To Tempt a Thief 1 (The Billionaire and the Thief)

by Pierce, Sylvia

  And together, from their humble beginnings in a shite Chelsea storefront shoehorned between a highly questionable Indian restaurant and an even more questionable no-name drug store, they’d built FierceConnect, an online social gaming platform with 500 million worldwide users.

  “You’re a git, that’s what you are,” Jared said with a smirk, settling into the chair across from Evan.

  “Does this mean we’re not talking about her?”

  Jared shot him a warning glare.

  “Keep your secrets, then. But here’s something that’ll put your dick on ice.” Evan tossed a folder across the desk. “Hastings hired a new firm. They’re requesting a lot more access than the previous chumps.”

  Jared flipped through the file, a series of legal briefs outlining the types of information Hastings’s new watchdogs wanted: SEC filings, P&L statements, trademark and patent filings, interviews of key staff, and the worst part—a bunch of informal meetings and get-to-know-you dinners.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jared dropped the file, running his hands through his hair. Investigations were standard procedure during mergers and acquisitions—FierceConnect had been through them with every last one of the dozens of software companies they’d bought over the years, all to ensure the deal was above-board and the companies were a good match—but this felt downright invasive. Meetings? Dinners?

  On Evan’s strong suggestion, Jared had already invited all of the Hastings executives and their spouses to the fundraiser he was hosting this weekend—a fiasco of an event that was also one of Evan’s strong suggestions—and now they wanted more face time?

  “No,” Jared said. “Absolutely not.”

  “No choice, I’m afraid.” Evan grabbed Jared’s coffee mug, helping himself to a drink. “Not if you want the acquisition to happen.”

  “Did you just put your filthy mouth on my favorite mug?”

  Evan raised his pinky alongside the mug, and in a high, formal voice, said, “I wouldn’t be stooping to such pedestrian levels if you’d been a proper host and offered me refreshment upon arrival.”

  “How about a beating upon arrival?” Jared smiled. He’d never known Evan to be in a bad mood, even when Jared was doing his best to push his friend’s buttons. But despite Evan’s cheery disposition, the gorgeous weather, the sunshine streaming in through his floor-to-ceiling windows, Jared couldn’t shake his funk.

  “Talk to me, Jared,” Evan said. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

  “Why are these guys jerking us around?” he asked. “They’ve seen our numbers. They know we’ve made every acquisition profitable, and with very little staff reduction. What are they worried about?”

  “Come on, mate,” Evan said. “Hastings is old money, conservative as hell—especially for a dot-com. The old man doesn’t want his son to sell off the family business to—”

  “To a nefarious ne’er-do-well? Tell me about it.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Exactly why you’re not the nefarious ne’er-do-well in the room.”

  “Touché.” Evan offered a small smile, and then drained the last of Jared’s coffee. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any biscuits?”

  “Christ.” Jared rose from the chair to fetch the box of cookies he kept hidden in a file drawer.

  Despite their sparring, Jared was grateful as hell for the guy. Not only did he keep the business in the black, he put up with Jared’s moods, and he’d stood by him through all manner of hard times. Namely, when Jared’s engagement crashed and burned last year, and the ex—a well-known Broadway performer who’d marked Jared’s first and last foray into celebrity dating—gave a tell-all interview to the trashiest rag in the city, spilling details about their relationship, about Jared’s personal life, about his business, and most infuriating—a whole lot of shite she’d simply made up.

  Public relations nightmare was putting it mildly.

  The phone rang for months, tabloid reporters and photographers stalking him at home, at work, on his morning run. Dating was out of the question; with his face splashed across the tabloids at every newsstand in the five boroughs, Jared couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized.

  There was nothing to do but ride it out, Evan working overtime with their PR firm to smooth things over, doing his best to keep Jared in good spirits—not an easy task. Eventually the scandal faded, the media piranha ready to gorge themselves on a new victim. But even now, more than a year later, the headlines haunted Jared’s memory. The English Patient: Is FierceConnect tycoon fit to rule the roost? Sources say no. And, Online gaming king gets ‘pwned’. And Jared’s personal favorite, Broadway baby says billionaire Brit is nefarious ne’er-do-well.

  Jared handed over the cookies.

  “Very kind of you, thanks,” Evan said. “So… free advice?”

  “Remind me again what I’m paying you for, exactly?”

  “Play the game, mate. Just until the acquisition goes through. Then you can go back to being that reclusive billionaire jackoff we know and love.”

  “You’re a prince, Evan. A real fucking prince.”

  “You’ve got to make an impression at the fundraiser, Jared. A good impression. That’s why you’re hosting it.”

  “I don’t like hosting parties.”

  “I don’t care what you like.” He grabbed a cookie from the box and shoved it into his mouth, powdered sugar coating his lips. “Louse it up, and these guys will walk. We’re not the only ones interested. Wow, are those lemon biscuits? They’re wonderful. Don’t mind if I have another, do you?”

  “We don’t even know if they’ll show.” Jared pressed the intercom for his assistant. “Paulina, do we have an update on the final head count for Friday?”

  Seconds later, she poked her head into the office. “Two hundred and sixty-one confirmed tickets sold.”

  “And the Hastings people?”

  “They’ve all RSVP’d.”

  Jared rubbed his temples. “I don’t suppose we’ve any regrets?”

  “Not one.”

  “Fuck me.” His foul mood was back with a vengeance, rapidly turning into a headache that drilled right through the base of his skull. All those people, parading around his house, poking at his things, taking selfies in his sculpture garden. Sneaking into the closet for a night to remember…

  “Don’t they have anything better to do?” Jared snapped.

  “What did you expect, Mr. Dark and Mysterious?” Evan asked. “They all want a little look-see behind the curtain.”

  “I shouldn’t have put in that infinity pool.”

  “I tried to tell you,” Evan said.

  “People are drawn to money like flies on shit,” Paulina said. “Rich flies. On solid gold shit. But still, I stand by the metaphor.”

  Jared looked at his assistant in the doorway. He’d hired her right out of college, best decision he ever made. Ten years later, she was still his most valued employee—she practically ran the whole place, and unlike most of the other women in his life, she’d never betrayed his trust.

  “Paulina,” he said, “if you and Johnny had children, would you ever send them to a preschool that cost more than a university?”

  Paulina laughed. “Oh, sweetie. If we had kids, we’d send them to your house. You have a pool.”

  On the desk, Jared’s phone beeped with an appointment reminder.

  “That’d be your one o’clock,” Paulina said. “I’ll call for your car. And make sure you’re back for your two-thirty with Mr. Hastings.”

  “Thank you, Paulina.” He’d almost forgotten about the two-thirty. The old man’s pain-in-the-ass son wanted to meet with Jared for another walkthrough of the acquisition, an exercise in futility that would involve a lot of corporate-speak like “help me understand the narrative” and “I’m just not seeing the whole vision, Mr. Blackwell.”

  Total fucking waste of time.

  “Alright.” Evan rose from the chair. “I’m heading out too.”

/>   “Great. Does this mean I can have my chair back? And my desk? And my goddamn coffee mug?”

  “Of course, your highness. I’ve got a lunch date—Ella from marketing. Wish me luck.”

  “Workplace romance?” Jared said. “Now there’s a right terrible idea.”

  “Who said anything about romance? I’d be happy with a shag in the copy room. Or maybe in the boss’s office, since he’ll be out.” Evan leaned across the desk, scooping up the last cookie and smacking Jared twice on the cheek. “In the mean time, I trust you’ll behave yourself?”

  Jared flashed a wolfish smile. “Mr. Drake, when am I not a perfect gentleman?”

  Evan waited until he was safely out the door before he replied. “Would you like my response in an e-mail, a photo essay, or a spreadsheet with sortable columns?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “TO SAY THAT I’m disappointed is an understatement, Arianne. Really.” Davidson drained his martini and set the glass hard on the patio table.

  Ari shrunk, hoping no one else in the restaurant’s small outdoor seating area was listening in.

  “I know. I’m… I’m sorry.” She cringed at the scared sound of her voice. It didn’t matter that she’d learned how to crack a safe by the time she was fifteen, or that she could spot a fake Dutch Master at a hundred yards, or that she’d amassed more knowledge of art history than most PhDs and museum curators twice her age. Davidson and the others on the crew—Lilah, Will, Trick, Keens—had watched her grow from a wobbly toddler into the woman she was today, but in Davidson’s presence, Ari would always feel like a silly little girl getting underfoot while the adults planned their next big heist.

  She was also Arianne Holbrook, daughter of the man who’d supposedly betrayed his whole crew and gotten himself killed. And that, more than anything, made Ari a prime target for Davidson’s rage. Especially when she turned up at their meetings with bad news.

  Through a cool, gentle voice that belied the anger flashing in his eyes, Davidson said, “You understand that your last several outings have been… less than informative.”

  Ari swallowed the knot in her throat, willing herself not to cry. “How is that my fault?”

  Davidson slammed his fist on the table, making her jump. The people eating at the table behind them looked over.

  Great. The last thing she wanted was another scene at Beyoglu. Just a ten block walk from home, the Turkish café used to be one of her favorite lunch spots on the Upper East Side, but ever since Davidson had declared it their “usual” place, she hadn’t been back on her own. He’d embarrassed her in front of the staff too many times for that. Now, whenever they arrived together, the hostess always sat them outside.

  “I’d advise you not to take that adolescent tone with me,” he said, which Ari found ironic, considering he’d never really stopped treating her like an adolescent. His voice was eerily calm, but anger rippled from his body in waves.

  Ari was on dangerous ground. Pulling off a successful heist wasn’t like the movies, where everything came together seamlessly over a pack of cigarettes, a few cartons of Chinese takeout, and a music montage. It took weeks—even months—of careful, tedious preparation involving blueprints and public records searches, background checks on the property owners, surveillance, onsite intelligence gathering, payoffs of household employees and security technicians, identity theft, document forging, route planning, in-case-of-injury planning, contingency planning, and yes—lots and lots of Chinese takeout.

  Lately, Davidson had been relegating Ari to fact-finding missions at private auctions and events, bringing her in later, cutting her out earlier, sharing fewer secrets. Sometimes she wondered if he believed that she was involved in the infamous double-cross. That maybe betrayal ran in the Holbrook family.

  Ari stifled a shiver. If she didn’t do something to regain his trust soon…

  Don’t think like that. He needs me. Everything is going to be just fine.

  “You’re right,” she said calmly. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m as frustrated as you are. The family from last night? They’re basically broke. Almost everything valuable went to auction, probably long before last night. And they didn’t—”

  Ari shut her mouth as the waiter approached.

  “Get some appetizers,” Davidson said. “Whatever you want.”

  Ari had already lost her appetite, but she ordered the hummus to make him happy, along with her favorite lunch platter and some baklava she’d take home for Tasha. After making her feel like a child, Davidson’s second favorite hobby was picking up the check—the bigger the better.

  They never talked about money, but despite the fact that her job didn’t exactly offer a salary and benefits, and that most of her father’s liquid assets were stashed in offshore accounts she couldn’t access, the $5,000 monthly maintenance fee on her father’s penthouse always got paid, the lights stayed on, and no matter how often she charged up the credit card, Arianne never once saw a bill.

  Tasha may have gotten a scholarship to college, but when it came to everything else? Ari knew damn well who was taking care of them, and it wasn’t some rainy-day insurance policy her father had set up.

  Davidson didn’t mind the elephant in the room, though, as long as it was his elephant. It gave him power over her, a fundamental control that guaranteed she’d never, ever leave him. Never mind what she wanted, what she thought was right. Ari didn’t know how to do anything else.

  Worse, she didn’t have the courage to try.

  She’d helped plan complicated, dangerous heists, evaded the FBI—hell, she’d even been stabbed once. But none of that mattered, because when push came to shove, Ari was a coward. Afraid to look in the mirror. Afraid to live.

  Without the life her father had built for her, the person he’d molded her into, what did she have? What did she know?

  Watching Davidson shove bread and hummus into his greasy mouth, Ari knew the truth: without Davidson and the crew, Arianne Holbrook didn’t exist.

  It was that simple. And if she ever doubted it, Davidson would be right there to remind her.

  “Look, Ari,” he said now, a glob of hummus stuck on the corner of his mouth. “I know there are no guarantees in this business. But you’re striking out on every case.”

  “It’s this economy,” she said. “People can’t afford all the flash. They’re selling, not buying. Even the old families are downsizing.”

  “Not all of them.” Davidson had that look in his eye, a greedy, dangerous gleam that Ari knew well.

  “Word is, someone dropped a pretty penny on a Hans Whitfield last night.”

  Ari nearly choked on her Turkish coffee. When she caught her breath, she said, “That’s right. Two million, as I recall.”

  “He’s already made arrangements to donate the piece to the Jewish Historical Society.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  Davidson smiled without showing his teeth, which meant he wouldn’t reveal his source. After Ari and Davidson, there were three men and one woman officially on crew, but Davidson had an entire network of seedy freelance associates, every one of them jockeying for position, falling over one another just to make themselves useful. Ari wasn’t surprised that he’d already heard about the painting. In this city even the rats had ears.

  “You get a look at the guy last night?” he asked.

  Ari shrugged. “Another billionaire in a suit. They all look the same to me.”

  But they don’t all feel the same…

  Her thighs clenched beneath the table as she tried in vain to stave off the memories of last night, the ghost of his passionate touch still burning her skin.

  “Arianne.” Davidson reached across the table, caging her hand in his icy grip. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Look at me.” When she finally met his eyes, he said, “Why do I sense that this job isn’t a priority for you anymore?”

  Ari tried not to squirm as shame and anger waged war in her c
hest.

  Fuck you and your fucked-up priorities.

  Ari had only one priority—her family. That meant taking care of Tasha and keeping her out of this dreadful life, and—if she could find a way to make it happen—clearing her father’s name and nailing the guy who killed him. The latter should’ve been a priority for Davidson, too, but he didn’t see it that way.

  Davidson may have been pissed about Ari’s lack of progress on the job, but she was pissed, too. Pissed that her parents had brought her into this world with no intention of helping her become a legitimate, tax-paying adult. Pissed that no one seemed to know what had happened to her father. Pissed that no one had bothered to find out.

  It was her father’s inside guy, everyone had always believed. A man none of them had ever met. Her father—who ran the crew and had the overriding vote on all matters—had vouched for him, bringing him in at the last minute to do a big job in the West Village. The mark was an extensive art collector, and the cache they’d targeted was valued at about $70 million on the street.

  Dressed as contractors, Ari’s father and the guy went in alone, with Davidson and the others in strategic positions throughout the city. Ari was at Davidson’s apartment, coordinating the whole thing through an elaborate system of coded text messages they’d worked out in advance.

  The men had made it in, made it out, made it through the Holland Tunnel.

  But that was the last anyone had heard from them. They never showed up at the rally point in Jersey.

  Hours turned into days. Ari and Davidson were frantic, the rest of the crew looking to them for answers they just didn’t have.

  A week after the heist, her father turned up dead in an abandoned tire warehouse in Trenton.

  The art he’d boosted—along with the inside guy—didn’t.

  There was no evidence found at the scene of her father’s death, nothing to tie him to the theft. The police said that it was a gang hit, gunshot to the head, wrong-place-wrong-time kind of thing. But that was bullshit. People like Ari’s father never died from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.