“Absolutely,” I say, a small tingle going up my spine. I may want to go legit and leave my life of crime behind, but the prospect of stealing something still juices me up.
“Good,” Julian replies. He rises from behind the desk, then holds his hand out. When I do the same, we shake. Turning to William, he says, “Might as well introduce him to the team he’ll be working with.”
“Yes, sir.” William motions me toward the door. Once I give Julian a slight bow of gratitude, I exit.
As William escorts me through the kitchen area, I ask him, “Why does a wealthy businessman, especially one who seems to be doing well for himself, have to resort to heading a criminal enterprise?”
William chuckles. “It’s the criminal enterprise that enables him to do well.”
Nah… I don’t buy it. Julian Mercier’s legitimate businesses are worth a fortune. If I had to bet, I’d wager he’s in the game because he’s a thrill-seeker or a devoted collector.
Don’t get me wrong—I understand the appeal. While not the main reason, I did love the adrenaline high I’d get from successfully pulling off a heist.
It was almost as good as sex.
I assumed William would transport me elsewhere to meet the rest of the crew. Instead, he cuts through the dining room into a small alcove with a staircase. After plodding up one flight, we stop at a single wooden door, at the landing.
He opens it, walks in and I follow.
A quick scan shows thick emerald carpet, paneled walls, and chandeliers. Heavy leather furniture… couches, chairs, and ottomans. A horseshoe-shaped bar in the middle. Perhaps it’s a club room where patrons retire for brandy and cigars after dinner?
Regardless, I turn my attention to the people inside.
Not counting William and me, there are four others.
But their faces aren’t computing. Nothing registers after I let my eyes linger on the first person. A woman.
She’s tall and willowy with coffee-and-cream skin. Her exotically gorgeous hazel eyes widen in surprise.
William grins. “That’s right… you two know each other, don’t you?”
At the sight of her, an overload of feelings course through me. Drowning in the hatred, shock, and—fuck-me-standing—the instant, electrifying lust doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibilities.
Forcefully swallowing my enmity, I try to sound unaffected. Showing my hand will only fuck up this mission before it even starts.
“Hello, Sin,” I manage. My tone sounds almost civil, which is so at odds with the turmoil inside me.
“Hello, Saint,” she replies, obviously as upset as I am.
CHAPTER 4
Sin
As I navigate the throngs of people on Rue des Rosiers, my head spins.
Saint Bellinger is here.
In Paris.
Apparently, he’s now also a part of my team.
I never thought I’d see him again. Well, that’s not true. The thought he might hunt me down after his release from prison had crossed my mind. Hell, I’d had plenty of nightmares about it.
After all, I’m the one who put him there.
As I pass by the kosher market, it triggers a reminder that I have no food in my house. But between the stress of the day and the headache it gave me, I decide those are reasons enough to bypass it. I’ll manage with a dinner of tea and toast tonight.
Half a block down, I approach a green door in the side alley of a trendy clothing boutique. The stairs inside lead up to the two apartments housed above it. Rue des Rosiers is in the heart of the Jewish quarter—unofficially called the Pletzl, which is Yiddish for little place—but in recent years, the quaint shops have been replaced by gleaming fashion showrooms.
When I realized I’d have to be based in Paris for an unknown amount of time because of my predicament with Julian Mercier, I’d found this place on Airbnb. Luckily, I was able to negotiate a month-to-month lease with the hosts. The exterior door has an electronic keypad. Once I enter the four-digit code, I hurry inside, push the door so it’ll shut behind me, then take the stairs two at a time.
I’m halfway up when I realize I hadn’t heard the door latch or the lock engage. I pivot to make my way down but then release an involuntary yip of fright when I find Saint only two steps behind me.
His face is darkly thunderous. I should have known this was going to happen. During Saint’s introduction to the rest of the team, my spine had tingled with the awareness that the cool and polite mask he wore was a façade. Underneath it, I’d sensed waves of pent-up anger and hostility. I was under no illusion I’d be able to escape a confrontation with him.
Just didn’t think it would happen so soon.
The door finally shuts, cutting off any help the people on the street may have offered if I’d thought to call out. But that becomes a moot point when Saint’s masculine hand wraps around my throat. He squeezes, clearly managing to hold on to a sliver of restraint. Because while he’s physically backing me up the staircase by his grip, it’s only uncomfortable as hell instead of the snapped neck he’s more than capable of doling out.
His normally warm, expressive brown eyes are nearly black with rage and his teeth are bared. When my foot hits the top landing, he backs me right into the wall between the two apartment doors—mine on the left, and the neighbor I’ve never seen on the right.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he snarls, his face only inches away from mine.
I should be relieved his grip on my throat is loose enough to suck in a bit of air, but I can’t because he’s apparently got murder on his mind.
“Because you don’t want to go back to prison…” I let the first words that pop into my mind wheeze out.
I realize it’s a mistake as soon as I say it. His face drains of color before flushing red with fury. “You already put me there once. You cost me everything.”
Sure, it’s antagonistic, but maybe I can make him see reason. “It was for less than two years, Saint.”
He tightens his fingers around my throat, and a bolt of fear punches through me. His voice comes out in a barely audible hiss. “My mother died while I was in prison. I never got to see her before she went. She died a horrible death, all alone, because of you.”
Jesus.
Oh, shit.
No.
Saint’s mom was everything to him. The reason he did what he did.
Tears well up in my eyes, not because I’m afraid of him or for myself, but for what I cost him. It was one thing to live with the guilt of betraying him, thinking a little jail time was nothing compared to certain death.
And make no mistake… Saint was going to die that night if I hadn’t done something.
But to know his mom died alone while he’d been stuck behind bars… it’s more than I can bear.
“I’m so sorry,” I croak, my tears freely overflowing. I’ve never been much of a crier. My dad always ordered me to toughen up.
But this is Saint.
And I had genuinely cared about him.
“You should be sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand around my neck loosens slightly. “I want to know why you did it, Sin. Why did you do that to me? If your answer’s good enough, it might save you.”
The notion of being saved amuses me. A completely inappropriate laugh slips out and Saint’s eyes flash with fury.
“I was saving you,” I cry, deciding to lay it all out there. I have nothing to lose, but I could be saving my own life in the process.
Taken aback, Saint jerks, releasing my throat. “Saving me?”
We eye each other until I finally ask, “Would you like to come in for some tea? I’ll explain everything.”
“Christ,” Saint mutters, taking a step away from me. His gaze goes to the wall before dropping to the floor. Clearly frustrated, he rakes his fingers through his hair. It’s longer than I remember, but still beautifully thick and wavy. There was a time when my fingers spent a lot of time buried in the soft strands.
He focuse
s on me, expression overly suspicious. “The last thing in the world I want to do is have tea or anything else with you. Just tell me what you meant when you said you were saving me.”
“Neal was going to kill you,” I say simply, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
This doesn’t seem to surprise Saint, but he asks, “When? Why?”
“Because he’s an asshole,” I reply, frustrated. “Or… possibly a sociopath. Because he was jealous you’d beat us to some good hauls in the past, or maybe he was lying. But he hated you. Surely you know that, right? I don’t bloody well know the exact reason, so take your pick. When we were getting ready for the Lewiston job, I overheard him talking to Sticky. He said he was going to remove you from the picture for good that night.”
“That could have meant—”
I cut him off. “Then Sticky asked him what he meant by that, and Neal calmly said it meant a bullet in your head before dumping your body in the river.”
The memory is as clear as if it happened two minutes ago rather than three years ago. We’d been pulling off a car heist—a 55 Jaguar D-type—and Saint and I had been assigned to the inside work. That meant we were responsible for getting in the garage undetected, hot wiring the vehicle, and driving it a short distance to a tractor-trailer transport. This had been more complicated than it seemed as the owners stored it in their personal garage with an elaborate security system and they never—and I mean never—went anywhere. They were always there, so we had to concoct a devious scheme to get them out of the house.
At any rate, the majority of the work was on mine and Saint’s shoulders. Sticky and Neal had been responsible for transporting the car to the docks, so it could be loaded in a shipping container and sent to its new owner in Dubai.
During that job, I had the weight of overhearing Neal plotting to murder Saint hanging over me. But I had fallen hard for the sexy thief, and there’d been no way I’d have let anything bad happen to him.
But I also hadn’t been able to risk the job, either.
Not unless I’d wanted to get on Neal’s bad side and end up in the river with Saint.
So I did the only thing I could on such short notice.
As soon as we entered, I’d tripped the silent alarm on the security panel, secretly alerting the police. After, I got down to my key role, which had been to hot-wire the vehicle. We’d been pulling out of the garage, me driving and Saint in the passenger seat, when we first heard the wail of sirens coming.
Blue lights flashing in the distance down the road, I’d pulled out my gun and pointed it right at Saint.
“Get out,” I’d told him.
He’d never once thought I was joking. Instantaneously, his expression morphed to ice-cold hatred as he realized I’d betrayed him.
He hadn’t known the real reason why. I’m sure he thought it was for the twelve million dollar payout for the Jag. No clue it had been about his life.
I explain this, the dread in my stomach quickening as his expression remains icy and affronted.
“I thought a couple of years in jail was better than being dead,” I say. Even to my own criminalized ears, that sounds lame.
Saint grimaces. “You could have told me what Neal was planning. I could have done something to protect myself.”
“Maybe,” I admit hoarsely, knowing I hadn’t thought things through. But I had feelings driving me. Womanly, soft, vulnerable feelings for Saint, which had made me terrified he’d end up murdered. “Or you could be dead.”
“I can’t fucking believe this,” Saint mutters, turning away from me in frustration. He then spins around, a sly look in his eyes. “Or maybe I shouldn’t believe you at all. I mean… you’re still working with Neal. Clearly, the fact he has murderous intentions doesn’t scare you away.”
I furiously shake my head. “It’s not like that. You have to know I can’t stand the guy. Never could, but—”
“I get it,” Saint sneers, cutting me off. “The money’s too good. Makes you overlook your morals, right?”
“No, it’s not like that at all.”
“Save it,” Saint growls, holding up a hand. “I don’t believe a fucking thing you have to say.”
For some reason, this cuts me deep, even though I have no right to expect him to have an ounce of faith in me. Stepping away from the wall where I remained frozen until now, I reach out a tentative hand.
I don’t have the guts to touch him, though.
“Saint… please believe me. I may have made an unbelievably unwise decision, but the reasoning behind it was good. I cared about you so much, and I was terrified of losing you.”
“You did lose me,” he yells. “I got arrested. I went to prison. My mom…”
When his voice cracks, he looks embarrassed about showing vulnerability.
“You never turned me in,” I whisper, voicing what has haunted me for the past three years just as much as the fact I sent him away. “Not any of us.”
“A choice I’m regretting more and more,” he grumbles before sucking in a deep breath. “Look… I want in on whatever Mercier has planned. I’m not going to fuck up my chances to get on this crew. We have this art heist to plan and execute, so we have to try to work together. Leave the past in the past for now, okay?”
No, that’s not what I want. I want to hash this out. I want him to say he forgives me… that he understands why I did what I did.
But he won’t give that to me. Probably not ever.
So I nod. “Okay. Let’s try to work together.”
“Fine,” he mutters, then spins on his heel toward the staircase. He silently disappears down it, just the way an expert thief would.
CHAPTER 5
Saint
Five years ago…
I watched her for six nights, and yes… I realized that was considered stalking even if I was sitting at an outdoor pub and she kept returning to the same spot night after night.
Sure, her beauty captured my attention as she walked down the London street in a black trench coat with black stiletto boots, which added an impressive four inches to her already tall frame.
She was elegant, exotic, and sexy. In the first few moments of observation, it was clear she was up to no good. The average person wouldn’t notice because she was subtle about it. But as I sipped at a pint and pondered my life, I noticed how observant she was to her surroundings.
A thief’s greatest asset, which I immediately recognized.
She cut down a side alley that intersected a small art museum on one side and The Bank of England on the other. If she were a thief, I couldn’t tell what she intended to rob, so I followed her. I stuck to the shadows, stayed thirty yards back at all times, and eventually stood in a darkened doorway as she positioned herself under a window at the museum. She had made the cameras on the roof, but wasn’t concerned about being seen, as a small parapet on the corner blocked the view of the window she stood under. She’d clearly staked the place out at some point, which meant she was a high-end professional.
For two hours, she did nothing but stand in the same spot and watch the comings and goings of the street traffic around her. Tucked into an alley, she kept an eye on the streets that bordered either side.
She never saw me, though.
The next night, she examined the window, running her fingers along the edges. I couldn’t tell much about it from where I stood in the shadows, but, after she left, I made my own perusal.
It was a metal frame, held together at the corners with screws. It could be easily disassembled except for the layers of old paint over it.
The next night, she returned with tools and started chipping at the paint. She did that for three more nights, diligently cleaning up her mess before leaving.
During the day, I was curious as to what she might be after. She was clearly a professional, same as me. I was unemployed, spending lazy days roaming London, eating mediocre food but drinking excellent beer. The museum was small, off the beaten path, but it held an impressive coll
ection of modern works.
My best guess was she was after either the Klimt or Modigliani, both displayed in the particular room with the window she kept working on, neither protected by extraordinary measures. It was a small gallery with lots of tiny rooms that relied on a couple of night guards and exterior cameras. I hadn’t detected alarm wires on the windows, and I was sure she’d made the same discovery before she decided on the window as her entry point.
Tonight, she was making her move. She waited until nearly three AM to start taking the window apart. I’d checked earlier—all the paint had been scraped away from the screws and seals.
From the dark recessed doorway in the alley, I watched her approach the window. Dressed like a thief in black leggings and a black turtleneck, she had her riot of dark curls held under a black knit cap, which she pulled over her face, leaving only her eyes visible. I hadn’t been close enough to her yet to determine their color.
From the backpack, she pulled out a screwdriver and manually worked on each joint, removing the screws holding it together. She worked slowly and methodically, making sure not to make any noise. It took her about two hours to remove the frame since she periodically took breaks. I suspected it wasn’t because she was tired, but because she knew the guards’ routes or saw them moving within the room.
With the frame disassembled, the woman easily removed the bottom portion, glass and all. She set it on the ground, leaning it up against the building. After pulling a small fabric satchel from her backpack, she slung it over her shoulder.
Quiet as a mouse and graceful as a panther, she hoisted herself onto the windowsill and slithered inside.
Moving to the window, I stayed to the side of it. I didn’t appease my curiosity by peeking inside, but I could imagine what she would be doing, making clean cuts inside the frames to remove the paintings.
I did constantly check my watch. At the two-minute-and-twenty-second mark, I heard movement. To my utter delight, the black fabric satchel came through the window first, then she dropped it to the ground. I reached over and picked it up, waiting for her to come out.
Code Name: Heist Page 3
