"A swift, smart and sassy suspense with lots of romantic tension."
Reviewed by Lissa Staley
Posted March 16, 2008
Romance Suspense
Avy Hunt steals art for a living. Actually, insurance
companies hire her to return stolen art to the rightful
owners, so she feels justified in her actions. Her art
recovery company, ARTemis, operates internationally, and
Avy frequently assumes disguises, often sexy ones, to gain
access to the black market goods she must retrieve. Liam James steals art, but he either keeps it for himself
or sells it for a tidy profit. When Avy is assigned to
steal back an ornate sword worth over 11 million dollars,
she's surprised to encounter this sly, sexy and playful
thief. As Avy and Liam try to outwit each other, the
attraction between the two art thieves heats up. While each
of them would risk a great deal to obtain the stolen sword,
what will they risk for love? Karen Kendall delivers a fast-paced story of light
suspense, with well-motivated characters and plenty of
romantic tension. Reminiscent of smart, sexy movies like
The Thomas Crown Affair, the characters' conflict is
based on the intriguing question "when is stealing
justified?" The unexpected resolution to the contrary
careers of the lovers is a delight. I'm always a fan of the
strong female lead, and with the skills and the tools of
the trade, Avy is ready for almost any situation. A subplot
with an art recovery trainee and a rock star's spoiled dog
add an extra dose of humor to an already amusing novel. As
a recent fan of Ms. Kendall's after last year's FIT TO BE
TIED, I can't wait to read what she comes up with next.
SUMMARY
For art recovery agent Avy Hunt, no task is too risky when
it comes to rescuing stolen treasures. Her latest mission
is to locate the multimillion-dollar Sword of Alexander,
believed to be in the possession of master thief Sir Liam
James. But there is far more to this heist than meets the
eye, and what Avy doesn’t know can definitely hurt her. In hot pursuit of the sword, Avy crosses the Atlantic to
keep charming, sexy Liam under surveillance—only to find
that he has been trailing her. It’s hard to focus on the
prize when they’re both overwhelmed by sexual tension. Now
Avy is going to have to make the toughest choice of her
career: Get her hands on the sword, or take her chances
with a thief. "A sexy, riveting read!" New York Times Bestselling
Author Christina Dodd
ExcerptMIAMI, late August
Chapter One
Some people steal for thrills. Others steal for simple
profit or for dark, psychological reasons. Art recovery
agent Avy Hunt stole for justice--or so she liked to tell
herself. The truth was a little more complicated.
Avy certainly wasn't a femme Robin Hood, since she worked
on commission and eschewed green tights for the sheerest of
thigh highs. She preferred a 9 mm Sig Sauer P230 to a
cross-bow and usually avoided bands of merry men, since they
tended not to keep their hands to themselves.
Only in the name of a job would she deliberately go home
tonight (from the raucous Clevelander Hotel on South Beach)
with this particular merry man. Dave Pomeroy, with his
greasy, lurid grin and his I'm-a-multi-millionaire strut,
gave her the creeps.
But here she sat in his giant black Hummer, dressed like
the Cheap Trick he'd cranked up on the CD player.
South Beach on a late August Saturday night was a fast,
sexy samba in a salt-tinged sauna. Spot-lit against a moody
night sky, royal palms waved in the humid breeze like
passing acquaintances who wouldn't remember your name. Sand
and ocean stretched to the right beyond the palms, and art
deco hotels rose along the left, past Dave's shoulder on the
driver's side of the vehicle.
Collectively, the facades of the lighted, pastel
buildings looked like a Hollywood backdrop for some steamy
soap opera. People were out on the town, dressed up or
dressed down, indulging in dinners, drinks, dancing, deals
and drugs. Laughter mingled with shouted insults and the
bass of crawling car engines, their stereos playing
everything from rap to rock to Brazilian dance music.
It was a short drive to Star Island, where Dave's status
symbol of a house stood. They were waved through at the
guarded gate to the causeway, and the repulsive Dave decided
to caress her knee as they traversed the water.
Avy forced herself to sit still until his fingers crept
higher, at which point she dredged up a vacuous giggle and
caught his ham-like hand in her own.
They turned into a long drive, where a pair of ornate
wrought-iron gates opened as if by magic. The house that
stretched before them looked more like a government building
than a home. The architecture, with its harsh angles and
sterile feel, was a bad rip-off of Le Corbusier.
Inside it was a mirrored white palace with all the warmth
of a hospital. Their footsteps echoed like gunshots on the
ceramic tile.
Pomeroy had the taste of a Vegas pimp. He'd decorated in
Early Eighties Nightclub, except for the occasional big game
trophy like the twelve-foot alligator in the corner of his
living room. That added a cozy touch.
Avy let out an appropriate squeak of excitement, though,
and Dave puffed up with pride. "You live here all by
yourself?" she asked.
"Well, I have staff, honey, but they have the night off.
Hey, you need to take a whiz? The john's right there. I'll
make us some drinks."
As she stood in his bleak silver powder room, Avy's heart
hurled against her rib cage and her stomach slid around like
a big glob of mercury. Not fear, she told herself.
Adrenalin. Nerves on edge before the job. Normal.
She took a disgusted look into the mirror at her
temporary persona, vaguely surprised that she could even see
out from under her tarantula-like false eyelashes.
A tight, shiny, black spandex micro mini-skirt rode her
hips. A red push-up bra promoted her assets like a media
blitz; the matching thong peeked out above the skirt like a
paid endorsement. She'd done unspeakable things to her hair
and applied her makeup with a trowel.
Bile rose in her throat--she looked a little too much
like the type of woman her father occasionally took to a
seedy motel.
She fingered the deluxe Swiss army knife that rested next
to her lipstick in a satin cosmetics pouch. Normally she
wore the Victorinox on a cord around her neck. Her dad had
given the knife to her--his little tomboy--on her twelfth
birthday, and in the seventeen years since, she'd worn off
the brand name with use.
She'd cut her Barbie's hair into a punk style with it;
She'd carved her initials into trees and benches; as she'd
grown up she'd employed the knife on more than one occasion
to open everything from beer bottles to car and apartment
doors. And that was all before she'd really learned
how to use it.
Though she felt more like opening the knife than the
lipstick, the red schmear was, for now, the better weapon.
So she used it without compunction, then blotted her lips on
a tissue.
This guy Pomeroy didn't scare her. And besides, her
trainee Gwen was right outside with her surveillance
equipment. If Avy got into serious trouble, Gwen would have
her back.
"Heads up," Gwen's voice said, through the tiny
electronic bud in Avy's ear.
Avy moved to the crack of the powder room door and
watched, eyes narrowed, as her new friend Dave dropped
something---definitely not a vitamin--into her drink.
A rufie? And here she was dressed like a sure
thing, too. She'd known that Dave Pomeroy was a smug bastard
and a thief, but she hadn't realized that he was also a
rapist. How charming.
What are you up to, you bottom-feeder?
She backed silently away from the door and flushed the
toilet, along with her brains and any vestiges of guilt over
what she was doing and how she was doing it. Dave Pomeroy
had something that didn't belong to him, and as a full
partner of ARTemis, Inc., stolen art recovery specialists,
Avy intended to get it back.
She'd have preferred to do a clean break-and-enter, but
security was tight here--no getting onto Star Island without
the owner of the real estate. The likes of Shaquille O'Neal
and Gloria Estefan wanted to enjoy their exclusive
beachfront Pleasantville without security breaches.
So out of necessity she'd targeted Dave at the
Clevelander, that famously rockin' South Beach institution
which hands out complimentary drinks, earplugs, aspirin and
condoms upon check-in.
She'd rather have arrived on the island the way Gwen had,
using a dive tank and fins, than let Dave practically hump
her leg before inviting her home with him. But every job had
its downside, didn't it?
Avy considered her next move as the cold metal of the 9
millimeter strapped to her left thigh came into contact with
the skin of her right one. Given the rufie, her first
instinct was to pull the gun on Dave, demand the priceless
bronze he'd had stolen, and walk out.
But she thought better of that idea, since if Dave turned
ornery he could decide to press charges for armed robbery.
Considering the hot art, it was doubtful . . . but it wasn't
completely outside the realm of possibility.
Avy grimaced. Law enforcement didn't always take kindly
to her methods of repossessing things for their owners. She
figured it was mostly envy on their part--she had no red
tape to deal with and a fat commission at the end, while
they had that whole law-and-order thing going on without
much reward. She'd made more money in five years of art
recovery work than her U.S. Marshal father had in his
lifetime.
She'd taken her occasional slaps on the hand--plenty of
agents on the art recovery team had. But she wasn't going to
risk prison. So Avy settled on Plan B: No cops, a little
dramatic flair, happy ending.
She closed her eyes for a moment and channeled sexiness
and stupidity and availability---which was the biggest
illusion of all.
Okay, go.
She pulled open the door and sashayed out to Dave in the
ridiculously high, clear-plastic heels that were part of her
costume. "Wow," she said breathily. "This is some place
you've got here." She cast a look of awe out at the private
beach, the infinity-edged pool and the 45-foot, state of the
art Cigarette boat rolling in the waves.
Dave dragged his gaze up from her breasts and gave her
the drugged Daiquiri with an oily smirk, displaying too many
yellow-brown teeth.
She was repulsed by the hair product in his sparse
fringe, the diamond in his earlobe and the sweet reek of his
cologne. She wasn't sure she could bear him touching her
again.
Just business, Ave. Not personal.
"Drink up, darlin'," he urged, swirling the ice in his
snooty Scotch, an expensive, aged Laphroiag. Dave evidently
had better taste in Scotch than he did in furnishings, but
it gave him breath like moldy Bandaids. She moved away.
"Drink up," he repeated. "I got a whole blender of those
Daiquiris with your name on it."
Do you, now? Well, I've got a toy surprise with
your name on it, buddy. But Avy manufactured the most
vacant smile in her repertoire and giggled before taking a
"sip."
"How's that taste?"
Like anticipatory revenge. "Mmmmm. Perfect."
Dave eased his bulk over to her and slid an arm around
her shoulders while Avy tried not to shudder.
"Steady," Gwen said into her ear. It was nice having
company---usually Avy worked alone.
Dave didn't have a clue, but Gwen and her equipment were
installed in his own sleek, phallic boat, completing Survey
of Art Recovery 101. Her final exam would be her very own
solo job.
Avy shifted uncomfortably as the air-conditioning vent in
Dave's floor blew a blast of cold air up her skirt.
He grinned again and tightened his arm around her. Dave
had sticky fingers on more than one level. Their moist heat
seeped through the thin fabric of her belly-baring top and
she wanted to molt out of her own revolted skin and leave it
behind with him. But that wasn't possible, so she stayed
still. Not personal . . .
Her mind departed the scene as he copped a good feel. Art
recovery was personal for her, and had been since a
cold night in Boston when she'd been a clueless museum
intern, robbed at gunpoint, tied up and locked with her two
co-workers in the coat-check room while three million
dollars worth of art walked out the door.
She still remembered the shock of the easy ambush, the
vulpine faces of the thugs, the fear, rage and guilt . . .
the smell of musty wool and stale sweat and urine in the
dark. One of the night guards had pissed himself when a gun
was held to his head.
They'd all three spent the rest of the night in the
coat-check, and when Avy got out she'd resolved never to be
that helpless again.
She didn't feel fear any longer.
Dave squeezed her ass---how she'd love to break his
metacarpals for that---but she forced her body to stay
passive. He would be expecting her to get woozy within
minutes, as she drank more of the drugged Daiquiri.
They went through a few painful minutes of the smallest
of small talk, during which she managed to distract him
enough to pour some of the drink into a potted orchid.
Then she put a slightly trembling hand up to her temple.
"Um, Dave?" she asked, laying her southern accent on thick.
"Do you have some saltine crackers or somethin'? I feel kind
of . . . funny. Prob'ly just too many cocktails on an empty
stomach."
He made an effort to appear sympathetic. "Sure, babe."
Dave unstuck his fingers from her tailbone and lumbered off
to the kitchen, where he rooted around, giving Avy the
opportunity to pour more of the Daiquiri into the potted
fern near his terrace doors. When he came back with a plate
of crackers, she swayed a little, which he noted with
satisfaction.
"Do you want to lie down?" he asked, with more false
concern, as he set the plate on the coffee table.
"No, no. I'll just sit here on the sofa for a minute."
Dave shrugged and looked at his watch. "Be my guest.
Listen, I'll be back in a few, babe--I've gotta make a phone
call."
Avy nodded and sank down onto his inflexible,
black-leather sectional, leaning back against a prickly
hair-calf pillow. She closed her eyes until his footsteps
retreated, his hard-soled shoes echoing on the white ceramic
tile that lined the whole house. Unfortunately his cloying
cologne hung like a fat cumulo-nimbus in the air and refused
to blow away.
Avy opened her eyes, turned her head and stared straight
at the ancient Chinese bronze Dave had arranged to have
stolen when the owner had refused to sell. Imprisoned in a
Lucite box, the bronze looked utterly out of place in this
house, as if it had been accidentally beamed here, an
unfortunate victim of an evil time-travel machine.
A serene, dignified T'ang dynasty Buddha in the classic
lotus position, the figure's hands were clasped under his
chin. He seemed to be praying for release--not only from the
box, but from Pomeroy's ugly, stark, contemporary interior
and its stink of polyurethane and too-fresh paint.
This particular Buddha was worth a cool million, but the
little guy didn't seem to know or care. He just kept his
eyes firmly closed against the spectacle of the only other
statue in the room, a tasteless erotic nude on a lighted,
revolving pedestal.
Avy eyed the Buddha in sympathy. Hang on for a few
more minutes, okay? I'm about to get you out of here and
back to your rightful owner.
Maybe it was crazy, but she often felt a kinship with the
stolen art objects she repossessed for their owners. As if
they had a spirit and that spirit had been kidnapped,
too--held hostage in the name of acquisition, greed or
money.
"Gwen," she said softly into her wrist unit, which was
disguised as a chunky gold-plate bracelet. "Confirm that
alarm is still off." Dave had disarmed it when they'd come
in the front door, but she couldn't be sure that he hadn't
turned it back on when she was in the powder room. You
couldn't be too careful in this business.
"Alarm off. Avy, watch out. The sick twist isn't making
any phone call. He's setting up a video camera in the
bedroom."
Nice. Avy slid something that looked like a pink
cell phone out of her big, shiny pleather bag. She stuffed
the phone behind the calf-hair pillow.
"And he's got, um, outfits on the bed for you to wear."
Outfits? Dear God.
"Heads up. He's walking your way, now."
Avy slumped a little lower on the uncomfortable couch and
let her head roll back. She channeled linguine as Pomeroy's
heels slapped back across the tile. Eyelids half-closed, she
made a good show of struggling to a sitting position as he
approached.
"Dan?" she murmured blearily, locks of teased hair
falling into her face.
"That would be Dave," he said.
"Dave . . . I don' feel s'good. C'you take me . . .
home?"
"Darlin', I'm not taking you anywhere," he said in a
voice like used WD-40. "Except to bed."
She nodded. "'Kay. Wanna . . . go sleep."
"Yeah, that's it. You go to sleep."
Avy slid her hand under the calf-hair pillow and curled
her fingers firmly around the pink plastic cell phone she'd
hidden there. Then she let her eyes fall closed and her
limbs go limp.
"Stupid bitch," Dave said pleasantly. Then he bent
forward and yanked down her bra and top to check out the
goods.
Avy shot into motion, whipping out the pink cell phone
and pressing it to his chest. Dave howled as 900,000 volts
of electricity knocked him backwards to the floor. He lay
there immobilized, eyes bulging, as Avy furiously righted
her clothing.
"Self defense, Dave," she said. "A girl's gotta do what a
girl's gotta do."
Avy walked calmly over to Pomeroy and set the toe of her
plastic shoe against his chin. "You're a real sad sack of
shit, buddy. You know that?"
All he could do currently was drool like a baby, which
was perfect since she was about to take his ill-gotten candy
away from him.
Avy resisted the urge to kick Pomeroy and removed her
shoe from his chin. "They make tasers in all shapes, colors
and sizes now. Cute little thang, isn't it?" Avy dropped the
pink "phone" back into her pleather bag and made her way to
the Lucite case. She lifted the cover off its stand and
picked up the Buddha with care.
"Dave," she said, shaking her head. "Didn't your mama
ever teach you that it's wrong to steal? This doesn't belong
to you, honey, and the insurance company that wrote the
policy on it--" she shrugged. "Well, they want it back. So
does the owner."
Dave just lay on the floor like a large, diseased catfish
that had floated, belly-up, to the surface of a dirty Miami
canal. She smiled sweetly at him, as she'd been taught to do
almost from birth in her home town of Atlanta.
"I'm a high-class repo man, honey, and I show up just
when people like you least expect me."
Avy held the Buddha in her left hand--it was much heavier
than seemed possible--and traced its contours with her right
index finger. "What are you doing with this, Dave? I don't
think it speaks to you on any artistic or spiritual level.
You sure don't have anything else like it."
She looked around the big white living room, at the
television the size of Texas, the fully stocked bar, the
retro pinball machine and the fierce twelve-foot alligator
in the corner, the tail curled into an unnatural swirl.
"Nope. This statue is not your style. So why'd you steal
it? Just because you didn't like being told no? That's my
theory."
"I'll bet he tried to buy it to impress a woman," Gwen
said, entering from the terrace doors. She had a thin,
almost fragile figure, big sweet eyes the color of dark
honey and skin like café au lait. "It made him look bad when
the guy said no. That's the only possible explanation." She
recoiled when she saw the gator, and Avy grinned.
"Want to hire his decorator?" she asked, as Gwen shivered
and ran a hand through her short, spiked dark hair. The
orange streaks in it were oddly tasteful. Only Gwen could
make the touch of punk look elegant.
"I think I'll pass, thanks."
"We need to get out of here," Avy said. But conscious of
her manners, she leaned down to say goodbye. "Dave, you
reptile, since you like to drop pills into women's drinks, I
will be more than happy to drop a dime on you to the
local cops. Don't take care of yourself, you hear?"
Pomeroy just lay there, gazing up at her with loathing.
The little bronze Buddha in her hands kept his eyes
closed and his hands together in prayer, but Avy could have
sworn he was secretly smiling. She kissed his generous belly
before wrapping him up in a flannel cloth and dropping him
into her handbag.
Gwen looked from the figure on the floor to the figure in
Avy's hands and shot her a companionable smirk. She quickly
changed into South Beach party girl duds and stowed her gear
in a messenger bag.
They shut Dave's frosted glass doors behind them and
stepped out into the humid Miami night, where his
color-coordinated shrubs and flowers all stood at rigid
attention, clearly terrorized on a regular basis by a
landscaping service.
Avy's plastic sandals made hollow tapping noises on the
brick pavers as they headed for Dave's golf cart, their
getaway vehicle. Her damned skirt slid up to dangerous
heights as she and Gwen got into it, and the backs of Avy's
thighs stuck unpleasantly to the vinyl seats.
A symphony of night noises played for them as she turned
the key in the cart and they drove quietly towards the
island's guarded entrance gate and the causeway to the
mainland. Palms whispered in the breeze, bullfrogs made
their throaty mating calls, waves gently slapped the shore.
Moments later, Avy pulled the golf cart up to the gate
and she and Gwen flashed some helpful cleavage at the young,
sandy-haired guard. "Hi . . . would you be a doll and call a
cab for us? Our date kind of passed out and we want to get
home."
He took a dazzled look at Avy's tanned, tautly muscled
legs and dialed the phone without asking any further
questions. When the taxi arrived, they tipped the guard
generously. Then they climbed into the car and--mission
accomplished--blew a goodbye kiss to Star Island.
"Good job, Ave," Gwen said in a low voice.
Avy turned to her and winked as the cab sped away. She
patted the little bronze guy in her handbag. "What can I
say? I've never met a man I couldn't handle."
Excerpted from: TAKE ME IF YOU CAN (ISBN#
978-0-451-22366-1)by Karen Kendall, an April 1, 2008 Signet
release. All rights reserved. Pre-order your copy today at:
www.KarenKendall.com
What do you think about this review?
Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: A swift, smart and sassy suspense with lots of romantic tension.
Loved the book. And it doesn't hurt that Avy is a Sweet Briar alumn! Those girls know how to kick butt!
(Fresh Fiction 3:44pm March 18, 2008)
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