“Better make mine a double.”
Chapter Twelve
Charley scooted her chair closer to the fireplace in Dorian’s study, pulling the blanket tight across her shoulders as he bent down to light the fire.
After cleaning up in the bathroom and taking a brief detour to check on Sasha—who was presently having the time of her life in the pool with Aiden—Charley had followed Dorian into the study, preparing to bare her soul. Not just about the planned robbery, but about her entire life—the heists, the high-end auctions, the hundreds of little mistakes that had led her to this moment, sitting in the manor of the vampire she loved, a million miles between them she might never be allowed to cross.
“I’ll go fix the drinks,” Dorian said, the fire roaring comfortably. “Try not to steal anything while I’m gone.”
She took the hit, sucking it up without a response as he headed for the kitchen. He’d certainly earned the right to a few below-the-belt comments, but she hoped it wouldn’t continue all day. She’d already hit pretty close to rock-bottom on her own; she didn’t need the extra help.
Charley closed her eyes and let the fire warm her skin, the crisp, outdoorsy scent reminding her of the first time she’d been here, the night she’d discovered the Redthornes were vampires. That vampires existed at all.
It hadn’t even been that long ago, yet so much had already changed. Wasstillchanging, moment by agonizing moment.
Despite the insane passion that had overtaken them in the dining room, she knew it was over between them. It had to be. And she already missed him—his exquisite touch, his kiss, his smile, all of it.
What have I done?
Charley ached with regret, her heart mourning for all the things she’d destroyed. Things she’d never deserved in the first place.
“So you’re a professional art thief. Cheers, then.” Dorian was back, his voice startling her.
She opened her eyes, and he handed her a Sapphire and tonic, clinking their glasses. Icy liquid splashed onto Charley’s hand. Absently, she wiped it on her jeans and took a deep drink. The alcohol was cold and strong—exactly what she needed.
Dorian settled into the chair across from her, not meeting her eyes. Everything in her ached to be close to him. She wanted to set down her glass and climb into his lap, to slide her fingers into his thick, silky hair. She wanted to whisper every reassurance, to kiss away the lines of doubt and worry she’d put on his face, to wrap her legs around his hips and show him how sorry she really was.
To pick up where they’d left off in the dining room.
But whatever tenderness and heat had filled his eyes then, now there was only ice.
She took another sip.
So did Dorian.
Both of them sighed.
Neither spoke.
The fire crackled.
And Charley was about to explode.
“So,” she finally blurted out, “it’s not like you wake up one day going, ‘I think I’d like to steal priceless works of art for a living. Let’s get to it!’ I didn’t choose this path, Dorian. It was chosen for me.”
She took a deep breath and started talking. Slow at first, then all at once, the words rushing out from a deep, dark place inside she’d never before opened. The longer she spoke, the more secrets she revealed, each one more painful than the last.
She told him about her childhood, growing up with her father and the crew after her mother split. How they’d taught her the con game, and how her first big score as a teenager had made everyone proud—had made her a bona fide member of the crew.
A phantom.
Ever since that moment, Charley’s “career” had been a series of cons and heists, lies and manipulations, all of them virtually interchangeable. The only thing that had made it bearable was her passion for the art itself, the bright and colorful place she traveled to in her mind when all of life’s other doorways had been shut.
“Everything I’ve told you about my love of art is true,” Charley said now. “It’s the one thing about my work I don’t regret.”
Dorian grunted into his glass. “Is that supposed to justify it, then?”
“Of course not. I just meant—”
