Sins and Needles

Book 1: The Artists Trilogy

by Karina Halle

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

There's a Fine Line Between Sin and Salvation . . .

Ellie Watt is a woman on the run. Raised by a pair of thieves who taught her the art of the grift-and pursued by a mobster who fell for her con-she hopes to find refuge at her uncle's farm in quiet Palm Valley, California. Ellie swears she's through with her life of crime. But before she knows it, she's right back in the game when she meets an easy mark who's too good-and too hot-to be true.

His name is Camden McQueen. A master tattoo artist and a total inked stud, Camden is nothing like the awkward kid who crushed on Ellie back in high school. Now, as owner of the wildly successful Sins & Needles, he's got tats to kill for, muscles to die for, and money to burn. Ellie can't believe the transformation-and can't resist pulling off one last con. But when Camden catches Ellie red-handed, the tables are turned. The mark becomes the master. And when the ultimate player gets played, you never know who's going to end up on top . . .

Release date: June 4, 2013

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

The girl was lying down in the backseat of her parents’ rusting station wagon, counting down the minutes as she stared up at the green water spots on the roof. If she had a cell phone, keeping track of time would have been a lot easier, especially since the girl still struggled with math. Of course, you could blame her mother for that—you could blame her for a lot of things—since the girl had been homeschooled her whole life. Division and multiplication were about as advanced as things got for the eleven-year-old. But, according to her mother, you only needed to be able to count in order to succeed in grifting, and at the moment the girl was counting away.

It had been four minutes since her parents left the car and walked up, arm in arm, toward the cold lights that emanated from the sprawling house. The girl had no idea where they were except that they were still in Mississippi. She could smell the swamps. The man they were visiting was supposed to be an old friend of her mother’s, but the girl wasn’t too sure about that. She had heard her mother screaming about this Travis man from time to time, and her anger had done nothing except build over the last few weeks. Finally, she had made some phone calls, got herself dolled up in her “special” dress that showed far too much cleavage, made her husband slap on a suit, and dragged the girl out to the car. They were going to have dinner with this old friend of hers, and they needed the girl to do a little breaking and entering while they had the man occupied.

The girl was shocked at first. It wasn’t just that she was getting older and developing her own sense of morals that didn’t seem to gel with the world her parents had created; it was that no one in their family had pulled a scam in years. Her father had steady work at a casino, and their tiny apartment in Gulfport had become as much of a home as a home could get. Her parents had promised her that they were finished with grifting for good and that they’d try to lead as normal a life as they could, all for their young daughter. Or so they said.

But her mother had her reasons, reasons that the girl didn’t understand. If they were friends with this Travis man, why were they robbing him? If he lived in an outlandish house with marble pillars and a driveway full of fountains, why didn’t they just ask him for the money? This was another reason why the girl doubted her mother’s story. This man wasn’t a friend at all.

And the girl was being sent right into his clutches.

When the time was up, the girl slowly got out of the car, careful not to make a sound, and hugged the shadows of the house, moving toward the back. She listened for the telltale buzz of security cameras or the click of motion sensor lights and felt relief when she couldn’t detect them. She kept low, quick, and quiet until she was in the sprawling backyard, the manicured grounds lit by the moon. She paused behind a fragrant bush and counted the windows down the side of the house. The plan was for her to go in the second window, the master bathroom, then walk out of the bedroom and take the first door on the left. That was where she’d find the safe; the code for it was written in permanent ink on the back of her sweating hand.

How her mother knew the code to this man’s safe, she had no idea. She had stopped asking her mother these things a long time ago.

She scampered over to the narrow, frosted pane window, and just like her mother said it would be, it was open a crack.

The girl would always look back at that moment, the hesitation as she stood below it, the moon behind her. She remembered having a choice—she didn’t have to go through with it. She could run back to the car and tell her parents she changed her mind. But fear and pride kept the foolish little girl from acting on her instincts.

Instead, she silently opened the window and went into the house.

When she eventually left the house, her life would be changed forever.

Bright blue skies, rough desert, open blacktop spreading before me.

Cue the music.

I fumbled with my iPod and selected the Desert Playlist I concocted a few days ago in a hotel room in Colorado. The Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues” came blaring from Jose’s speakers, and I let myself smile as the hot breeze blew my hair back.

It had been two months since I escaped Sergei’s fat-knuckled clutches in Ohio. Two months of being on the road and lying low from state to state. Two months of trading in my long, naturally strawberry blonde hair for a choppy black bob. Two months of surviving on Sergei’s money until it ran dry. Two months of being Ellie Watt.

Two months before I finally had to return home.

Well, the only place I’d ever called home.

I loved the high desert though, always have, and seeing the Joshua trees as they clung to rocky, chalk-colored hillsides made a familiar thrill run through me. The same kind of thrill I got when pulling off a scam. Only there were probably more repercussions for returning to the Coachella Valley. A scam, yeah, I was usually good at those. Being home again—being me again—not so much.

But I brushed that worry out of my head and gunned the engine. Roadrunners shot out of the bushes at the barren roadside, their little legs kicking up dust onto the rippling asphalt. There wasn’t a car or a soul around for miles. It was just me and Jim Morrison and the extreme landscape. The endless sky, the searing heat, the relentless sun that made the highs pop and the lows sink. This was a high-contrast land and I lived a high-contrast life.

I followed Highway 62 while listening to my favorite Calexico songs and surf music until Joshua Tree National Park appeared on my left.

And that was when I had to pull the car over to vomit.

Ugh. I sat back down on the passenger side, away from the road, and leaned forward on my knees. Jose made a clicking noise under the hood as the engine settled. I tried to breathe in deeply through my nose. My hands were shaking slightly, my heart was running around in my chest as if it were looking for a way out. This was going to be a lot harder than I thought. A semi roared past, making Jose tremble beneath me. Now we were both scared.

You can do this, Ellie, I told myself, even though my own name sounded weird in my head. No one will know you’re in town. You’re twenty-six, not nineteen. You don’t look the same. You don’t even walk the same. And like anyone from high school would still be living here. They all probably left just the same as you did.

I punched the glove compartment with the side of my fist and it flipped open. I grabbed the bottle of kava pills and shook a few into my mouth. They were the size of horse pills, but I managed to swallow them dry. If you do something enough, your body learns to adapt. I should know.

Another car roared past and we shook again. The kava would kick in soon, and if it didn’t, I had a few bottles of Ativan in the trunk. I was trying to wean myself off of the stuff since my habit had gotten a little out of control for a while, but I’d cut myself some slack this time. I just didn’t want to be totally out of it when I saw Uncle Jim.

The intense, ovenlike heat was making my thighs stick to my jeans, which were in turn sticking to the seat. I peeled myself off of it and walked around to the driver’s side. I gripped the worn wheel until my knuckles turned white then sped off down the road. I hoped I’d left my fear on the roadside with the rest of my breakfast.

Uncle Jim owned a date farm on the outskirts of Palm Valley. My parents and I went to live with him after we fell into a bit of trouble. They thought a fresh start would be a good idea, though I thought it had more to do with Child Services poking their nose around and the fact that my dad lost his job at the casino. So we left Gulfport, Mississippi, and came west. Uncle Jim is my mother’s brother and the only living relative I have who hasn’t disowned me. And at the time, he hadn’t disowned my parents either, which is why he let us stay with him.

They enrolled me in Palm Valley High School, the first real school I’d ever attended. I’m sure high school is a big shock to a lot of people, but to me it felt like I’d stuck my tongue in an electrical socket. And as if I wasn’t damaged enough at that point, a year later my parents sort of forgot about the whole “starting over” thing and pulled a fast one on a local. They took off like the fugitives they were, and I stayed behind with Uncle Jim. To be honest, I would have given anything to go with my parents, but ever since the incident in Gulfport they didn’t want to take any more chances with me.

So I continued my stint at Palm Valley High School, and as soon as I graduated, I got the fuck out of there. I only came back once, when I was nineteen, because my uncle had a heart attack. I was the only family member at his side, and I helped him with his farm for a few months until he was back on his feet.

Then I kissed him on his rough cheek and said good-bye.

Now, I was hoping he’d be willing to take me in again.

The foreboding guitar strings of Calexico’s “Gypsy’s Curse” started playing as I entered Palm Valley’s Main Street, which only added to the drama. I peered from storefront to storefront under my dark shades. The town still had the kitschy ’50s and ’60s vibe, but now it was retro chic. All the stores had fresh, bright coats of paint, creating a wall of aquamarine, saffron, mint, and cobalt. Palm trees lined the narrow street, and the street signs hung above flower boxes spilling over with red flowers. It looked clean and wholesome and sweet enough to make my teeth hurt.

None of the stores looked familiar. None of the faces looked familiar. My heart rate slowed and feeling came back to my hands and feet. I’d been worrying for no reason at all. When I left Palm Valley, it was a bit down at its heels, especially when you compared it to nearby resorts like Palm Springs and Palm Desert. Now it looked like the town could give them a run for their money, or at least provide for people who wanted charming desert living without the golf courses and condo fees. It was different now. And so was I.

It took a while to get off of the main street thanks to the new stoplights and plethora of crosswalks, but as soon as I was back on the highway and turning off onto Date Palm Way, a wave of nostalgia hit me. The air even smelled the same as it once did: hot pavement, dried palm husks, and orange blossoms.

The date farm was at the very end of the road, lined with rows and rows of palms. I spied a few clouds of dust rolling up through the sections as laborers rode their tractors along. Judging by the burlap sacks that hung from each palm, the harvest season was fully upon them. Surely he’d be able to give me a job helping the harvesters. It wasn’t glamorous work at all; it was long hours in the hot sun, skin peeling off your nose despite the hat and sunscreen, climbing up and down the trees until your hands were singed by the ladder and sticky from the dates. Luckily, I was the type of girl who liked to get her hands dirty.

It wasn’t until I spied the house where I’d spent my formative years that I started second-guessing my decision to just show up unannounced. To put it mildly, it looked like shit. It used to be a well-maintained ranch with terra-cotta shingles and a beautiful rock garden that surrounded the house like a desert moat. Now it could have passed for abandoned had it not been for the tractor and pickup truck out front. Christ, he still had the same truck I learned to drive in, and it barely ran back then.

I pulled Jose to a stop on the street and approached the house with trepidation, wiping my hands on my jeans. I could hear the far-off cries of Spanish from the workers in the groves and the coo of a few ground doves that were walking across the cracked, tiled driveway. An enormous wash of guilt curved over me like the surrounding palm fronds. The last time I talked to my uncle was two years ago, when I was holed up in Vermont. I told him I’d send him some money, and he said he was fine and didn’t need my charity. I meant to send him some cash anyway but I never got around to it.

Now it looked like he was in dire straits. And that would make two of us.

I took in a deep breath at the door, noticing the doormat was the same as it was back then, the same thick embroidery that his wife had done up before she died. It was patched with black mold and barely hanging together. I hoped that wasn’t symbolic.

I knocked quickly and snapped my hand back. I waited, taking a moment to look around me. I wouldn’t have been followed, but some habits stuck with you. Being extra precautious was a wonderful habit for a girl like me.

I raised my hand to knock again when the door was opened a crack and I spied a familiar-looking eye peering through it.

“Uncle Jim,” I said through a broad smile.

He frowned and the door opened fully.

He looked me up and down and said, “Oh shit.”

*     *     *

“I’m sorry, but you know you can’t stay here,” Uncle Jim was saying to me in his dusty kitchen as he poured me another glass of iced tea, the undissolved crystals swirling around the bottom like tornado debris.

I breathed out sharply through my nose, trying to hide my frustration. I’d been talking to him for an hour, and we hadn’t gotten anywhere except that I wasn’t welcome.

“Look, I get that you’re a proud man,” I started.

His eyes snapped up. He looked so much older now that it scared me; his dark hair had gone gray, and the sides of his mouth were lined like canyons, but his eyes were still sharp and determined.

“This isn’t about pride, Ellie. If you were someone else offering to help me, I’d take you up on it. It’s not like I’m not getting enough fucking charity from Betty down the street, bringing me hot meals a few times a week. I know I’m struggling here. But you’re not someone else. You’re Ellie Fucking Watt.”

I wrinkled my nose at his profanity. “I didn’t know fucking was my middle name.”

He raised a caterpillar brow. “No?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, Uncle Jim. That’s not a very nice thing to insinuate of your niece.”

He smiled—ever so briefly—but I caught it. He turned around and pulled open the fridge, looking at it blankly. There wasn’t anything in there except condiments. “Well, I beg your pardon for not being an appropriate uncle. I haven’t seen you since you were nineteen, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

He seemed to think about pulling out a jar of mustard but decided against it. What, was he going to make me a mustard milkshake? He slammed the door shut and leaned against the counter.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat.”

“I had some beef jerky in the car.”

He looked me over and shook his head. “You’re too skinny, Ellie.”

“It’s just my arms,” I told him defensively, crossing them over my chest. “Stress does that to you. I’ve still got enough weight down below.”

He nodded and his face pinched in sympathy. My heart thumped. I knew what followed that look.

“How’s your leg doing?”

I gave him a tight smile. “My leg is fine.”

“And you’re still grifting?”

“Sometimes,” I said, diverting my eyes. Suddenly the pattern on the faux marble countertop was fascinating. “I’ve quit for good, though. Had a close call in Cincinnati. Don’t want to do that again.”

Without glancing at him, I knew he was giving me the “a leopard doesn’t change his spots” look.

“What con went wrong?”

I suppressed a smile. “It was just an online dating thing.”

“And…?”

“And, well, it just didn’t go as it normally does.”

“And how does it normally go?”

“Get a bunch of desperate men to fall in love with you. Tell them you’d love to meet them, fuck them, marry them, but you’re stuck in Russia and don’t have the funds to leave the country to do so. Get them to give you the funds. Close down your online dating account. Simple as that.”

I could see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye. “Jesus, Ellie. That’s low.”

“Oh, spare me your sudden display of ethics,” I said with a wave of my hand. “That’s how it works. I don’t go after men who can’t afford it; I’m not that cruel. Most of them are cheating on their wives, too, so how about them apples? Besides, it’s not a quick scam. It takes months to build up a fake relationship. But that’s why I usually have six on the go at once. Makes it worth my while.”

He gulped down the rest of his drink in a fit of thirst. “All right, well, what happened in Cincinnati?”

It suddenly felt very stuffy in his kitchen. I was tempted to open the window above the sink, but I could tell the breeze had picked up and was blowing around dust from the groves.

I started sliding the razor blade charm back and forth along my necklace. “I just picked the wrong guy. And I got sloppy. I thought he was an American, but he wasn’t. He gave me a fake name, and that should have set me off. Who says they’re Steven when they’re really Sergei? He also had a lot of money to throw around. Too much. That should have also set me off. He kept sending me gifts to my PO box in St. Petersburg, really flashy items that I had to pretend I’d gotten, like pearls and diamonds. Really makes me want to take a trip to Russia and empty it out. Anyway, I got the money from him in the end, way more than I normally get, and then I disappeared.”

I took a sip of the iced tea and said, “Everything was back to normal for about a week. The money had been wired to my offshore account as usual. Then I got an e-mail from an ex-boyfriend of mine. Said he was in town and would I meet him for a drink. So, I did. Turns out it wasn’t my ex but Sergei, and that big, bald bull was pissed. I barely got out of the bar.”

“So what do you think happened?” Uncle Jim looked pained, and I couldn’t blame him. I was only twenty-six, far too young to be playing with Ukrainian mobsters.

I shrugged. “The only thing I could think of was him contacting the post office in St. Petersburg about the PO box. I couldn’t remember what name I signed up for the account with. He might have traced me to Cincinnati somehow. I lived with my ex for a couple of months, and I’m guessing he went there under false pretenses, got the e-mail of my ex, and impersonated him. I totally underestimated Sergei. I think he was involved in a bunch of bad things.”

My uncle’s eyes turned hard and flinty. “This ex of yours… is this…”

“No,” I said quickly. “No, this was some guy I met at the rock-climbing gym. Jack. It was short and sweet. And what are you getting at?”

He raised his fingers and looked to the side. “Oh, I just heard some things, that’s all.”

“What kind of things? And from who?” Panic was starting to press on my chest. He couldn’t be talking about who I thought he was. I mean, he could not. It was impossible. Oh shit.

“Whose car is that outside?” he asked.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

“How do you know about all of this?” I asked, shooting to my feet and sending the bar stool clattering behind me.

“Easy there, Hellie.” He was back to calling me my nickname from high school. It would have been charming had my blood pressure not been through the roof at that moment. Ativan. I had Ativan in the trunk.

“I talked to your parents a few times, you know. More than you have,” he continued.

I blinked stupidly. “Okay, aside from the fact that I can’t believe you’re talking to them again, I don’t know what my parents could possibly know about—”

“You falling in love with a drug lord?” he supplied. “Oh, they know enough. It’s a small world out there. If you double-cross enough people, you’re bound to double-cross them again.”

His words coated me like fine dust. My parents were alive and kicking. They were talking to my uncle. And somehow they knew all about Javier.

“What did they tell you?” I asked quietly, hiding my hands behind me so he couldn’t see them shaking.

“Well, they are back in Gulfport. No, maybe it’s Biloxi. Somewhere on the coast. And apparently they aren’t the only ones visiting their past.”

I couldn’t believe it. Why on earth would my parents return to Gulfport? We fled from that place like it was a life-and-death situation, and I’d grown up believing it was.

“Didn’t you return to Gulfport after you left here?” he asked me, as if he could read my thoughts. “Maybe they went back for the same reason.”

Yes, but I went back for revenge. For what had happened to me all those years ago. For what had scarred me for life.

“So what did they tell you?” I asked. I ground out the words like hard kernels.

He scratched beneath his ear and looked down into his glass, examining the floating crystals. The sun was streaming through it, causing a tea-colored stain to dance on the walls. “They mentioned how you had been living in Gulfport after you left Palm Valley. They hinted that you’d switched sides for a few years, shacked up with one of Travis’s men. Javier… something Spanish. Then, for whatever reason, you left. Took his money and his car.”

I swallowed hard. I wanted nothing more than to run out of the house and back into that said car and drive far, far away. That was always Plan A, and it had worked out great so far.

“Okay,” I said, trying to find an angle in our conversation. “But how did they find that out?”

“Look, I don’t know. This was a few years ago, anyway. It hasn’t come up since.”

“So you still talk to them?” I asked, brows raised to the ceiling.

He nodded. “Maybe twice a year. We ain’t close, if you catch my drift. Which is why you can’t stay here.”

“You still won’t let me stay here?”

“I especially won’t let you stay here. Scamming men on the Internet? Didn’t your parents teach you anything?”

“Yeah! To con people.”

“No, Ellie,” he said and then licked his lips. He looked so much older than he should have. I wished I could just wipe the wrinkles from his face. “Didn’t what they did to you teach you anything? Eventually you’re going to get hurt.”

I raised my chin, my walls rising up around me like metal siding. “I’ve already been hurt, as you love to point out. And I told you, I’m done. I’m trying to go legit, and you won’t even give me a chance. You haven’t seen me since I was a teenager. You don’t know me. You don’t know when I’m being honest.”

“Exactly.”

“But I am being honest. I need a job, Uncle Jim. I need a place to stay.”

He let out a deep sigh and threw the rest of his drink in the sink. “You can stay here for a couple of days, that’s it. If you want to hang about in Palm Valley, that’s fine. But you don’t hang out here. You need to find your own place. Your own money. I can’t give you any money and I can’t even give you a job. I owe those men out there money already and there’s not enough harvest to break even this year. Sad but true.”

“I can help out around the house, clean it up a bit,” I offered.

“And I expect you to,” he said sternly. “But only for a few days. I suggest you hightail it to town and start looking for employment now.”

“Why are you so afraid of me?” I asked him softly.

I thought he’d look perplexed at the question but he only looked chagrined. “I’ve always been afraid of you, little Hellie. You’ve got something dark inside you, you always have. I don’t want to be around when it comes out. And more than that, I’m trying to make good in this community. I’m trying to make good and get help when I need it most. Do you think people will be so generous to me when they find out I’ve got my sister’s daughter staying here? Do you think a town ever really forgets its criminals? It doesn’t. Palm Valley may look prettier, but it’s still a stubborn old lady who won’t think twice about running you out of town. And me, too.

“Now,” he said, making his way to the sliding door that led into the date palm grove, “I’ve got to make sure my livelihood is alive. I’ll see you later.”

I watched him go, vowing to myself that I’d never be in financial stress at his age, no matter what the cost. Then I turned and left the house. I had some jobs to apply for.

I DROVE BACK to town in pure frustration, my ever-pres. . .