by Liliana Hart
“I told you I was like you once,” Simon said. “What if I told you there’s something more for you than interrogating two-bit terrorists in a moldy jail cell?”
“I’d say they were right to arrest you for drunkenness.”
He shrugged. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens. What if I told you I can get us both released right now? A man like you isn’t used to places like this. I can see the disgust in your eyes. They give you these jobs because you’re young and don’t know any better than to take them. But wait until the rats come. You’ll learn to speak up then.”
The man was beginning to get under his skin, but Dante had to admit he was curious. And the idea of spending even a few more hours inside the dark cell grated against his sense of propriety.
“And how would you get us released?” Dante asked.
Simon took a copper cent from his pocket and held it up to the passing light. “Watch and learn.”
And he had watched. And he had learned. Simon had used that copper cent to remove the bars from the window. And Dante had followed him, knowing that he could at any moment be caught and shot, but there had been something compelling about Simon. He’d watched the other man scale the narrow ledges of the prison, counting the seconds before the spotlight would pass, and timing his movements precisely.
Dante had done the same thing, and he’d found it came to him as naturally as breathing. Then they were outside the prison, not a soul the wiser. Before they’d gone a block, Simon had slipped into the shadows as if he’d never been there at all.
Within a day or two, Dante had thought he might have imagined the whole event—except that he’d had a hell of a time explaining to his superiors why and exactly how he’d gone off book. He’d returned to London and his home, having delivered his report of the information he’d gotten from the terrorist, and when he walked into his bedroom, Simon had been sitting in the chair by the fireplace as if he belonged there.
It hadn’t taken long for Simon to convince Dante to become his protégé. He was nearing retirement and only had a few good years left before age caught up with him, Simon said, and he needed someone who was vigorous and sharp of mind.
They had more in common than Dante had expected. But he had drawn a hard line about certain jobs. He wouldn’t interfere if Simon targeted something specific on his own, but Dante refused to steal for the sake of stealing. There had to be a reason, and someone had to benefit. Simon had eventually acquiesced.
He’d taken over the persona of Simon Locke ten years before, when Simon felt Dante was ready to go out on his own. Dante hadn’t looked back once, and he’d never had a moment of regret.
But Liv Rothschild had been a surprise. He’d seduced her for his own pleasure the moment he saw her. But then he’d found himself being seduced. Interpol had been looking for Simon Locke for years, and as irony would have it, she was put in charge of the investigation.
It had been pure self-preservation that had caused him to involve MI6 in the hunt for Simon Locke. She’d come too close too often to discovering his true identity, and joining his MI6 resources with hers guaranteed that he always knew the steps she was taking. She was good. But he was better.
He could’ve stopped, of course. But when it came down to it, Dante didn’t want to. The thrill was in his blood. But Liv had become his oxygen. He needed both of them to survive, and he had no reason to think he couldn’t have everything he wanted.
There was no reason to confess and ruin everything. Some confessions could never be forgiven. Liv was a straight arrow. She was adventurous and liked the thrill of the chase—that was in her blood, just as thieving was in his. But in the end, law and order would take precedence.
He’d always enjoyed the Marquis de Carmaux’s château. It had been built in the eighteenth century to honor the palace of Versailles, and everything as far as the eye could see was decorated in French Baroque. It was overdone and gaudy, but as Carmaux liked to say, it was jolly good fun and women loved it. Dante and Carmaux had been friends for years, and he could attest to both of those statements.
The entryway was done in pink marble and was completely open to the second floor. The domed ceiling was painted with cherubs and erotic scenes that most people never noticed, although the other nudes painted in niches along the walls were harder to miss. The double staircase was the showpiece, also done in pink marble and flanked by pink marble columns. Whenever he walked in, Dante always felt as if he’d been swallowed whole and was lounging about in someone’s stomach.
He made his way through the growing crowd and into the ballroom—white, thank goodness, with gold-leaf trim and ceilings again painted with subtly erotic love scenes. It smelled of perfume and excitement, and couples were already moving around the dance floor. The ballroom opened up on either side—on one side was the bar and a smattering of high tables so people could rest, and on the other were the doors that led into the courtyard.
What Dante didn’t see was the one woman he was looking for. Then he felt her behind him, and his mouth quirked in a smile as he turned.
“You’re late,” Liv said.
“I’m never late, darling,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. And then he stopped and lingered when he got a good look at her.
Never had a woman had the ability to make his heart skip a beat. He’d always thought the phrase trite and impossible—foolish words of romance. But now he knew it to be true.
She was spectacular. She wore a long column of dark blue velvet—strapless and simple in its design—and the small train pooled at her feet like the darkest part of the ocean. Her white-blond hair was piled artfully on top of her head, and a sapphire the size of his thumb dangled just above her décolletage. His gaze lingered there, and all he could imagine was her wearing nothing but that necklace.
“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re likely to get in trouble,” she said, her lilting voice husky.
“Only if we do what I’m thinking about in front of all these people.” He released her hand and took two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, handing one to her.
“Are you sure he’ll be here tonight?” she asked, looking around the ballroom.
“I have a gut feeling. Carmaux has one of the premier art collections in the world, and after tonight, it’s going to be under museum security. If Locke is going to make his move, it’ll be tonight, when everything is out on display.”
“There are close to a thousand people here, and security is everywhere,” Liv said, bringing the flute to her lips to cover her words. “He’d be a fool to try to take one of these paintings. And Simon Locke is no fool.”
“Everyone has a weakness,” Dante told her. “And a challenge like this one is his. He’d go down in history as the greatest thief ever to live.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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LILIANA HART is a New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of more than forty titles, including the Addison Holmes Whiskey and J. J. Graves Mystery series. Since self-publishing in June 2011, Liliana has sold more than four million ebooks. She’s hit the #1 spot on lists all over the world, and all three of her series have appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. Liliana is a sought-after speaker who’s given keynote speeches and self-publishing workshops to standing-room-only crowds from California to New York to London.
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ISBN 978-1-5011-5005-0
ISBN 978-1-5011-5006-7 (ebook)
