention it’s cherry red? Some people think I shouldn’t wear red because it clashes with my dark red hair, but I disagree. It’s not like I’m going to be unnoticed with my bright mane of wild hair. It could be slicked back in a tight librarian bun, and I’d still stand out.

  So I might as well embrace it. And I do feel extra adult with my black leather satchel at my side holding my laptop for the workshop portion of the event.

  Or I feel like I have a chance at fitting in until I see two women gossiping behind their hands, both of their eyes locked on me. I recognize them and know their names, or their pen names, at least.

  And just like that, I’m struck with a fresh case of nerves wrapped up in a barbed wire bow of Imposter Syndrome.

  Breathe, Poppy. Or maybe go make friends with them. Show them how friendly you can be. They’re not going to suck your blood. This isn’t a vampire coven.

  Jeez, I’m going to have to share that one with Aleria. She’d probably be able to make a good story out of it.

  I’m still considering going over when the doors open, and with a relieved sigh, I realize I don’t have to approach the mean girls. I don’t care how old they are, women like that always were and always will be ‘mean girls’.

  Walking into the ballroom, I’m struck. Not by the overt opulence—it is a hotel ballroom, after all, and has the usual bland beige walls and unoffensive abstract art hanging at intervals around the room. What has me on my heels is the reality that I’m here—J.A. Fox’s famous workshop dinner. This is the place where serious connections can be made . . . if you can back up your stuff.

  The front of the room is set up for dining with several long, white tablecloth covered tables set up in a U-shape so we can all face J.A. Fox onstage while she speaks. The floral centerpieces are small and tight, giving a sense of richness while not obstructing views, and the place settings gleam with gold edging on the plates, crystal glasses, and gold flatware.

  Toward the back of the room, there are smaller round tables set up with four workstations per table. That must be for the workshop portion, I think, patting my bag once more. I did manage to get one more chapter done after skipping the sex scene like Aleria suggested, but I need today and J.A. Fox to help get my juices flowing again. My writing ones, obviously . . . I’m not discussing sex scenes with J.A. Fox, that’s for sure. It’d be like talking to the Queen of England about blowjobs. She’s probably done it before, but I do not need that visual in my head.

  Shit . . . too late.

  Before that imagery gets so embedded that eye bleach won’t remove it, I see her . . . the one and only J.A. Fox. She’s wearing a black dress, and her gray hair is smooth and sleek. She looks almost grandmotherly, like she could bake a killer pineapple upside down cake, but inside her head is a brilliance unmatched in the current romance genre. Hell, in any genre. She’s created a market all by herself, decades in the making, and is still creating unique, interesting stories.

  She’s standing by the famous art piece that inspired her latest best-seller. The Black Rose is smaller than I’d thought, not much bigger than a piece of printer paper. Maybe I just assumed it was large because of its importance? Together, the sight is a dream come true, and I feel drawn toward it like a tractor beam drawing a cow up into an alien spaceship.

  I’m so lost in J.A. Fox being real and right in front of me that I trip over my scrambling feet. The hiss of a giggle behind me slices through my gut, but before I can blush in shame—or hit the ground face first—I hit a hard body and arms wrap tightly around me.

  “Oh,” I exclaim too loudly. Another giggle, this time with an accompanying chorus of cleared throats, sounds out behind me. But when I look up into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen attached to a man who’s just as appealing, the symphony of pity from the other authors disappears as I focus on mapping the flecks of brown and gold at the center of these eyes.

  It has definitely been too long since I’ve done my own ‘research’ on sex because my body, that wanton, thirsty hussy, perks right up at the feel of his body and his eyes focused on mine. He’s so close I can smell the mint he must’ve eaten earlier, and my ovaries, the dried-up peach pits in my gut, start doing a hokey pokey as they come to life and start turning themselves around.

  “Who are you?” I ask breathlessly.

  At my girlish question, he chuckles too, and the moment is broken. I belatedly realize what an idiot I look like—tripping over my own feet and falling into some stranger before staring up at him with lustful, worshipful eyes like I’m ready to have his babies right here and now.

  I struggle to upright myself, my knees not quite ready and buckling ever so slightly. To my horror, the hot stranger catches me . . . again. “Careful now.”

  “Guess she takes ‘head over heels’ a bit literally, huh?” someone stage whispers behind me.

  Finally vertical and steady, I clear my throat and try to salvage some dignity. “Sorry. I got a little star struck there.”

  “It happens. I sometimes have that effect on women,” he says with a cocky smirk that somehow still looks charming. “Just don’t break anything.”

  “No. No, I meant . . . not you . . .” I argue stupidly, going pale. He doesn’t believe my lie, but I stick to my story. “By her. That’s J.A. Fox,” I whisper like he doesn’t know that. If he’s here, he must’ve been invited and know who she is, right? Male romance authors are unusual, and now that my head is on straight, I’m instantly curious who he is. Speaking of straight—oh, God, is my dress okay? I check to be sure it hasn’t crept up my thighs or a boob hasn’t popped out. All good, thankfully.

  “Sure. She’s . . . who’d you say?” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the Grand Dame who’s thankfully unaware of my misfortunate blunder and greeting other guests warmly.

  It’s only then that I realize something. He’s not dressed. Well, I mean, he has clothes on—unfortunately, because I felt those muscles up close and personal—but he’s not dressed up for the dinner. He’s wearing all black . . . like a staff member.

  Way to go, Poppy. Not only did you literally fall into someone and make a fool out of yourself, but it’s a staff member who has better things to do than keep you from splatting on the floor. Like . . . his job.

  “Oh, fuck. You’re not an author, are you?” I blurt out.

  I watch his smile melt and his face turn to stone. It should make him seem cold and lessen his attractiveness, but the clench of his jaw only serves to make him look fierce and hard, something I didn’t know could be so panty-melting.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound rude,” I try to apologize.

  But the moment is gone, and without excusing himself, he walks away. I can’t help but keep my eyes glued to him, all confidence and swagger as he moves toward the stage, quietly saying something to another man dressed in all black. Like a good reader, I use my context clues and realize that not only is he not an author, but he’s not staff. He’s security.

  And I’m a total dork, and a bitch too.

  A woman onstage taps the microphone, the telltale thump garnering everyone’s attention. “Please find your places, and we’ll begin.” I’m thankful to see that there are ivory place cards on each plate so I don’t have to find a place to sit on my own. I see my name and sit down, hanging my bag on the chair behind me. Some of the other authors have set their bags and briefcases down in the workshop area by their nameplates, but I’m too paranoid and can’t let my laptop, my manuscript, my baby, be that far from my reach.

  J.A. Fox steps to the microphone. “Welcome, everyone!” she says in a posh British accent that sounded so perfect and fancy the first time I heard her do an interview with Oprah. I sit up straight in my chair, wishing I could pull out my laptop to take notes as she speaks, but there’s not really room with my plate in front of me. And it’s not a college lecture, so it’s probably not appropriate.

  “I appreciate everyone taking time out of their busy writing schedules to come eat a bite with me today,” she says, looking around. “Hopefully, we’ll have full bellies, fresh ideas, and flowing inspiration by the end of our session. If you could, while the staff bring out our repast, stand and introduce yourself for everyone. Thank you.”

  J.A. Fox nods to the woman on the far left of the table, and she stands up, speaking with a clear, confident voice as she’s obviously done this before. “I’m Louisa Magnum, author of the best-selling Oakhurst Family series.”

  Oh, I know that one even if I didn’t know the face. The woman next to her stands up, and introductions continue around the table, each name seemingly more impressive than the last. Finally it’s my turn, and I manage to introduce myself, though not without difficulty. “I’m Woody Popstock. I mean, Poppy Woodstock. I wrote Love in Great Falls.”