Bared to the Billionaire: The Complete Series

by Sylvia Pierce

  Taking in her dark clothes, the baggy sweatshirt, Jared said, “Why are you here, skulking about like a common—”

  “Thief?”

  “I was going to say prowler.”

  “That’s much better,” she said. “Thanks.”

  Jared closed his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, exhaustion and frustration apparent in every gesture. “Answer the question, Arianne. Why are you following us?”

  Silence fell between them, an eerie hush marred only by the hum of traffic on Madison and an occasional laugh from somewhere deep within the park. The jackhammer had stopped its incessant hammering. The horn player had called it quits. And all of Ari’s earlier anger had faded, replaced by a deep sense of foreboding and an aching sadness she suspected would stay with her for years to come.

  Even when they were arguing, even when they couldn’t stand the sight of each other, even when they faced off in Madison Square Park in the middle of the night, Evan watching awkwardly from the bench, Ari couldn’t deny her feelings for him. It was like a curse she couldn’t reverse, a vortex into which she’d happily tumble without a safety net if only he’d allow her in.

  And for a few hours tonight, he had let her in. They’d let each other in, their walls crumbling, their guard down, their souls as bared as their flesh. Ari’s skin still burned with the memory of his touch, the heat of his lips on her thighs as he pressed his mouth to her trembling flesh.

  But now, when Ari looked into Jared’s eyes and searched for an invitation, a spark, even a glimmer of confirmation that what they’d shared earlier had been real, she found nothing but ice.

  “You left me,” she whispered, her eyes glazing with tears.

  Jared took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “I what?”

  “You invited me into your bed, and then as soon as it was over, it was like… like you couldn’t get away fast enough.”

  Evan coughed, a gentle reminder that they were airing their personal dirty laundry in front of an audience, but Ari no longer cared. What did it matter? After next week, their time together would be over, one way or the other, and she’d never see either man again.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jared said coolly.

  “Tell me it isn’t true, then,” she said. “Tell me you don’t think it was a mistake.”

  Jared held her gaze, and for a moment she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—a rekindling, maybe—but then it was gone, all the walls back up again.

  Still, when he spoke again his voice was calm—gentle, even—reminding Ari that no matter what had transpired between them, he was still on her side.

  Just not in my bed. Or in my life.

  “We’d arranged the meeting with Errington days ago,” he said. “I thought if I could track down some of the remaining artwork from that cache, perhaps we could trace it back to Davidson and start building our case, maybe even convince Errington to cough up some intel. We’re running out of time, love. I’m not sure what else to do here.”

  He was right. They were running out of time. And his instincts to go through Errington were good; Ari just wasn’t sure buying up the art was the right approach.

  Ari took a deep breath, steadying her frayed nerves. Her feelings about Jared, the complications, the what-ifs… all of that had to take a backseat to the urgent reality confronting her.

  In eight days, unless they could find a way to stop it, Davidson, Vincent, and whomever else they’d involved would liquidate Jared’s estate. Ari didn’t know what that meant for her and Tasha once the dust settled, but she was pretty sure they wouldn’t be taking that all-expenses paid trip to Spain that Davidson had so easily promised.

  She and Jared were in this together—Evan, too—and they needed a solid plan.

  “You can buy up all the art you want,” Ari said. “The whole seventy million dollar cache—or what’s left of it. But that’s not going to help us, Jared. It’s only going to make you go broke, and—”

  “Seventy million? Not likely.”

  “And,” she said, “you’re putting your life at risk. Evan’s, too. I can’t… I can’t let you do that. Not for me.”

  “For the record,” Evan said, “I’m not doing for you. I’m doing it for Jared.”

  Ari rolled her eyes. “Regardless—”

  “Evan and I are grown men, Arianne. We’ve made our choices.”

  “Jared.” Ari shook her head, grateful for the anger rising up again. She needed it to fuel her, to make her strong in the presence of this man whose touch had the power to melt her defenses. “This is ridiculous. You two are sneaking out in the middle of the night with a suitcase full of money like this is some kind of epic caper you can laugh about over beers later. These are real criminals, guys. Thieves. Killers. Probably even worse—”

  “You should’ve considered that before you asked for my help,” Jared said.

  “I never meant for you to go behind my back and make contact. I just needed you to keep the police out of this, to keep up the facade of our relationship long enough for me to figure something out.”

  “But you haven’t figured it out, have you?” Jared raked his hands through his hair, frustration mounting. “You’ve wracked your brain for a week straight, and you’ve come up with nothing.”

  “Then I’ll deal with the consequences of that on my own,” she said. “I can’t let you do this.”

  Jared shook his head. “No way. There is absolutely no way I’m standing on the sidelines. End of discussion.”

  “Why?” Ari shouted. She wanted to scream, to tackle him, to knock him on his ass like she had all those times in Brawler and make him understand just how insane this was, just how destructive her life could be, just how dangerous it was to jump in any deeper than he already had. “Why are you doing this?”

  He dropped his hands, shoving them into his pockets.

  “Is it because of your collection?” she asked. “Because at this point, I’m ready to let you call the cops.”

  Ari stood there, hands on her hips, heart pounding, waiting for him to give her an answer that made sense.

  When he finally spoke, he didn’t meet her eyes. “I think we both know why I’m doing this, Arianne.”

  “Think again. I’m totally in the dark here,” she said. “I betrayed you. Lied to you. You said yourself you never want to see me again after this. I understand why you’re—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Evan’s voice shattered the calm night. “He’s bloody well in love with you. And you obviously think he’s the dog’s bollocks, so let’s say we wrap up this little outing, I can go home and get to sleep, you two can go home and have a good shag, and we’ll all meet up for brunch tomorrow at the Rainbow Room.”

  Jared pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing into his hand. “Thank you, Evan. You’ve got us all sorted now.”

  Heat rushed to Ari’s face.

  In love with me?

  She’d seen that look in his eyes tonight—she hadn’t imagined it. But then it was gone, and he left her, sneaking out in the middle of the night…

  To try to save your life.

  Hope was such a dangerous thing, a cunning lover that could heal your heart as quickly as it could shred it. And right now, Ari couldn’t afford hope. The risks were too high, the price of failure too great.

  She looked deep into Jared’s eyes, stowing away all of her feelings, her confusion, and yes, that fragile, double-edged hope.

  “Errington is the right call,” she finally said, putting a lot more confidence and authority into her voice than she felt. “But if we want a real shot at finding evidence linking him with Davidson, we need to know where he lives. There might be something—files, pictures, account numbers, some kind of paper trail. If he’s got it, it’s at his house.” Ari thumbed toward Evan, still guarding the two-hundred-thousand-dollar purchase. “Sekhmet over here will make a fine addition to your collection of stolen art, but I’m afraid she can’t help us. We need an address.”
>
  “Smashing,” Evan said, clapping his hands. “I’ve got the address. Shall we go, then?”

  Ari and Jared turned toward him, mouths open in surprise.

  Evan laughed. “Do you honestly think I’d agree to this—what did you call it? Epic caper?—without running a thorough background check on the man? His primary residence is a brownstone in Williamsburg, and he also owns a commercial space on Fifth Avenue that’s currently being renovated. Office space, I believe the permit request said.”

  “Evan, you’re a genius,” Jared said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am. And remember, nothing says ‘thank you’ like a raise.”

  “Take the lioness,” Jared said. “You two seem to be getting on just fine.” To Ari, he said, “Okay, we’ve got the address. So how do we get the evidence?”

  “That’s the easy part.” Ari arched a brow, her smile turning mischievous. “We break in, and we steal it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Nyet.” The Russian with the tattooed knuckles set down his vodka glass and shook his head. “No good.”

  Charlie Davidson sniffed, sizing up the bastard across the table. Black, slicked-back hair, graying at the temples. Thousand-dollar suit. No fucking tie. The greasy thug kept the top three buttons on his shirt open, making sure everyone saw the snake tattoo wrapped around his neck, eating its own tail.

  Fuck you. Davidson didn’t like being intimidated. He was the guy who called the shots, the one who kept his people in line by any means necessary. But somewhere along the line, he’d taken a wrong fucking turn, and now he was in the hot seat in some sleek, overpriced midtown bar, racking up a tab on top-shelf vodka and sweating his ass off while the Russian shook him down.

  At least it was just the one motherfucker this time. One guy he could handle. When the five or six of them paid him a visit? That’s when Davidson really shit himself. It was too risky, too fucking obvious. Word got around fast in this city, especially among the Russians. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in the middle of their bullshit turf war.

  “I assure you, Mr. Shirokov,” Davidson said. “Nothing has been compromised. Our arrangement still stands. In nine days, you’ll have the package.”

  Shirokov wrapped a meaty fist around his glass, his knuckle tattoos forming a stack of sideways crosses and stars that made Davidson think of the goddamn Cold War.

  “You say five more days. One more week. Now it’s nine days.” He downed the drink, then poured himself another from the bottle he’d ordered. “How can I trust your word?”

  You can’t, and you shouldn’t, you dumb fuck.

  “Fair point.” Davidson put a leash on his anger and flashed a smile, hoping the guy didn’t notice the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Tell you what. Let’s knock off ten percent of the fee. Call it a discount for the inconvenience. Okay?”

  The Russian laughed. Davidson figured it was a done deal, but then the guy pounded his fist on the table between them.

  “Twenty percent,” he said.

  “No can do. My associates would never agree to—”

  “Twenty percent, and no one gets hurt. That is fair to me, comrade.” Shirokov drained his glass, then capped the bottle and wrapped his fist around the neck. Taking the bottle with him, he got up from the table, buttoned his suit coat, and smiled, leaning forward to slap Davidson on the face a few times. “Thank you for the drink.”

  Davidson nodded. What choice did he have? He needed to keep these guys happy, keep playing the game.

  Screw it. In nine days Davidson would be long gone, and Shirokov could stick that bottle of top-shelf vodka up his hairy Russian ass.

  Fucking Arianne.

  It was her fault that Davidson had gotten into this jam with Shirokov. He’d trusted her to come through on her end of the deal, getting Blackwell out of town for the weekend. She’d been sucking the man’s dick long enough, Davidson figured she’d have him by the balls, wiggling that tight little ass of hers and getting him to do whatever she pleased. But all that bitch had lately were excuses and tears.

  Now, Davidson’s balls were on the chopping block, and if he didn’t keep his cool, he’d end up in pieces under the goddamn Coney Island Boardwalk.

  Davidson shook his head. Arianne was a good thief. A pro at gathering intel and running interference on any potential distractions. He used to be able to count on her to follow through. He used to be able to count on all of them, but lately the crew had gotten slack. Keens wanted a retirement package. Trick was getting a little too comfortable with the needle. Lilah wanted to adopt her sister’s goddamn kid.

  No way. The only person Charlie fucking Davidson trusted anymore was Charlie fucking Davidson.

  The bar was filling in now, all the bridge-and-tunnel yuppies jerking each other off with talk of their bullshit promotions and stock portfolios, and Davidson felt like the walls were closing in. He wanted to blow the joint, go home and do a few lines, watch some porn, look over the Blackwell heist plans again, get this Russian piece of shit out of his system.

  But he signaled the waitress for another round anyway.

  He needed another fucking drink or two.

  And then, to ensure Arianne understood the gravity of the situation, he needed to pay a visit to Natasha.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I don’t know whether to be mortally afraid of you, or incredibly turned on.” Jared stood in the doorway of Kyle Errington’s Brooklyn brownstone, shielding Arianne from street view as she slid her bump key into the front lock.

  It had been four days since the Errington deal. Four days since he’d held Arianne in his arms, tasted her kiss, felt the smoothness of her skin. She’d continued to spend her nights with him, but they’d gone back to separate sleeping arrangements, neither of them daring to broach the subject of what Evan had revealed about Jared’s feelings in the park that night. Contrary to Evan’s suggestion that they go home and “have a good shag,” Jared and Arianne had returned to his penthouse that night and promptly avoided the matter, parting ways the moment the elevator had let them out.

  On the more pressing matter of Kyle Errington, Evan had secured another meeting with the man in Manhattan for tonight, dinner and drinks to discuss Evan’s possible interest in another Egyptian statue. Because Errington seemed to believe that Evan was a serious collector—and not altogether virtuous—he’d easily agreed to the meeting.

  Hopefully, it would be a long one, giving Jared and Arianne plenty of time to get the evidence they needed.

  Assuming it even existed.

  Assuming it was kept inside Errington’s home.

  Assuming they didn’t get caught.

  Assuming Davidson’s men hadn’t noticed Jared and Arianne leaving Manhattan in Evan’s Lexus, a precaution Jared felt was necessary, given the random, ongoing surveillance.

  There were a lot of assumptions, a lot of risks. The only sure thing in all of this was Arianne, poised and confident, completely unfazed as she worked her magic on the door. She was truly in her element.

  After a moment, Arianne glanced at him over her shoulder, flashing a devilish grin. “Well, which is it, J-Black? Afraid or turned on?”

  Jared focused on her, shaking off his nerves. “Frankly, both.”

  “Perhaps you’re in the wrong line of work, you corporate stiff.” She tapped the key with a small hammer, then turned it, easily unlocking the deadbolt. “We’re in. Follow me, and don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. And remember, gloves on at all times.”

  Jared nodded.

  She pushed open the door and stepped inside, Jared close behind. They entered into a small hallway with a door on each side, one that led into Errington’s two-story home, and one that led—according to the floor plan Evan had procured from the city’s Department of Buildings—to a basement apartment that Errington leased to an elderly tenant.

  Arianne was able to open Errington’s inner door the same way she’d gotten in the front, making Jared grateful he lived
on the top floor of a building loaded with security cameras and a doorman.

  Breaking and entering. He still couldn’t believe he’d signed up for this.

  More than that, he still couldn’t believe this had been Arianne’s entire life.

  “So far, so good,” Arianne whispered, stepping into the sitting room at the front of the brownstone. She’d brought a black backpack full of her gear, and now she slid off one of the shoulder straps and unzipped it, exchanging the hammer and bump key for a flashlight. For now, she kept it turned off.

  Just like they’d planned, they split up, quickly searching the first floor to confirm that the brownstone was unoccupied, then moving methodically to the second.

  Upstairs, Arianne clicked on her flashlight, keeping the beam away from the windows and any reflective surfaces.

  Jared followed her into a room on the second floor that was set up like a home office, but instead of desk, they’d found rows of boxes set up in the center of the room, a laptop and small lamp resting on top. There was a cheap folding chair behind it, an empty waste basket, and one piece of art on the wall. No curtains.

  “Relocating?” Jared asked.

  Arianne looked around the room. “He might be working out of the Fifth Avenue space Evan mentioned. Makes sense—there’s not much room here to store the artwork he fences.”

  “Smashing,” Jared said dryly. “Will we be breaking and entering there as well?”

  Arianne sighed. “You promised me, Jared. You promised you’d keep your shit together tonight.”

  Jared held up his hands in apology. “Forgive me. This is my first felony. I’m just a little on edge.”

  “Well get off edge. We’ve got work to do.”

  Arianne set her backpack on the chair, and arranged the flashlight so that it cast the room in a very faint glow, no brighter than a birthday candle.

  “How are you holding up, Blackwell?” Her voice was low and silky in the dark. The entire situation was so ridiculous, so impossible, Jared felt like he was on a reality television show, as if at any minute the house lights would come on, cameramen swooping in from all angles, an overly coiffed host finally letting him in on the big joke.