Kiss Me If You Can (Bachelor Blogs 1)

As if he needed the reminder. That had been his rule. One she’d forgotten during their last hurrah, so he’d pocketed the ring.

“And I want the bracelet!” Sylvia had lowered the glasses to the tip of her nose, looking at him over the rims like a librarian. “I’m sure you remember it. The one that matches her necklace from the Lancaster job. You were supposed to meet up with us and divide the loot and you never showed. Sneaky, no-good, lying bastard.” Sylvia kicked his shin with an orthopedic shoe.

“Ouch! Dammit, settle down,” Ricky yelled at her. “Let me go before someone comes into the store and finds you two idiots.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Sylvia, you start there.” She pointed to a set of drawers. “I’ll look here.” She sat down at his desk.

Together they began ransacking the back room and his private drawers and stashes in a futile search for their missing items.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxed despite the circumstances, because they wouldn’t find what they were looking for. Ricky might have kept things like a hoarder, but the two items they’d come looking for, those he’d hidden in a safe place.

“Hey! I recognize this.” Sylvia held up a brooch from one of their first heists. “I thought we agreed we’d only take enough so that we each ended up with one piece. To keep or sell if we needed the money.”

Charlotte rose from the chair. “You mean to tell me you took other things from those jobs?”

Ricky remained stubbornly silent. He wasn’t engaging these two lunatics in an argument and when he didn’t reply, they went back to work, poring through every nook and cranny they could find.

Ten minutes later, they’d pretty well covered everything.

“Not here,” Sylvia said, sounding defeated.

“I can’t find them, either.” Charlotte perched her hands on her slim hips—Ricky’d always had a thing for her slim hips—and strode over. “I want my wedding ring back and I want it now.”

Sylvia reared her leg back for another kick.

“Whoa! No more kicking me, you old battle-ax!”

“Then tell us where our things are,” Sylvia said.

Ricky shook his head. “How about a deal instead?”

“What kind of deal? And talk fast,” Charlotte said, obviously realizing they might be running out of time before his daughter returned.

“You get my ring back from that nosy reporter and you make sure he and his lady friend back off their investigation of the ring. And of me. My daughter told me they’ve been snooping around, asking questions. Then we’ll exchange goods.” He smiled, knowing he still had the upper hand.

Sylvia glanced at Charlotte. “Think we can manage that?”

Charlotte muttered under her breath.

Ricky couldn’t hear, nor did he care. He only wanted her to take the deal.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But we’re holding you to it. No weaseling out, disappearing or taking what’s ours.”

“Fine,” Ricky said. “Now untie me.”

“Wait. There’s one more thing,” Sylvia said, glancing at Charlotte as she always used to do, for the okay.

Charlotte shrugged. “Okay, why not.”

“What’s she talking about?” Ricky asked. “What’d you just agree to?” An uneasy feeling settled over him and while he was looking to Charlotte for answers, Sylvia kicked him again, harder this time.

“Oww!”

“Quit crying like a baby. And you’d better hold up your end or the next one’ll be in the nuts,” Sylvia promised before grinning at Charlotte. “Now we can untie him.”

AFTER ALL THE EXCITEMENT of the day, Charlotte needed a nap. Unfortunately, she also needed to formulate a plan. How in the world would she get Coop to give her the ring and agree to stop digging into the story? She doubted he’d do all that, even for love.

“Any ideas yet?” Sylvia asked.

“No, and stop talking. You’re giving me a bigger headache than I already have. I need to think.”

They walked into Charlotte’s apartment and before she could ask her friend to go home so she could sleep, Charlotte caught sight of a note on the kitchen table.

“It’s from Lexie. I recognize the handwriting,” Charlotte said. She opened the folded paper and read aloud. “We have your necklace. If you want to see it again, we want to see you. There’s an address below it,” Charlotte said, figuring it was Coop’s apartment.

She fell into the nearest chair, feeling every one of her seventy-nine years.

“Oh, no!” Sylvia said. “Now what?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m taking two Tylenol and then a nap. I know my limits and I’ve reached them today.” She was exhausted; her brain was fried. And panic over what Lexie knew was threatening to overwhelm her. “We’ll decide what to do when I wake up.”

Sylvia nodded. “I’m exhausted, too. Nobody ever told me getting old was so hard.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. Sylvia always had been such a drama queen. “What do you say we meet up again later?” she asked over a yawn.

“Sounds good. By then maybe your brain cells will rejuvenate and you’ll have a plan,” Sylvia said, rising from her chair.

She always had the utmost faith in Charlotte to get them out of any jam. In the past, Charlotte had enjoyed the leadership role. Today, though, she just felt tired.

And old.

LEXIE SAT, LEGS CROSSED, on the large windowsill, looking out Coop’s window at the view of the city below. Lights flickered in the darkness and she wondered how many people walking the streets were as conflicted as she was.

Coop had been holed up in the bedroom since dinner, working on his laptop. She assumed he was writing and not tapping out an assignment, but who knew? He certainly wasn’t talking. And she could pinpoint the exact moment his mood and behavior had changed.

After he’d said, I more than like you, and she’d bolted like a scared rabbit.

She’d tried to work, pushing thoughts of her love life aside. She’d registered Coop’s domain name and gotten his okay on the proposed design for his site. He’d beamed with pride when she’d showed him her work, his book cover a prominent feature on the home page. She’d used his newspaper photo as a placeholder, but he’d balked at the notion of having a professional photograph taken.

In fact, he’d sounded appalled. Lexie grinned, recalling the horrified expression on his face. But she wasn’t finished trying to convince him. She’d spent some time accumulating Web site links of other famous authors who had causal photos on their pages. She planned to ambush him with them later. She could imagine readers seeing Coop’s handsome face on his Web site. She knew she’d return over and over for a glimpse. He might not like that aspect of utilizing his photograph, but if it ultimately led to book sales based on his talent, then he ought to get used to it.