He looked like he knew how to handle himself, and I needed that for what I was about to do. When I find the right physical build, I know I’m half-way there. Men with carefully crafted physiques usually won’t turn away from a fight, which is why I choose them. They’re also often smart, but I try to avoid that type. It’s very hard to tell though.
He caught me checking him out. I hate it when I’m interrupted in my veiled assessments. When I’m making a decision, I sometimes lose my guard. I took a few too many glances and stared a little too long, and it’s biologically sewn into our DNA to notice when someone, or something, is looking at us. It’s a defense mechanism from our Serengeti days when we had to be alert for predators.
He smiled at me. They always smile at me. I look a lot nicer than I am. He walked over toward my seat.
“Hey,” he said. He wore jeans and a dark blue polo. No clues there.
“Hey yourself.” I gave him my breathy voice. They love my breathy voice. No woman ever talks like that in real life, why do they always fall for it?
“Where you headed?”
“Into the city. You?”
“Same. Mind if I sit with you?”
This one was cocky and got right to it.
“Not at all. You look a lot like my brother.” That threw him off. Neutralized the rising sexual tension.
“Oh, is that why you were looking at me?”
“I wasn’t really looking at you, but I did notice how much you look like Timmy.” He deflated as I said that. The infantile moniker brought him down several notches.
“Well, my name is Jordan.” He squared his shoulders and presented his hand for a formal shake.
I placed mine in his and stared into his eyes as if he’d hung the moon. “My name is Bethany.” It had the desired effect.
Thirty minutes later we exited the train together like new lovers. I’d agreed to a “lunch and lovely afternoon” with him, whatever that meant. Actually, I knew exactly what that meant.
“I need to make a stop first,” I said.
He frowned. “Now?”
“Yes, I have an appointment with my accountant.” I watched as his mind digested this. Money is usually a topic people consider off limits. They don’t pry. It’s rude.
“Okay,” he said with a shrug.
We walked past hot dog vendors and pushed through the lunchtime crowd on Manhattan’s sidewalks. When we stepped through the heavy glass doors of an office building that adjoined a bank, he hung back in the entrance hall, giving me the courtesy of privacy. I took the elevator to my accountant’s office, where the receptionist greeted me by lifting her phone. “Isabelle Montmare is here,” she announced with disdain. My accountant never emerged, although there was a time when he couldn’t keep his hands off me. Now, we had a deal.
The receptionist escorted me to an empty office, and my heart lifted when I saw the size of the package on the table. Sergio had caved to my demands. This was my biggest score yet. One million dollars in 100 dollar bills weighs 22 pounds. I placed half of it into the three money belts I wore around my slim torso and slipped the rest into the hidden compartment at the bottom of my large Prada handbag. If you’ve ever worn a weighted vest, and the average weight of those is only 5 pounds, you’d know that 11 pounds on your body is heavy. The weight of the money invigorated me, and I held my head high as I left the office.
I returned to the lobby ready for the most dangerous part. Jordan was still there, looking at his phone. I glanced at the glass doors, and sure enough, Sergio’s bald head appeared. People don’t like being blackmailed, especially when it’s sextortion. And when I threaten to destroy their relationships and reputations, they sometimes try to take matters into their own hands. That’s why, on payment day, it’s handy to have a well-built guy around who can assist a lady in distress. I approached Jordan with a practiced smile and a gleam in my eye. “Ready?”
As we headed toward the exit, I snaked my arm around his waist and pulled my handbag close. I tried to keep my body from touching his; I didn’t want him to feel the money belts through my camel hair suit.
Jordan pushed through the glass doors, and I turned my face up to him as we passed Sergio, but it didn’t work.
“Isabelle, please!” he yelled in his heavy accent. His footsteps hammered the pavement as he ran up to us. We kept walking. He lunged forward and grabbed my arm. The one with the Prada purse.
“Thief!” I screamed.
Jordan reacted, as I expected, and swiftly moved between us and pushed Sergio back. Two bank security guards tackled Sergio to the ground as a police patrol car pulled up. I looked up at Jordan with gratitude. “Are you as hungry as I am?” I asked with a flirty wink.
“I need that money!” Sergio cried as he lay face down on the pavement.
Jordan’s eyes flashed. He took my hand, and we walked away before the police had a chance to ask for our statements. I wasn’t about to get involved with law enforcement.
I struggled under the weight of the money on my frame and in my purse, but we soon approached a grand hotel and restaurant. Greenery and white flowers lined the steps to the entrance. The tension dissolved from my body as we left the chaotic sidewalks and entered a rich, pale blue carpeted lobby filled with soothing piano music. I was almost home free.
I stopped walking and put my hand to my chest. “I can’t—I’m feeling unwell.” After walking half a mile carrying 22 pounds, this was true. Sweat covered my brow, and I was slightly out of breath.
Jordan gently touched my forehead and then slowly trailed his hand down my back. “You’ve had a scare, Bethany.” He said the fake name I’d given him as if he’d just remembered it. “Let’s get you some water.” He headed to the bar and turned with a hopeful expression, “or maybe some wine?”
He wasn’t a smart one, thank god. “No, I think I’ll take a rain check.”
He was at my side in an instant. “Let me escort you home.”
“I’ve already ordered an Uber,” I said, indicating my phone.
“You can’t get into a car with a total stranger.”
I laughed. When I started my sextortion scams, I’d driven for all the ride share companies. A certain type of man, like my accountant, wasn’t safe in a car with me.
I headed for the exit.
He followed like a puppy.
Was this guy going to be a problem?
I felt his firm grip on my arm and froze.
“I think we should stay together,” he said in a threatening tone, “and go to the police station. We really should have given statements on that . . . attempted mugging.”
Did he say “attempted mugging” with sarcasm?
My UberX appeared, a silver chariot promising rescue. Just another second and I would be free. I batted my eyelashes at him. “I just need an hour to rest, and then I’ll meet you at the station.”
His features hardened, and he pulled out his phone. “I’m calling you.”
I reached into my bag and fished out my phone. “It’s not connecting.” I crossed my brows and pouted.
“Because you gave me a fake number.”
“What? No, I –”
He leaned over and grabbed my phone.
I lunged for it, but he raised it over his head. Then he slowly brought it down and held it in his grip. “Go ahead, call me,” he ordered.
He’d shared his contact info with the fake number I’d given him. “What’s your number again?” I asked. He patiently announced it, and I called him. Then I pulled my phone from his grip and headed for the silver SUV, dreading the hassle of changing my number.
In one stride, he stepped into the Uber and closed the door.
As the driver steered into traffic, Jordan leaned back and raked his fingers through his hair. “Just so you know, Isabelle,” he mimicked Sergio’s accent when he said my real name, “you picked the wrong guy to use as your prop.”
I opened my mouth to object, but he gave me a hard poke in each of the money belts secured at my chest, ribs, and waist.
“What’s that saying? You reap what you sow?” he asked. “Yes,” he continued, “I think that applies to whatever you pulled on that guy back there. Or maybe Karma made you choose me. Whatever. I’m getting a cut.”
Dammit. I hate the smart ones. It’s so hard to tell.