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

by Pierce, Sylvia

  Tasha nodded, linking her arm with Ari’s. “Come on, I’ll wait with you. Forty-Second Street?”

  “Let’s try Fifth,” Ari said. On Fifth she could at least wait in front of the library, one of her favorite buildings in the city.

  They packed up the rest of their things and threaded their way through the Bryant Park crowd. Traffic on Fifth Avenue was a nightmare—every yellow cab that passed was already occupied.

  “Figures.” Ari sat on the library steps, gazing up at the stately marble lions that had guarded the entrance for more than a hundred years. In their familiar company, she relaxed.

  So many people thought that living in New York was exactly like a movie, where everyone was fabulous and rich, spending their evenings at A-list restaurants with dollhouse-sized meal portions and rude waiters, or hopping from club to exclusive club, or—at the other end of the spectrum—getting drunk on cheap beer and stumbling through Time’s Square.

  But for Ari, more than the restaurants, the clubs, the music scene, the tourist traps, the best places in New York were the ones that had survived the centuries. Libraries, museums, universities—the places that showcased and archived humanity’s great achievements, the things that would continue to inspire awe, even when people themselves no longer could.

  Ari blew out a breath. Even as her own life descended into chaos, at least she could count on her beloved lions, always here to remind her that no matter what mistakes she made, some things endured.

  And maybe she would, too.

  “What are you thinking about?” Tasha asked.

  “Patience and Fortitude,” Ari said.

  “What?”

  “The lions? Those are their names.”

  Tasha finally smiled. “You’re a nut. Hey, a cab! Come on.”

  In a flash Tasha bolted to the street, hailing the cab as Ari ran to catch up.

  “Have fun with the bossman,” Tasha said. “I’ll be at home working on your resume.”

  “Work on your own, Miss Dean’s List.” Ari climbed into the cab and waved goodbye, telling herself for the millionth time that she’d find a way out of this life eventually.

  But it wasn’t going to be tonight.

  “Fulton and Water Street,” she told the driver. “As fast as you can.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THERE WAS A snake in Davidson’s living room. A snake with dull gray eyes and spiky, over-gelled blond hair who leered at Ari with a mix of desire, possessiveness, and pure hatred.

  “Arianne,” the man said. His breath hissed through the gap between his front teeth, giving her an icy chill. “You’re looking well.”

  “Vincent.” It was all she could give him—his name. Even a year later, the sight of her ex still made her skin crawl. It probably always would.

  “Glad you could finally join us,” Davidson said, handing Ari a gin and tonic. She’d arrived fifteen minutes late, and he’d seated her next to Vincent, probably as punishment. Now he took the chair across from them, pinning her with a steely gaze. “Tell me about the painting.”

  Ari sipped her drink, buying herself a moment to think. Davidson was definitely angling for something, but it wasn’t information about the Whitfield—he could’ve just asked about that over the phone. None of the crew members were here. It was just Vincent, a freelancer they’d met a few months after her father’s death. The others didn’t think much of him—in fact, Lilah had never quite forgiven Ari for getting involved with such a lowlife—but Davidson still used him regularly for fake passports and customs forms for the artwork they fenced overseas.

  So what the fuck is he doing here now, looking at me like he wants to devour me whole?

  “Arianne?” Davidson pressed. “The painting?”

  Ari shrugged her shoulders, downing another gulp. “Nothing much to report. Just a donation, like you said. Info on the donor is confidential, but everything seemed on the up-and-up.”

  Davidson shook his head. “Doesn’t sound right. Why would someone pay that much for a painting just to donate it?”

  “I don’t know.” Ari hid her smile, remembering what the Brit had said. “Maybe he’s just a nice chap.”

  He laughed, a machine-gun chuckle that hurt her ears. “Oh, sweetheart. Didn’t the old man ever teach you there’s no such thing?”

  “Guess we didn’t get around to that lesson.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Davidson rose. “I need another drink. Why don’t you two catch up a bit.”

  The moment he left the room, Vincent was practically on top of her, stroking her arm with his cold fingers, sniffing at her skin, trying to kiss her. “I missed you so much, baby.”

  She curled in on herself, shrugging him off.

  “Aw, don’t be like that.” Vincent trailed a finger along her cheek, his tongue darting out between his lips in a way that was anything but sexy. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, you know. All those nasty things you wanted to do. You remember, baby.”

  “Huh. Not really,” she said. “Guess I’ve moved on.”

  “Guess you’re still a stuck-up cunt.”

  “Never doubt it,” she said. Ari couldn’t believe she’d ever fallen for this guy. The thought of his hands on her body, his crunchy hair, his sloppy tongue in her ear as he grunted like an ape…

  “Come on, Ari. I’m just playing with you.” Vincent’s gaze traveled over her body, stopping to rest at her crotch. Ari held back a shiver. “You still want it. I can tell by those tight jeans you wore for me.”

  “Don’t touch me, Vincent,” she said. “I mean it.”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t think you do.” He shoved his hand between her thighs, pinching her crotch through the jeans. “That’s a good little slut. Just like—what the fuck, bitch!”

  Vincent recoiled, his clothes soaked in Ari’s gin and tonic.

  “I told you not to touch me, asshole. Do it again, and I’ll do something more…” This time, she let her eyes linger on his crotch. “Permanently uncomfortable.”

  Davidson called out from the kitchen around the corner, “Everything all right in there?”

  “Fine,” Ari said with a smirk. “But I need another drink. And your boy Vinny needs a towel.”

  Davidson finally returned with the drinks and a kitchen towel. He took one look at Vincent, moping at the far end of the couch, and laughed. “I see the reunion is going well.”

  “Smashing. So, what’s on the agenda tonight?” Ari asked, forcing a smile. She wasn’t interested in reunions or social calls. She just wished Davidson would get to the point. He loved the cloak-and-dagger bullshit, but after five years of following his orders, Ari was tired of his games. She’d bailed out on girls’ night with Tasha, turned off her phone during a perfectly delicious text volley with the Brit on the cab ride up, endured the filthy, unwanted advances of her sleazy ex—the least Davidson could do was get to the fucking point.

  “Something has come to our attention, Arianne.” Davidson held her gaze for a moment, a dead stare that put ice in her veins.

  No. There’s no way he could’ve found out. Right?

  “What’s that?” She chugged her drink, willing her heart rate to slow.

  “We may have a new assignment for you. But Arianne, believe me when I say there is no room for error on this one.” He sipped his martini so delicately it looked like a kiss. Over the rim, he exchanged a glance with Vincent that Ari couldn’t decipher. “We need to be certain you can handle it. We have… concerns.”

  We? So he and Vincent are a ‘we’ now?

  “So this is about another job?” she asked. “What about Keens and those guys?”

  Davidson and his pet snake shared another cryptic glance. He said, “This is more of a… a side project. We’re counting on your discretion.”

  Ari nodded, forcing herself not to squirm. She knew better than to challenge Davidson or go behind his back to the others, but this kind of secrecy was bad news. Even more than her usual attack of conscience, none of this felt
right—something on which both her intuition and her brain agreed.

  “Are you interested in hearing the details?” Davidson asked.

  What I’m interested in, you son of a bitch, is dumping this drink in your face, setting you on fire, and shooting your charred corpse out of a cannon over the East River.

  “Of course,” she said brightly. “What’s the job?”

  Vincent handed her an envelope from his inside jacket pocket, still warm from his body heat. “Shindig upstate on Friday night. You’re an attorney attending at the behest of your client, who sends her regrets.”

  Ari opened the envelope and thumbed through the contents: a satellite map of a sprawling estate in Annandale-on-Hudson, a ticket to the event, info about the host, and a few thin details about her temporary identity.

  “What am I bidding on?” she asked.

  “No bids,” Vincent said. “This one’s a fundraiser for some children’s art charity. A thousand bucks a plate, too. You’d think they could afford to adopt those fucking rug rats.”

  “You shelled out a grand for this?” Ari raised her eyebrows. “This must be a pretty sure thing, then.”

  Davidson sprayed her with his machine-gun laugh. “A grand? Fuck, no. That ticket is Vincent’s handiwork.”

  A forgery. Great. Let’s hope they’re not checking these against the guest list.

  “According to our sources,” Davidson said, “the estate is one of only a handful of private residences in the hamlet. It’s furnished extensively with rare artifacts and art dating back to ancient times.”

  “The guy also collects vintage cars,” Vincent said.

  “Sounds like you’ve got this one locked down.” Ari stuffed the paperwork back in the envelope and tossed it onto the coffee table. “What exactly do you need me for?”

  “We need confirmation from the inside,” Vincent said. From a leather folio, he pulled out a stack of surveillance photos and a detailed floor plan of the house. “We’ve got a good handle on the external points of entry,” he said, pointing out the red Xs marked around the perimeter, “but we don’t know the precise security situation, or how many people have access to the place. Preliminary surveillance reports suggest two groundskeepers, a cook, and at least three housekeepers on a rotating weekly schedule, and only occasional guests. We’re pretty sure the alarm system was upgraded in the last year, too.”

  He showed her a photo of a security company van, a pair of contractors standing next to it in the driveway. Ari wondered if the contractors were on Davidson’s payroll, too.

  Either way, with all of that intel, it was clear that Vincent and Davidson had been working on this for months—maybe even longer.

  It was just like them not to involve her in something big until they needed her for bait. That’s all she’d ever be—a pawn. If anything went south, she’d be the first to go down, and no one else in Davidson’s employ would ever worry about her ratting them out.

  Even more than the money, the penthouse, the credit card bill he paid without fail, Tasha’s life would always be Davidson’s true bargaining chip, and everyone in the room knew it.

  “In addition to the security details,” Davidson said, “we need more info about the cache itself. We’ve traced a lot of artwork to this location, but we can’t be sure exactly what’s there. When we go in—not if, but when—we need to be prepared for anything. We won’t get another shot.”

  Ari took the folio from Vincent, giving everything a closer look. The property featured a 6,000-square-foot mansion situated at the edge of ten acres, with stunning views of the Hudson River and Catskill Mountains beyond. There was also a massive garage, a garden guesthouse, and several smaller outbuildings, everything pristine and perfect.

  A ridiculous amount of property for one man.

  If Ari needed to make a quick escape, her only recourse would be to run on foot, hide out in the surrounding woods until she could phone for backup.

  Worse, fundraisers required a lot more social interaction than auctions. With no main event to keep people occupied, everyone wanted to talk and network and generally pry into one another’s business—all things that could get her noticed, particularly if the hosts were familiar with most of the other guests. She’d have to really be on her game, and Vincent’s “attorney” cover story was too complicated, to easy to screw up.

  It was a lot to consider.

  But like all of Davidson’s “requests,” refusing wasn’t an option.

  “I want a driver,” she said. “He’s got to stay within a mile of the home at all times.”

  “Already arranged,” Davidson said.

  “I’m not sitting in weekend traffic on I-87, either. Get me a room for Thursday night.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I’ll need a new dress.”

  “Of course.”

  “Shoes and accessories too.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.” Davidson sipped his drink, smiling at her over the rim of his glass. “Any other demands?”

  “Just one.” Ari closed the folio. “After this job, I want a vacation. Three weeks in Spain, all expenses paid. And that’s for me and my sister. Nonnegotiable.”

  Davidson narrowed his eyes at her, but he was already nodding. “Do the job right, and you’ll be rewarded in kind.”

  It was as close to a yes as she was going to get from him.

  “Count on it,” she said.

  “We’ll do just that.” Davidson handed her the envelope with her fundraiser ticket, map, and details about the host. The rest of the documents in the folio—the sensitive stuff—would stay locked in Davidson’s safe.

  She shoved the envelope into her purse, glancing once more at Vincent. He was watching her like a hawk about to devour its prey.

  “I’m so glad you’re getting in bed with us on this,” Vincent said.

  Other than the forged ticket and surveillance details he’d provided, she couldn’t figure out why he was here.

  “What’s your involvement, exactly?” she asked.

  He reached across the couch and squeezed her knee. “I’m your driver, baby. Just you and me, like old times.”

  The cool, white sheets of the bed were the best invitation Ari had gotten all night.

  After insisting on escorting her into the elevator, Vincent had spent the entire fifty-floor ride down groping and pawing at Ari’s breasts, pressing her against the wall like a dog in heat. He’d stopped just short of climbing into the cab with her, and that was only because she’d slammed the door in his face before he’d gotten the chance.

  A long, hot shower helped calm her nerves, and now Ari sank into her luxurious down pillows, hoping to put that part of the evening squarely in the rearview.

  But the oblivion of sleep wouldn’t take her, her thoughts racing through the details of the fundraiser, the cover story she’d have to embellish, the risks she’d have to anticipate, the contingency plans, the backup contingency plans. With Vincent as her driver, she couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  After an hour of tossing and turning, she finally got out of bed, clicking the remote to open the blinds. Thirty stories below her windows, the streets of Park Avenue pulsed with life, the car horns a muted symphony through the glass.

  She wondered if her man was awake. He’d said he lived and worked in Tribeca, a neighborhood she couldn’t see from her place on Park. As the cabs raced by below, she imagined getting into one of them, the driver ferrying her downtown to the stranger’s apartment, straight into the blissful pleasure of his touch.

  The cell phone taunted her from the nightstand, silent and black, nothing but pure, untarnished potential. Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed the phone and pulled up his number.

  ARI: Hi. Are you awake?

  STRANGER: Yes. And thinking of you, actually.

  ARI: What a coincidence. ;-)

  STRANGER: What are you doing Friday night?

  ARI: Hey, rule breaker! We said no dating.

 
; STRANGER: It’s not a date. It’s a party. A terribly boring party. Please come.

  ARI: Why would I come to a terribly boring party?

  STRANGER: Not come TO. Come AT.

  ARI: Again with the assumptions!

  STRANGER: We’ll have access to at least a dozen closets.

  ARI: Hmm… this party is sounding less boring by the minute.

  STRANGER: So… it’s a non-date, then?

  ARI: :-( I’m sorry. I really can’t. Work thing.

  STRANGER: Cancel.

  ARI: I wish. Rain check?

  Ari froze, her fingers hot over the phone screen. Why did she just ask him for a rain check? When she agreed to exchange numbers at the museum, it was her decision to forbid anything more than casual contact—and even that was risky. But in the heat of the moment, his lips pressed against her neck as they huddled together in the alcove, she hadn’t thought it through. All she’d known was that she couldn’t let him walk out that door.

  Her phone lit up with his reply.

  STRANGER: I’ll hold you to it. The hot dog cart just hasn’t been the same without you.

  ARI: :-) I’ll bet. Ok, gotta go. Time for bed.

  STRANGER: Alone?

  ARI: Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Seconds later her phone vibrated with a call. STRANGER flashed on her screen, sending a thrill to her core.

  Don’t fucking answer it. Just hit ignore, delete his number, block him…

  “Hello, Stranger,” she said.

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I would like to know. I would very much like to know if you’re in bed alone.”

  “I am,” she admitted. “Unfortunately. And before you get your hopes up about what I’m wearing, it’s just boxer shorts and an old T-shirt from—”