Page 58 of The One-Night Heist

I threw my one pair of dress shoes into my ratty old suitcase with way more force than was necessary.

Actually, it is necessary.

I wished my target was Giano’s head, because not only had fancy new luggage been magically delivered to my goddamn apartment this morning, but he had his hooks so far into Lowry, she was going along with his schemes.

“I’m confused by your request to be taken off the case, Rowen,” she’d sighed over the phone an hour ago, already sounding like she’d reached her limit for the day. “Mr. Luxford said he called you immediately after yesterday’s press conference and it was your suggestion to fly to Italy together.”

That. Fucking. Asshole.

I’d responded with some bullshit about second thoughts and not wanting to leave the Manhattan field office without my specialized services while I was away, but Lowry had shut that down with a quickness.

“You would be foolish to turn down this opportunity, Rowen,” she’d firmly stated, in no mood to humor me, per usual. “Not to mention, I feel private consulting may be a better fit for you in the long run.”

The subtext being, I’m not a team player.

I bet that’s in my HR file.

Clearly, Lowry had no plans to change her mind, so I’d let it go, forced to acknowledge Giano was craftier than I’d originally given him credit for. He’d managed to not only cover his tracks with the call log from yesterday, but had anticipated that I’d attempt to step down from the case, and contacted my boss before I could.

I wonder if that all happened before or after he removed the butt plug…

At this point, I couldn’t even find joy in the knowledge he’d still been wearing it when he called me—when he’d discovered his precious little flower painting had gone missing and growled so deliciously in my ear.

What a disappointingly short-lived victory…

I’d been so sure taking the painting would be my “get out of jail free” card—a surefire escape from any corner I was backed into, either by Giano or the FBI.

Unfortunately, Giano hadn’t cared about his painting as much as I’d thought he did. Instead of begging for it back, or agreeing to make the trade for my freedom from whatever the hell we had going on between us, my polite little billionaire had grown a pair before mentally spanking me into submission.

That was hot.

Shocking and irritating, but… hot.

I glanced at the offending item—Poppy #5, according to the label on the back—which I’d defiantly hung over my bed instead of stashing somewhere safe. There was no point in hiding my prize. It wasn’t officially stolen and I couldn’t see Giano suddenly deciding to turn me in to the authorities.

Not when I’ve got dirt on him as well.

The reminder of our mutual destruction perked me up some, but then my gaze fell on the stack of freshly-delivered T. Anthony bags I was waffling on using at all, on account of being forced to go on this trip against my will.

At least he still doesn’t know where I live.

That was honestly the only silver lining to this entire trainwreck of a situation—aside from the free trip to Italy. Before letting me go, Lowry had assured me she hadn’t disclosed my personal information to Giano for the luggage delivery, although she had agreed to call the store to provide my address for the unnecessary purchase.

So, thanks to everyone taking it upon themselves to entrap me with generosity and character development, here I fucking was, in my claptrap shithole apartment, with a luxury suitcase, weekender duffel, and garment bag, all monogrammed with “RQ” embossed on the front.

I hate it.

I hate it because I love it.

Sighing heavily, I eyed the stack of bags that probably cost more than my yearly rent, debating what to do. The main issue was that I would need to use the garment bag for my one nice suit, and the idea of traveling with mismatched luggage made my eye twitch.

This really feels personal.

It felt like my defeat outside the aquarium all over again, only in this bizarro alternate universe scenario, the hot—rich—man in a nice suit was insisting on giving me my prize.

So why not just take it, Rowen.

Take. Everything.