Page 44 of The One-Night Heist

Gianechka?!

“Who are you?” I shot back before I could stop myself, and the entire room record-scratched into silence.

“Jesus, Quincy…” Markel muttered as Giano’s perfect mask fell to reveal blatant shock.

Good.

To my shock, my new nemesis threw back her head and loudly cackled like a peasant before wiping a tear from her eye and holding out her hand.

“I’m Ana, and thank you for the laugh. I needed it after what happened…”

I shook her hand only because I had no known reason not to, and when she gave me a firm handshake while smiling in a truly genuine way, I realized I needed to grow up and stand down.

She seems cool.

I still hate her.

“I’m Rowen Quincy,” I grudgingly replied after she released me. “Ex-convict and current FBI show pony skilled in the retrieval of stolen art, cultural property, and wayward billionaires.”

“Quincy!” Markel shouted, but I ignored him.

Giano’s eyes—and Anastasia’s smile—widened the more I talked, but I was saved from being dragged away by the scruff of my neck by the arrival of the forensics team.

Go pretend to manage someone else, Markel.

“All right.” I turned to my wayward billionaire. “Can you tell me the order of events that led to the discovery of the theft?”

Starting with why the fuck this woman spent the night?

Even though I wasn’t talking to her at all, Anastasia answered. “As we told the other officers, when we came home after the gala, we got off on the 31st floor… so we could go straight to bed.”

Refusing to acknowledge how she’d called this apartment “home,” I focused on the facts. “The bedrooms are on the 31st floor?”

“Giancarlo’s bedroom is, yes,” she replied, her brow furrowing.

“No guest rooms, though?” I continued, embarrassingly unable to just drop it.

“Rowen…” Giano warned under his breath, but I gave him a look before he could join me in giving away just how close we actually were.

How close I’d thought we were…

Unfortunately, women were observant creatures, and Anastasia looked noticeably more interested in the conversation than she had a moment ago.

“Oh, I see,” she softly chuckled, blessedly not calling us out. “I think I’ll go make myself an espresso. Would either of you gentlemen like one?”

Giano nodded distractedly as I immediately replied with a curt, “Nope.” When he gave me a look, I remembered my “manners” and turned to give her my full attention. “Sweetheart, if I drink any more caffeine today, I may actually murder someone, sooo… no thanks.”

To my continued annoyance—and respect—she grinned, muttering, “Well done, Gianechka,” before padding away.

Shoo, hottie.

Pointedly ignoring how Giano was staring at me expectantly, I tucked away the notebook I hadn’t written anything in anyway and dramatically snapped on some rubber gloves.

“Looks like we have a pro on our hands here,” I observed—loud enough for Markel to hear, wherever he might lurk—running a gloved finger along the neat cut in the canvas I’d created last night. “I bet they were in and out too. One and done.”

“Rowen,” Giano repeated, stepping closer, enveloping me in that addictive scent of his. “Is there something specific you’d like to talk about?”

“That’s Mr. Quincy to you,” I sassed, carelessly flicking paint specks off my fingertips to give forensics something to do. “And you still haven’t answered my question about the number of bedrooms on the top floor.”