The Mysterious Stranger (The Confidence Game 3)

“What else?

“My books and music. Red nail polish and—”

He let go of her arm. “Superficial things. You had a life without meaning. Y

ou will change and grow here.”

Rosie Woods had a life without meaning. Rory Archer made her own meaning, had always known what she’d wanted and who she’d wanted to build a future with, but right now she was Rosie Woods and she felt the weight of Orrin’s words because lately she’d been as lost as Rosie Woods in the business of her life.

“Not everything has to be about the end of the world,” she said.

He laughed. “Not everything. I want us to be about the beginning of a better one.”

“You mean Abundance.” She tossed her head, making her ponytail swing. “Or are you trying to seduce me?”

He let his eyes roam over her body. “Is it working?”

Orrin did like to play tic-tac-toe. She slapped her hands on her hips and he blinked. “What do you think?”

“I think you might grow to love me, if you gave yourself a chance. I really think you just want your dead tech.”

She laughed and saw her chance as he did too, snatching up the basket and stepping up close to him. “Why can’t I have my music, my books, the camera in my phone. Who does that hurt?”

“It hurts you, Rosie. Reminders of the world you came from before you’re ready to contribute here.”

“You have music.” She’d seen the record player, the records stacked on the bookshelf. “Invite me in and play me a song.”

“You’re welcome to share my music when you become my lover.”

He smelled different, no goat’s milk soap, something more earthy. She liked it. “That’s not fair.” The fact that he was attractive, that he smelled good, that he had better furniture, the pick of the women, the right to demand that, and all the power. The fact he was a con artist like her but acted as if he had everyone’s best interest at heart and she didn’t yet know how to catch him out.

“Knowing only a few people will survive, and most will die painfully, slowly, violently. That only one percent of people have all the money and that we’ve squandered our resources and wreaked havoc on our environment. All of these things are unfair.” He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Not lending you my music is merely petulant on my part.”

He was enjoying this a little too much. Time to bring this little flirtation to a head.

“I bet you listen to crap anyway and your schnitzel is getting cold.”

He shifted sideways, extended his arm like a game show host. “Choose a record.”

Rory Archer would’ve said, “No thanks. I’ll pass. I hope you choke on your gravy.” Rosie Woods was about to say something similar when she glimpsed a steady green light that might be a signal jammer.

“Bet you say that to all the women you want to fuck.”

“None are as persuasive as you.”

She grunted a response to cover a genuine laugh and slipped past, being quick and careful not to touch him. He caught hold of the basket before she cleared the doorway. “You’re perfectly safe from me tonight.”

Tonight. But not other nights. She was walking into the beast’s lair. She was anything but safe.

She let go of the basket, leaving him holding it and skipping into room, making a show of looking around, before heading to the record player. At the sound of the door locking she said. “If I don’t go back soon, Macy will send someone looking for me.” That didn’t hey presto the door unlocked but it would put Orrin on notice, not that it was likely to mean much. He was the law here. “Only got time for one song.”

She heard him taking covered dishes out of the basket and setting them on the dining table as she flicked though a stack of records. He was behind her, no doubt watching her. Next to the record player, sharing the same power outlet, was the signal jammer. He couldn’t see her joy at that discovery and her fist pump was internal because she wasn’t safe yet. If he discovered it turned off, he’d guess it was her. She had to make it look accidental.

“This is quaint.” She fiddled with the record player, lifting the clear plastic lid and closing it again, running her hands behind it as if looking for an on button and yanking the power cord of the cell jammer out of the outlet. “Never seen one of these. How do I get it to work? Why don’t you have you have your music on CDs at least?”

“Choose your song, Rosie.”

Keeping her back to him, she rifled through the stack of records. Lena Horn, Billie Holiday, Herb Albert, Elvis, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, U2, Elton John, Prince. These weren’t just any records. These were collectibles, worth thousands.