Her unabashed laughter attracted more than a few impatient glares, but Jared couldn’t get enough of it. She was even more gorgeous when she laughed—her entire body glowed with it. He wondered what else might light her up like that.
Maybe she’ll give me a chance to find out…
“Ooh,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Looks like your painting is up. Good luck!”
Jared turned his attention to the auctioneer. The woman was right—show time.
Jared slid the bid card from his suit jacket and scanned the room. A handful of people leaned forward in their chairs, scrutinizing the painting with possible interest, but it was hard to gauge their commitment.
“We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars,” the auctioneer said. It was an insulting opener for such a gorgeous piece, and just as Jared had predicted, several bid cards went up around him. He waited until the bidding reached $50,000 before making his first move.
“Fifty-five,” he said calmly. He was prepared to go as high as a million, but from the looks of things, it wouldn’t even get close to that.
“Sixty,” one of the women in front of him said, turning to offer a smug smile.
Jared couldn’t have been less concerned. He nodded politely, holding off on raising her bid. Another woman went to $70,000, volleying with the others until it reached $100,000. Jared raised it by ten.
“One hundred ten thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have one twenty? One twenty, for Hans Whitfield’s Desolate Rains, Series Two?”
For a moment it seemed that no one else had any interest. A mild disappointment settled into Jared’s stomach—the painting had to be worth more than a paltry $110,000, and he was hoping for at least a little competition to keep things exciting.
“One ten, going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice—”
“One twenty,” the woman in front of him said.
Another bidder was right on her heels. “One fifty.”
It had come from the chair next to him.
“What?” His woman raised her eyebrows, offering Jared her best innocent-looking smile, the kind that was anything but. “I couldn’t let her get away with that.”
Heat raced through Jared’s veins. “You’re after my painting, love?”
“I’m after a lot of things,” she said. “Care to raise the stakes?”
From the front of the room, the auctioneer called for a higher bid. “One fifty, do we have one sixty?”
“Two hundred,” Jared said.
His woman squared her shoulders. “Two fifty.”
“Two seventy-five,” Jared said.
“Three.”
So she likes to play a little hardball, too.
He grinned, filing away the information for later. “Three fifty.”
Another bidder jumped in at $360,000, and then another offered $400,000, Jared’s pulse kicking up with each new bid.
This is more like it.
He leaned forward, eager to keep his head in the game. His mystery woman might feel differently about what made these events bearable, but Jared loved this part—the hunt, the strategy, figuring out when to jump in and when to ease up, knowing exactly when to deliver the final blow.
But by the time the bidding reached $600,000, the other bidders bowed out, leaving only Jared and his mystery woman.
“Six fifty,” she said.
Jared narrowed his eyes at her, trying to figure out her game. She’d seemed genuinely interested in the Egyptian piece, not in the Whitfield. This wasn’t a tag sale. You didn’t show up at an exclusive art auction to browse the shelves, pick up a bit of this-and-that for the summer cottage.
What are you playing at, darling?
“Six hundred fifty thousand,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear six seventy-five?”
“Seven,” Jared said.
“Eight,” the woman countered.
“Nine.”
“Nine fifty.”
Jared’s heart banged in his chest. He had to do it. Had to beat her. “One million dollars.”
The entire room seemed to gasp simultaneously.
The woman held her bid card against her chest, nibbling her lower lip, contemplating her next move.
Jared leaned in close, whispering hotly in her ear. “Is that all you’ve got for me, love?”
“Hardly.” Her eyes blazed. She waved her card with renewed vigor. “A million five.”
“Two million dollars,” he said.
Everyone held a breath as they awaited her volley.
“Two million dollars for the Hans Whitfield,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have two million five? How about two four?” She scanned the room, waiting for another bid that never came. “Okay. Going once. Going twice. Sold, to bidder twelve for two million dollars.”
The room erupted in applause, and Jared closed his eyes, momentarily lost in the rush of victory, and even a hint of relief. By the time he regained his senses and turned to face her, his mystery woman was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
SAFELY OUT OF view, Ari leaned against the door in the penthouse’s sprawling master suite, blinking back tears of relief. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, her limbs trembling and hot.
Holy. Shit.
She couldn’t believe she’d taken it so far.
A million five? What was she thinking? Christ, Davidson would’ve had her executed if she’d called for a wire transfer like that. Her bids were primarily for show—all part of blending in, except on the rare occasion when Davidson actually wanted a piece for his personal collection. But something had overtaken her tonight, breaking through all the boundaries that were supposed to keep her safe and on point.
It was the man.
From his first words at the bar, he’d stirred something inside her, something that made her want to take risks. To play with fire.
Fitting, since Davidson would burn me at the stake if he found out about this.
Thankfully the Brit proved to be a fighter to the death, desperate to win that painting. Ari had to admire his grit. She’d only intended to tease him, to up the stakes in a game he obviously enjoyed. But then her competitive streak took over, driving her to keep pushing, pushing, pushing.
In the end, the man was on the hook for two million for a piece that was probably worth half that on the private market, tonight’s auction notwithstanding. He must’ve really wanted it.
Or maybe he just enjoyed sparring with me…
Ari closed her eyes as a shiver raced down her spine, imagining for the hundredth time what that man could do to her with a few hours to spare and a pair of handcuffs…
The sound of the security guard’s clunky footsteps in the hallway yanked her back to the task at hand. Instinctively she dropped to the floor, scooting behind the four-poster bed on the off chance he decided to open the door.
He passed by quickly, leaving the room undisturbed.
There was no more time to linger. The effects of the alcohol were fading, Ari’s mind finally coming back into focus. It’d been months since her intel had netted anything worthwhile, and if she didn’t find something soon, Davidson was bound to question her loyalty—one risk she wasn’t interested in taking.
Coast clear and gloves on snug, Ari got to work. With clinical efficiency, she searched the suite’s massive oak dressers, vanity, night tables, bookcases, closets, bathroom drawers, and medicine cabinets, looking for any information that might help Davidson plan their next heist. She found a few pieces of jewelry, some antique knickknacks, plenty of prescription drugs, and finally—bingo—a printout of the family’s travel itinerary. They’d be house hunting in Greece for two weeks at the end of the month.
The opportunity was there, just as Davidson had hoped. But the other three bedrooms turned out to be as sparsely appointed as the living rooms, and Davidson wasn’t interested in a handful of jewels and some dusty figurines. Too late, Ari realized that the art and antiquities her crew had traced to this family—the only score Davidson car
ed about—were long gone, probably auctioned off in pieces over the last several months, each precious item sold to the highest bidder.
A flood of conflicting feelings washed over Ari’s heart: Relief for the family, that they wouldn’t have to endure a robbery. Disgust at herself, at her crew, for doing what they did. And of course, the dread that always preceded having to show up at Davidson’s empty-handed, yet again.
Ari exited the last bedroom and slipped into the study across the hall, more than ready to get the job done, bail on the auction, forget the sexy Brit, and go deliver the bad news to Davidson. In her mind, she was already fast-forwarding to the part of the evening where she’d get to sink into a hot bath with nothing but her naked body and a glass of merlot.
But the painting over the study’s fireplace stopped her cold.
Adrift by Heinrich Von Hausen, a ship tossed about on a black and stormy sea, destined to smash against the rocks, a hopeless and heartbreaking scene but for one ray of sun beaming down on the deck.
The last time she’d seen it, it was hanging in the Smithsonian in Washington—twenty-two years ago.
Again, Ari thought of her father. How could she not? Despite his mistakes, despite all the rotten parts of his legacy, his true passion for fine art was like the ray of sunshine in the painting, the one sliver of goodness Ari had always held close. On that trip to D.C., he’d taken her to a dozen museums, teaching her all about the vanitas works of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, paintings that reflected the transient nature of life, the futility of earthly pleasures. Adrift was a treasure, a stunning example, a painting that had hung in the museum for decades.
And now it was here, nailed to the wall in some soon-to-be-foreclosed Upper West Side penthouse, unobserved, unappreciated, utterly forgotten.
Ari swallowed the lump in her throat. People like this—like this family, like the others here tonight, like all the men and women her father had procured fine art for—thought nothing of exchanging their millions for the pleasure of possessing something beautiful, something they could hang over the mantel to impress their guests.
But unlike the real bidders, Ari couldn’t feign ignorance about where the art had come from. There was a reason these auctions were held at private penthouses and VIP clubs rather than at Christy’s or Sotheby’s. A reason why the artifacts—no matter how precious—weren’t in a museum, even if they’d started out there. Ari wondered if her man from the bar had any idea that his precious Whitfield was pilfered during the Second World War—first by the Nazis, second by the American soldiers.
And after that, by people like Ari’s father. People like her.
Guilt gnawed at her insides. It was a familiar on-the-job companion, but now it was edged with anger, a red-hot blaze seething just beneath her skin. The anger swelled, and for a moment Ari considered abandoning the job, going full-on rebel, and enjoying the night with the hot stranger as though she really were a bored socialite, no bigger concern than outbidding the crowd, no agenda other than a nice evening out.
But as she looked at the painting, the near-ruined ship, the jagged rocks, the sunshine, Ari knew she wasn’t allowed to live by other people’s rules. Society’s rules. Legal rules. She’d been raised for this, apprenticed by a master thief and his best men. Aside from the mother who’d left when Ari was a toddler, she’d grown up wanting for nothing, doted on and groomed by a loving, larger-than-life father who’d promised her the world and tried his best to deliver, right up until the day he died.
By the time Ari was old enough to realize she didn’t want her father’s world, it was too late. She’d seen too much, kept too many secrets, gotten her hands too dirty. And now, with the last of her father’s money dwindling and Davidson in charge of the crew she’d once thought of as family, she was trapped.
Fuck Davidson.
Ari turned away from the painting and wiped her eyes. Steeling herself, she shoved the guilt and anger back down, locking them in a box and bolting it shut.
She had a room to case.
The study was large and cool, with deep, peacock-green walls, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and stiff leather furniture that probably hadn’t been used in months.
There was no wall safe, so Ari moved to the expansive oak desk at the center of the room, polished to a gleam and dotted with the requisite accessories: desk blotter, banker’s lamp, brass letter opener. It looked like a fake set for a scotch commercial, or maybe one about lawyers.
She pulled open the top drawers, rummaging through a pile of old receipts, computer manuals, and junk mail—all worthless. Her fingers had just closed around the bottom drawer handle when a noise from the doorway kicked her heart into overdrive.
Her mystery man stood on the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, utterly smug.
She’d been so distracted by the Von Hausen, she hadn’t bothered closing the door.
Shit.
“I get the distinct impression,” the man said, his delicious accent melting her panties at the worst possible time, “that you’re a rather troublesome sort.”
“I… Hey! How did you… um…” Ari released the drawer handle and stood up straight, smoothing out her dress as though it were perfectly normal to be snooping through the desk of a total stranger, tucked away in a room at the end of a long hallway that had been very clearly roped off. “Wow. That security guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. This is sooo not the powder room!”
“So not.” The man closed the door behind him and joined her at the desk. With his penetrating gaze pinning her in place, Ari counted at least three different shades of gold in his beautiful brown eyes.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” he said, trailing a finger over her hand. “And what’s with the gloves? I don’t recall seeing them earlier.”
Panic rose in her chest, but she quickly tamped it down. Her little rebellion had made her a bit careless tonight—drinking, flirting, not covering her tracks. She’d gotten herself noticed, but that didn’t mean she was exposed. Not yet.
“I don’t see how that’s your business.” She peeled the black satin gloves from her hands and stuffed them into her purse. “I just felt like stretching my legs.”
“In here?” He looked around the study, his brow furrowed. “Why?”
“No reason, really.”
“Well you’d better think of something, gorgeous. Security is right down the hall.” He cocked his head, teasing her with that maddeningly sexy smirk as he pretended to listen for the guard’s footsteps. “Getting close, I’ll bet. Maybe I should let him know we’re here, just to be—”
“Wait! Please,” she said. “I can explain everything.”
Still smirking, the man took another step closer. Lowering his voice to raspy whisper, he said, “I’m on pins and needles, love.”
For all her bravado, Ari trembled inside. She’d never been so damn reckless, come so close to losing everything.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” the man said. He was still smiling, but behind his playful gaze, Ari sensed he was trying to work something out. Namely, her true motives, and whether or not he should call the guard.
Or worse—the police.
God, Ari hated herself in this moment, but if she didn’t make a move—the only move she had left—this could become a five-alarm emergency.
Hoping she’d read his earlier signals right, she placed her hand against his broad, firm chest, letting her fingers brush the exposed skin beneath his collarbone.
His breath hitched.
It was a small tell, almost imperceptible behind the facade of his teasing, but all the confirmation she needed.
This man was totally turned on.
Ari had read the signals right, and now she had him right where she wanted him.
She offered him a seductive smile and brought her lips close to his ear. “Can you keep another secret?”
CHAPTER FOUR
JARED COVERED THE woman’s delicate fingers with his strong, broad hand,
pressing her against his chest. “I’ll keep all your secrets, love.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, likely buying time to make her excuse. She was clearly up to no good. But what kind of no good, Jared could only speculate. Robbery was top of mind, but if that were the case, she had very few options for hiding her treasure—that hot little dress was definitely not made for smuggling.
“I have reason to believe that the family is on the verge of bankruptcy,” she said. “I heard they’d probably sell low, and they might consider offers for the items that aren’t officially on the block.”
Jared laughed. “Considering what I just paid for that painting, they might be back in the black.”
“Two million is a drop in the bucket for these people,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow, taking in her polished appearance, the tasteful but nevertheless authentic diamonds studding her earlobes. “These people?”
“The… I just meant…” She closed her mouth and pulled away from his grasp, clearly flustered. When she spoke again, her voice had softened considerably. “It’s a terrible situation. They have a lot of debt. Two million, three million, it’s not enough. The penthouse is probably in foreclosure. They’re moving overseas.”
Jared didn’t like to trade gossip, especially about other people’s misfortunes, but he suspected her theory was true. He’d been gouged on the painting, but they would’ve settled for a lot less if she hadn’t run up the bidding.
“I don’t see what their financial situation has to do with your sneaking around,” he said.
“It has everything to do with it,” she snapped, her cheeks blushing, “but nothing to do with you.”
“I see.” Jared offered a wry smile. Trouble or not, her feistiness turned him on beyond reason. There were few things he enjoyed more than a woman who could hold her own, even as she begged to be dominated.
“Look,” she said, nodding toward the fireplace. Over the mantle hung a massive painting of a ship adrift on a stormy sea, its thick paint splintering into perceptible cracks on the surface. It looked authentic, and badly in need of restoration. A shame, really.
To Tempt a Thief 1 (The Billionaire and the Thief) Page 3
