THE LAST HEIST
Samantha Keith
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
The Last Heist © 2020 Samantha Keith
Kindle Edition
ISBN: 978-1-7770799-0-1
Cover design by Covers by Combs
Formatting by BB eBooks
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements and Dedications
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Excerpt from Fully Loaded
More Books by Samantha Keith
About the Author
Acknowledgements and Dedications
First and foremost, this book is for my girls. Skylar and Isla, you inspire me every day and make me the best version of myself. I’ll always be “Mommy” before anything else, but I’m so grateful to be able to live my dream and carry you both on my writing journey.
To my best friend and other half, Jesse. I love you and this wild, bumpy path we travel together. Thank you for handling dance classes, having daddy-days, and every other minute you take over so I can squeeze in time to write. I appreciate you so much! You inspire the best “hero” material for my work.
This book is also for my number one fan and supporter. I love you, Mom! Thanks for always believing in everything I do and for all your help and support. You really are the best mom and Mima out there!
To my dearest friend and writing partner, Danielle Haas. Thank you for your keen eye, our random, daily messages, and mom problems. I’m so grateful for our friendship and having you to bounce ideas around with. This book wouldn’t be what it is without you!
Finally, thank you to my readers! I’m extremely grateful that you picked up this book. I hope Milo and Serena drag you into their world the way they did me. Your support is humbling.
All my best,
Samantha Keith
CHAPTER 1
Serena scanned the hundreds of tuxedos and sparkly gowns glittering in the light of the lanterns that decorated the lawn. She hovered at the back of the crowd closest to the tables of food while everyone faced the entertainment on the stage. The band struck up, and bodies moved to the cello’s delicate strums. Peyton gave one nod from the dessert table before turning to add a treat to her plate.
Time to get the diamonds.
Serena pressed her finger to her ear, and her lips hovered over the tiny mic hidden on her dangly bracelet. “I’m heading inside,” she whispered. She dug her fingers into her silver clutch at her waist. If she got caught and they emptied her clutch, she’d be fucked. No way she could pass off the tools inside as makeup.
“Copy that,” Dani chimed in her ear. Her sister was always at her bubbliest while on a heist.
“I’m in position.” Peyton’s confirmation rang through the bud in her ear. If shit went south, or if Alban decided to head into the house early, Peyton would create a diversion.
“I’ve got eyes on Alban,” Dani reported. “He’s getting ready for his speech. Eleven of the fourteen guards are outside.”
Shit. That meant three were inside. Serena turned from the hors d’oeuvres table and scooped up the train of her black sequined evening gown. Alban held parties only twice a year—the lawn party, in August, and the New Year’s Eve party. It had to be tonight, and it had to be now—Uncle Sebastian left them no other choice.
She climbed almost a dozen stone steps to the open parlor doors and breezed inside. Her thigh grazed the navy tufted settee. The blue-and-gold Persian rug muffled her stilettos’ heels. The vanilla scent of cigars saturated the room, and she wrinkled her nose. The heads of animals—including an elephant—hung on the wall. She shuddered and forced a mouthful of saliva down her throat.
Alban Moussa was known for his trophy hunts in the northern region of Africa, his native country. But that wasn’t all he hunted. Blood diamonds were his specialty. And tonight, the diamonds—four million dollars’ worth to be exact—would buy her and her sister’s freedom.
“I’m inside,” she whispered into her wrist. She hovered near the parlor’s open door and peered into the hallway. Footsteps scuffed down the hallway and she pressed her back against the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut, turned her head so her ear pressed against the wallpaper, and focused on slowing her breathing.
“Oh yeah, sexy. I’ll be home when this bullshit party is over. Another couple of hours, tops. You’d better be naked when I get there.”
Ew, gross.
Serena cracked one eyelid open and twisted her mouth as the heavy, bald guard passed. He turned toward the kitchen and his voice tapered off as he went. Her breath sailed through her lips, and she lifted her hand to brush back the drop of sweat that had formed at her hairline.
“Another guard stepped outside, so there’s only two roaming the house,” Dani said in her ear.
“One’s headed toward the kitchen.”
Dani was waiting in the trees of the hillside beyond Alban’s Beverly Hills property. Once Serena had the diamonds, Dani would direct her to the nearest unguarded exit, where Peyton would meet her. They’d be out long before Alban realized the diamonds were missing. This mission would be a breeze—she knew exactly where to find the diamonds, and the best time to avoid tripping alarms was during one of his parties.
She broke away from the wall and into the well-lit hallway, where she found a small freestanding sign with a W scrawled on it and an arrow pointed in the direction the guard had disappeared. She swept her gaze down the hall and then turned in the opposite direction, toward a wide spiral staircase. A felt rope blocked off the steps to the second level. She pinched her clutch under her arm, unhooked the metal hinge, and ascended a step before returning the rope. Gripping the stiff material of her dress, she bounded up the stairs on the balls of her feet.
“S, you need to hurry,” Dani said. “I want you guys out of there in ten minutes.”
“Easy, Dani,” Peyton said. “Let her do her job.”
Serena bit her tongue. She wouldn’t waste a second responding. Anyone walking down the hall would see her on the stairs. The lush carpet swallowed up the pound of her shoes. She made it to the top level and skirted to a small inlet next to a solid ornate table against the wall. She was hidden enough that she could scan the hall of the second level undetected.
“I’m upstairs. Have you spotted the last guard yet?”
“No. It’s too hard to see in the second-story windows. I did a count and I’ve got my eyes on thirteen. But you need to hurry.” Her sister spoke in a higher pitch than usual. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
Serena bit down a curse. “That’s not helpful.” In her mind, she painted a picture of the blueprints for the second level. She’d spent the last week memorizing them. Alban’s suite was at the end of the hall. By normal housing standards this wouldn’t be that far, but in a twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion . . . Luckily, she was in the correct wing. If she’d entered through the north wing, getting t
o his suite would be like navigating an obstacle course.
“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to rush your ass out of there before you get caught.”
“I hate to be the one to say this, Dani, but you were a lot more fun to work with when Brock was with us. Just saying.” Peyton’s flippant comment sent Serena’s eyeballs rolling. Of all the things to bring up on a heist—Dani’s traitorous ex-boyfriend, a guy they’d all been friends with since childhood. The silence that beat through Serena’s earpiece was that of a brewing storm.
“He lied to me, Priss. He cut me out of a damn job. You know I can’t forgive him.” If Peyton noticed the use of her nickname, she didn’t comment.
“Oh I know. He’s a prick for what he did. But, I mean, it’s Brock. I saw him the other day and—”
Serena adjusted the waves of her hair and pulled out the earbud. She needed peace and quiet before venturing into the open hall, and their conversation wasn’t headed anywhere good.
Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a library, a bonus room, and Alban’s suite. She closed her eyes, suppressed the rush of blood drumming through her ears, and concentrated on the silence of the second level.
Tick, tick, tick
The loud hands of a clock—somewhere—echoed down the hall. Her heart rapped against her breastbone to a racing beat. Chill. You can do this. Alban would slaughter her if he caught her, but there was no other choice. She tucked the earbud back in and spoke over Dani into her bracelet. “I’m going in.”
“Be careful,” Dani breathed. From here on out, Dani and Peyton wouldn’t speak unless Serena asked for something, or they needed to alert her. She’d notify them of her location in case things went down hill, but for now, focus was of the essence. She couldn’t get caught.
She eased around the corner and down the hall. Small lights along the baseboards lit her path. She passed the guest rooms. The library would be farther ahead, beyond the wide-open bonus room, and then Alban’s suite. She looked over her shoulder. Light shone from the foyer and staircase on which she’d entered, but there were no sounds of anyone approaching. She was almost there. She moved a little faster. If someone spotted her, she sure as hell didn’t want to look as if she was running. She crossed the bonus room’s threshold, leaving the hallway’s confinement behind her. To her left, a wrought iron railing—and a twelve-foot drop—was the only thing separating her from the main living area on the lower level. Which meant she was directly above the bald guard. She’d officially crossed into the most private quarters of Alban’s house.
She glided down the last twenty feet of the hallway and stopped at the closed doors at the end. She rested her hand on the winged handle and pressed. It didn’t budge.
“I’m at his door, but it’s locked.” Her voice came out on a growl. She lifted her clutch and pulled out the lock-pick tools. Then she dropped to her knee and inserted the two utensils into the slot.
“Paranoid bastard,” Dani said.
“Alban just finished his speech and the band started again. I’d say you have fifteen minutes—tops—before he retires for the night.” Peyton’s words were rushed.
Serena’s stomach tightened. Shit, shit, shit. Alban always left his parties fashionably early. The tendons in her fingers clenched. In fifteen minutes, they’d better be on the other side of town. She needed to hurry. She grunted her acknowledgment. The lock clicked open. Her fingers relaxed and she pulled out the tools and dropped them into her bag. She rested her palm against the solid mahogany wood and the door coasted open with a loud creak.
She sucked in her breath and winced. Jeez! Next time she’d be sure to pack some oil. No, there wouldn’t be a next time. This heist was her last. She slipped into the bedroom. Lights from the tray ceiling above the bed lit the room in a soft glow. She scurried across the oriental carpet to the adjoining door that led to his office.
Peyton had scored a job as Alban’s assistant, and Alban always invited his staff members to his parties. Tonight, Serena had come as Peyton’s plus-one. One day, after working for him for several months, Peyton spotted the safe while snooping, under the guise of cleaning, in a cupboard on the wall of shelves and cabinets behind his desk. Knowing where the safe lay made the job that much easier.
She stopped at the doorway and scanned the room.
Empty.
Time to get the rocks. She crossed the room, pulled out her tools, and laid them on the shelf next to the cupboard. “I’m at the safe.”
“He’s talking to the prince of Dubai, and I did a head count of the guards,” Dani said. “Still can’t find the fourteenth, but maybe he called in sick or had to leave early.”
“Thanks. Get ready to write down the combs.” Serena yanked the cupboard door open. The safe’s gunmetal steel stared back at her. Her nerve endings tingled. She pressed one of the stethoscope’s plastic-covered tips into her ear and laid the diaphragm of it against the metal, near the handle. She closed her eyes and turned the dial one miniscule increment at a time.
Click
“Ninety-seven,” she said into the mic. She turned the dial again.
Click
“Fourteen.” Her pulse kicked up a notch. Almost there. She turned it again.
Click
“Twenty—”
A hand crushed over her mouth, jerking her head back. She shrieked but the sound remained lodged behind thick fingers. Panic shot through her veins, and she froze. The stethoscope fell from her fingers and bounced on the floor at her feet. The hot, hard wall of a chest pressed against her back, and a steady huff of breath danced over her ear. Cold metal ground into her temple.
A gun.
* * *
Milo’s fingers twitched over Serena’s mouth. Her chest rose and fell against his forearm, making goosebumps stand up on his skin beneath the stupid tuxedo Alban’s bodyguards had to wear. He caught the scent of . . . what was that? Lilies? Hydrangeas? Some kind of flower that never would have attracted him before but now it did, because it was on her. Her hair was the same natural blonde shade, and the heels she wore added a good four inches to her five-foot-two frame. A tattoo, script he couldn’t read from this angle, peeked out from underneath her hair, right between her shoulder blades.
Serena with a tattoo? Damn. That was so far from her character, so far from the woman he remembered, that he almost questioned if she was who he thought. But there was no doubt. He’d watched her weasel her perfectly shaped ass and bare back right into Alban’s suite, and that brief flicker of her body had sent flashes of memories through his brain—memories that had been buried deep. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been seventeen. Nine fucking years ago. He’d thought of her hundreds, no, thousands of times over the years. He hadn’t allowed himself to get in touch with her, hadn’t wanted to taint her with their past, just in case she’d gotten out.
He lowered the gun and spun her around. Nope. She wasn’t out. She was here, still pretty as ever and in the thick of thieving. Her eyes, big blue plates the color of his favorite pair of jeans, widened. She inhaled sharply, and her back pressed against the safe she’d been trying to break into.
Alban Moussa’s. Of all fucking people.
It shouldn’t have turned him on. And in truth, part of him wanted to throttle her for being so brazen and stupid. But her live-on-the-edge streak was what had always driven him so crazy.
“Milo?”
Her fingers fluttered to her breastbone, between the plunging neckline of her dress. Pfft. If you could even call the garment that. The material on her torso left little to the imagination. He couldn’t stop his gaze from coasting down the column of her throat and over the hollow of her collarbone to her perky breasts, which practically begged to be licked. He dragged his attention up to her lips, plump and pink and as kissable as they’d been back in the day.
She still gave him a hard-on like no other.
“Serena.” Her name slipped over his tongue like aged wine. He drew his eyebrows into a scowl. As happy as his dick was to see
her, he didn’t want to see her here. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Creeeak
He snapped his head toward the bedroom attached to the office. Serena’s hand shot out and grabbed the material of his suit jacket. Her breath whistled in and out between her teeth. She’d heard it too. Shit. Had someone seen him come upstairs? Had he been followed? It wasn’t time yet. He had exactly fifteen minutes before the raid. He couldn’t be holed up upstairs when it happened.
He lifted his finger to his lips. Her hand gripped him tighter. He strained his ears toward the bedroom. The damn exotic scent tickling his nostrils dimmed his senses.
Creeeak
The beam of a flashlight bobbed through the master bedroom. Sonofafuckingbitch. He gripped her arm and pulled her to the floor with him, pressing her back against the side of the desk. He crouched down, his knee next to her thigh. One hand fit snugly around her waist, the other around his gun.
“Is someone here?” she mouthed. He lowered his gaze to her face. Her nice, even skin tone had paled two shades.
The light swept over their heads and hit the wall beyond them. He coiled his body tighter to hers. If one of the guards spotted her, they’d beat the shit out of her before taking her to Alban for his sick forms of punishment.
Her belly lifted and fell. He twitched his thumb in an effort to reassure her, but there was no way in hell he could pull his attention from the flashlight. He stayed low and peered around the back of the desk, through the chair legs, at the doorway. Black pants moved into view, and the light swept over the room again. A beat passed. The guard moved away and the bedroom door creaked before closing.
“He’s gone.”
“What are you doing here?” she whispered. Her gaze slid down his body and back up. “Are you working for Alban?” Indignation burned her words.
“No.” He didn’t have time to explain.
She pushed herself to her feet, moved toward the safe, and picked up the stethoscope—which, thankfully, hadn’t been spotted—from the floor.
The Last Heist (Pretty Thieves Book 1) Page 1
