by Michele Hauf
“I never said that. The kisses last night were exemplary.”
Oh, mercy, yes, they had been. And he thought she appealed to him? He had said it. After the dislike part. The man needed to polish up his seduction skills.
“And I do remember it from before.”
She stopped drawing, but didn’t look at him. “It?”
“The previous kiss you alluded to? Our first one that occurred well before this whole adventure began last night?”
Years ago. And her hair had been shorter and probably dyed blue at the time. Or no, she'd worn a blond wig that night. Going for the vixen look. “Is that so?”
He tapped her wrist, right over the tattoos. Two tiny black cats. In memoriam. She hoped it would be a long time before she'd have to add a third.
“There was only one then. But to be honest, I don’t recall when or where we’ve met before,” he said. “I know I haven’t fucked you. I would remember that.”
Because he fucked so few, or because—what was she doing? She didn’t care about the man's sex life. And she knew what he was doing. Trying to get more details from her by being softer, keeping the conversation going. The room still smelled of bacon, yet he hadn't dragged out the frying pan since their return from the roof. He’d lied to her about having more.
But when had she ever told him the truth?
Well, there was that part about Chloe being everything to her.
“So my kisses are not so memorable. Way to make a woman feel special, Fox.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She tapped the tiny symbol she'd drawn at the upper corner of the page. A simple diamond topped by ears. The Fox's calling card. “Aren’t you proud of Le Renard's legacy?”
“I am. Who would not be?” She could feel him straighten beside her. “I am the best. But I am so because I do not advertise it or put it out there on all that social media.”
“All that social media? You sound like such a geezer. But as for not advertising...you always left your calling card at your jobs.”
He eyed the drawing of the fox. He gave her one of those classic Frenchman shrugs that said yes, of course, but at the same time brushed off the importance of the topic.
“Your secret is safe with me,” she offered. “You are a pro, and pros work alone and don't shine in any spotlights. The best do their work in the dark.”
He waggled his brows. Should she take that as some kind of seductive suggestion? Well, she did, and she inhaled and wiggled on the seat to reset her relaxing muscles, which only wanted to melt up against the man and see how quickly she could make him remember the power of her kisses.
“I've been following your jobs. Learning from you,” she confessed. “You know I used your ‘hairspray on the heat sensors’ method to snag a nice string of sparklers from the Venetian Art Fair?”
“That was you? I read about it in Le Monde. I thought the method seemed familiar. That was quite the take. How much did you walk away with?”
“Never as little as is reported. You should know that.”
He nodded. “Most often the offended party reports much less. Too embarrassed to admit how much one thief actually walked away with.”
“Yep.” She rolled the pencil under her forefingers over the schematic drawing. “I give most of it away.”
The touch of his hand to hers, covering her fingers and curling over to clasp, was so startling she sucked in a breath. She jerked her gaze to his eyes. Hazel green. Not vivid but interestingly flecked with emerald against the lighter iris. This was the first time she'd actually looked into them for more than a fleeting moment.
She shouldn't have done it. Her heart thundered. Josephine quickly tugged away from his touch. She didn't want him to read the rise in her body temperature as a sign of weakness.
“I do the same,” he said. “Or I did. I can only shake my head when I consider how putting me in prison took so many charity dollars out of the system.”
She had known that about him. Which had provided the catalyst for her doing the same. Just because she'd hated the guy hadn't meant she couldn't use his best tricks and spread the charity even farther. She appreciated that he wasn’t in it all for himself. Not an asshole. He was a cad. There was a difference between the two. Cads were bad boys. The kind that made her heart pump and her fantasies take to flame.
“It’s not like a person needs much more than a couple hundred thousand to keep them in clothes and food, eh?”
“I live a spare lifestyle,” he agreed. “Albeit, in upscale homes. Or I used to. As an agent with the…uh, people I work for…we are given a place to stay and a budget.”
“Wow. So you’ve moved from one prison to another?”
“You could say that. But much as it’s different from when I was free, I am still doing some good.”
“By chasing those who do the same thing you once did? I bet you like that, putting away the competition. So what are your plans for me?”
“I have no plans. Well, no, I shouldn’t say that. I have developed a plan just now, actually.” He tapped the building layout and pulled it before him to look it over.
Josephine sat there, waiting for him to reveal his marvelous plan. But he didn’t. Instead his eyes wandered the sketch, moving down hallways and around corners. She could sense the gears in his brain moving. It was a high to plot out the heist. No caffeine, drugs or—yeah, even sex—could match it. And the final payoff? Bliss.
Finally, he stood, folded the plan, and tucked it in an inner suit coat pocket.
“So?” she prompted.
“What?”
“You were going to reveal your plans for me.”
“Did I say that?”
Much as he frustrated her, she had to give him points for tossing the snark right back at her.
Finally he asked, “You sure you want to know?”
She took a moment to consider his teasing proposal. Whatever the plans were—arrest her, turn her over, let her go—they’d have a condition and a lie attached. So she shrugged. “Dazzle me.”
“I can do that.”
He slid his hand along her jaw and his fingers wove through her hair as his head bent and his mouth found hers. The kiss was intense, firm, and commanding. He sensed her internal struggle, and his fingers curved against her scalp, claiming her, defying her to make it end.
She didn’t need this to end. This kiss was well worth the hit to her emotional stronghold. She inhaled his subtle yet compelling scent and drowned in the heat of his expertise. He opened her mouth and traced her inner lip with his tongue. Mercy, that sent delicious shivers throughout her body, all the way down to her toes.
Josephine gripped the front of his crisp white shirt and tugged him closer. His hair, still moist from the rain, smelled like her country home. Freedom and lack of worry. Kissing this thief was wrong. So wrong. But when had she ever wanted what was right?
Never. Always she had sought that which had been just out of her reach. What ever would toss up a challenge and a wicked punishment should she not succeed. She had always succeeded. And when it came to bad boys? Sign her up.
It was that screaming no feeling she got when she knew she should run, screaming no, no, no, and never look back. That damned feeling always meant she wanted in.
She hated not knowing the plan, but she had to admit she did like following Xavier. Because the challenge of such a man? Much more fulfilling than the escape.
He pulled away and strode to the front door, leaving her with her mouth gaping and eyes closed. “Let’s go, Josephine. We’ve a lot to do before tonight.”
Chapter 9
Victor Katirci stood between two steel support columns that framed a window overlooking the Seine. The building in the 13th arrondissement, set a stone's throw from the peripherique, was under construction. Before him, Alex Toyo shrank from his glare. He’d given the man a simple task: shadow the Countess de Maleaux at the charity ball. All he had to do was sta
y close and keep an eye on the diamond-strand necklace. Then, after the ball, escort the countess to a quiet tête-à-tête with Victor without letting her know something was up.
The countess had known only that Victor was a friend of her former lover, who went by the mysterious name, Ashwood. He had gifted the countess the necklace. She'd thought it a selfless gift. Ashwood had a beef with the police, who had arrested his cousin for making terroristic threats and who wanted to make a political statement to the police. Victor had intended to pull a switch so the countess would have left with a fake and he the diamonds that contained the ingredient list. The list supposedly included the location and a payment stone, which contained a code to access a bank transfer for five million euros.
That, along with the necklace—comprised of lesser stones, but still worth a hundred thousand—would have made Victor a very happy man.
The meeting with the countess had not occurred because someone had stolen the necklace. Right from under his man's watchful eye.
Toyo had explained there had been two thieves present in the ballroom working together.
Victor approached the man. Arms crossed high over his chest, he held his Ruger .9mm pointed behind him and toward the floor. “What did the thieves look like, eh?”
“The first was tall, had dark loose hair. Dressed well. He had pale green eyes.”
Victor lifted a brow. That sort of description would get him nowhere. He needed weight, distinctive marks, tattoos, accent and—why the hell not a selfie inadvertently showing the unsuspecting thief standing behind his man's shoulder? The current trends in social media made gathering intel so much easier. The veil of privacy had been smashed by collective acceptance.
“The woman looked like that movie star from the Tiffany’s show.”
A woman? Victor sniffed and stretched out his arms, waving the gun before him. He knew how to use his imposing six feet, six inches and smirked as Toyo's color grew pale at sight of his flexing biceps.
“Are you telling me you could not keep a valuable diamond necklace safe from a female thief?”
The idiot put up his hands in defense, noticeably shaking. As he should be. “I followed the man to an apartment in the 8th. It was hers. There was a cat.”
“What?”
“I can give you the address!”
Victor tugged out his cell phone, scrolled to his contact list, and handed it to him. “Enter it.”
Toyo typed as his hands shook madly, then handed back the phone. Victor checked the map app, which zoomed in on a point in the 8th, about six blocks north of the Champs Elysees.
“You said you shot at them?”
The idiot nodded.
“You missed. What? Was there a cat in your way?”
Toyo actually chuckled, then instantly sobered as Victor's condemning stare found its mark. “No. I didn't want to draw attention, shooting in the street.”
“Yet you had no problem whatsoever with breaking a window?”
“I went through an open window. I guess I must have been rough when entering. The window just broke.”
“You guess you were too rough.” Enough. He'd gotten all he could from this one, and with an address, he had somewhere to start. That's what he got for sending idiots to do a job he should have tended. “You are dismissed.”
Victor swung up his arm. Pressing the pistol barrel to the man's forehead, he pulled the trigger.
* * * *
The Blackwell mansion was situated in the 6th arrondissement, a neighborhood of old money. It was the most suburban area Josephine had found on the inside of the peripherique freeway that surrounded Paris and separated it from the suburbs. While most homes were mansions, each had a neat green lawn and statuary surrounded by the requisite wrought-iron fence sporting decades-old ivy climbing the bars and obscuring views.
Xavier's plans had required her to go along with him tonight, and after initially balking—because she couldn't appear too eager—she'd agreed. Because not only was this her first opportunity to accompany The Fox on a real heist, but as well…ah, she was trying not to think about the attraction she felt toward the man. And if he insisted on kissing her at every moment when she least expected it, that attraction would not cease. The man was just so…bad. And talented. And smart. And sexy. And she had admired his work for years.
While also hating him.
So there was that to keep her from jumping him when her lust levels breeched code orange. Also, she did possess a modicum of self-control. She wasn't a teenage girl; moreover, she’d never even had the obligatory teenage crush. At the time, she'd been too busy simply surviving.
But to think back, perhaps The Fox had been her first real crush.
A phone call to Madame DaCosta had been greeted with a happy squeal. She and Chloe were getting along famously, and if Josephine couldn't pick her up for another day—or a month—she'd be just fine.
A day it was, then. Josephine wasn't about to let some crazy cat lady move in on her cat.
“This reminds me of Gone in 60 Seconds,” she said, putting her ballet-flat-clad feet on the dashboard of Xavier's 1995 Megane Renault and spreading her knees. An unladylike position, but it was comfortable, and it kept her from nervously tapping the floor. She looked through Xavier’s night-vision binoculars. The lights were still on inside Blackwell’s mansion, but she knew the peripheral lights were a constant. When the living room lights when out, that would be their signal for “all’s clear.”
Xavier sipped the coffee he'd gotten at the McDonalds on the Champs Elysees. The man always drank coffee before his heists. “You like American movies?”
He hadn't come right out and asked if she was American, though it should be obvious. Displaced from Iowa at the age of eight. Toted overseas with her mother, who had followed the baddest of the bad boys to Paris. She'd landed in the banlieue. Not all the Parisian suburbs were idyllic and quaint. Points to The Fox for not wasting breath on stupid questions.
“I like any and all heist movies,” she said, dropping the binoculars onto her chest. “Jewels, gold, cars. It's all good, Becky.”
“Becky?”
“The Italian Job. Becky was the dupe. Good stuff. So, we've got the place staked out. Let’s talk.”
“Like the couple in the movie? Which movie are we on now?”
“Back to Gone in 60 Seconds.”
“Didn’t they start making out?”
“So you have seen it.” Josephine waggled her brows at him. It wasn’t an invitation, more a tease.
She’d spent the afternoon trailing Xavier as he prepared for tonight’s heist, every moment in awe of his style, finesse, and attention to detail. She’d even learned a few things. He never kept any information on his phone. Always aware of digital theft. All handwritten notes were burned. (He'd burned her drawing of Blackwell's home.) He preferred to shop at mom-and-pop hardware stores. And he must have a budget, because he'd bought the cheapest pair of binoculars.
Still. She was trailing the master. And this time, not in secret.
But she had turned her life around. Had begun anew and had been doing quite well at it. The life of a thief was no longer for her. After tonight, she would pick up Chloe and head to Berlin. Dmitri had secured an interim place for her that he promised she would find suitable, safe, and plunked right in the middle of suburbia.
Joy.
Thankfully, it was only for a few weeks until a more permanent residence could be located. She hoped for a beach, but would probably end up in Iceland. She'd have to tell Dmitri no cold climes.
“What’s your favorite heist movie?” Xavier asked. He looked calm and relaxed, with his wrist on the top of the steering wheel and head tilted back. Yet his eyes took in everything in their periphery. “If we're talking American films, mine is The Score.”
“Love that one,” she said. “Robert de Niro as the old and experienced thief. And Edward Norton was amazing. Have you ever pulled on a character for one of your
jobs?” Norton had pretended to be a mentally challenged janitor to learn the layout of the hit by gaining the trust of those working there.
“Never so extreme as taking on a whole new personality,” he said. “But I can affect a convincing British accent when need be, love.” His accent was, indeed, excellent. “I’m also quite good with Italian. I can change my gait, my manner, wear a disguise. Some thick-rimmed glasses tend to change my whole face. It’s all part of the job.”
“I love playing dress up,” she agreed. “Wigs are my thing. And high heels.”
“Heels?”
“Distraction.” She winked at him.
“I get that. The female grifter always has the advantage when it comes to using sex appeal to distract.”
“I’m sure your powers of distraction are fierce.”
He rubbed the back of his knuckles against his chest and lowered his eyes in a look she mentally dubbed I-dare-you-eyes. “Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. So, what's your favorite heist movie?”
“The aforementioned The Italian Job. The newest version starring Mark Wahlberg. I’ve never been able to get into the original with Michael Caine.”
“That was a gold heist. Clever use of the Minis, though.”
“I almost bought a Mini Cooper because of that flick. I always look in the safe when I open it. Don't you?”
“There's no other reason to crack open a safe than to look in it.”
“True. So, let's see. Discussion topics… Favorite color is stupid. Do you have a favorite sport?”
“I once swam competitively,” he told her.
“Nice. In an Ivy League school?”
“I'm from Marseilles. We call them grandes écoles.”
“But you did grow up in a rich family.”
“You're making an assumption.”
“I am. But I'm right.”
He gave no signal of agreement, but Josephine didn't need it. The suits, the élan, the way he walked as if he owned the world, yet knew its value and would never take it for granted…all clues of a man who had been brought up with a silver spoon.
“You know, this is our first job together.”
