Page 13 of The One-Night Heist

“Of course,” I purred, downing one champagne flute and setting it on a passing tray before raising the other at Mrs. Winchester in salute. “Stealing is my favorite thing.”

Giancarlo had already turned his broad back to me as he led the way through the crowd, but I could have sworn I heard him snort over the chatter.

Along the way, we were stopped several times by guests praising the art, thanking him for the exclusive invitation, and offering condolences for his mother’s passing. He patiently spoke to everyone—and introduced me when appropriate—effortlessly playing the part of the gracious host even though I sensed he’d rather be doing anything else.

Odd child indeed…

Once we finally made it past the throng of bodies, we stopped in front of a Jackson Pollock hanging next to a metal staircase leading up to a second floor mezzanine.

After a few moments of silence, he blew out a breath. “Thank you for coming.”

“You said that already,” I teased, hoping he’d blush again. Then I decided—uncharacteristically—to give him a break. “But you wanted to ask me about the art?”

Or was that just pillow talk?

He swallowed thickly, his gaze darting around before meeting mine again. “Yes. Let’s head upstairs so we can speak… in private.”

Unlike my moment of panic earlier, the idea of being alone—in private—with this walking dollar sign didn’t bother me one bit. This I could handle.

“Lead the way, Moneybags.” I grinned, setting my second empty glass on what might have been a priceless antique. “Whatever you want to ‘talk’ about is fine by me.”

Five

Giancarlo

Being in close proximity once again—feeling that undeniable electricity dance between us—only proved what I’d already determined.

Rowen was destined to be mine.

He already is.

The challenge was to not appear overeager. I was well aware I could be intense, for lack of a better word, and incredibly fixated when it came to acquiring something I wanted.

And I wanted Rowen Quincy.

It wasn’t difficult to pinpoint what I was drawn to, aside from his appearance. For my entire life, I’d been trained to be courteous, to obey, to not rock the boat carrying my family name.

But I’m the only Luxford left.

Rowen Quincy was everything I’d been denied up until now, and I was craving a taste—of him and what he represented. He was unrestricted by the expectations I still couldn’t seem to shake and the furthest thing from the heirs and socialites currently gawking at my deceased mother’s art collection.

The perfect little rebellion.

“Look at all these rich assholes,” he muttered as we reached the mezzanine before glancing at me with a mild grimace. “Whoops. Sorry.”

I didn’t believe he was sorry in the least, but I managed to bury my amusement and instead, calmly turned to gaze out over the crowd.

“It’s quite all right,” I replied, because it was. “Most everyone here was invited because of how rich they are.”

“Not me, though.” Rowen leaned his elbows on the mezzanine railing and peered at me over his shoulder. “We both know I’d burst into flames if I set foot in the auction house… so why did you invite me?”

I stepped forward and placed my hands on the railing, keeping my gaze fixed on my guests to not give too much away just yet. “I told you. I needed someone with your background⁠—”

“As an art thief?” he interrupted, simultaneously unnerving and delighting me with his bluntness. “I’m gonna be honest, Giancarlo. It seems a little irresponsible of you to invite someone like me into your home⁠—”

“Call me Giano,” I blurted out, surprising myself. “And I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” he fired back, straightening and turning to stare at me from inches away, jaw clenched. “You really shouldn’t, because I grabbed this… I don’t even know what it is… when we were on our way up here…”