Page 7 of The One-Night Heist

Giancarlo Luxford will remember me if it’s the last thing I do.

“Good luck with your auction, Giano!” I called out in the direction of his—deliciously broad—retreating back. “It’s a shame none of your collection has been stolen. It sure would increase the value in the marketplace.”

Since the rich love to slum it with a good scandal that otherwise doesn’t touch them.

Giancarlo glanced at me over his shoulder, but instead of the glare I deserved, I saw confusion and…

Longing?

That was not what I’d been expecting, and it left me so off-balance, I downed my mixed drink like a shot and trotted straight to the bar for another. The rabble inside were beyond plastered at this point, with some even singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” to the agent breaking free of his federal chains.

I wish.

This feels like a life sentence for me…

As I finished my drink, I snapped a few photos of a disheveled Markel—for blackmail purposes, of course—before heading for the exit, and so what if I unnecessarily squeezed past Giancarlo on my way out? The man smelled expensive, and it gave me the opportunity to slip my business card into his suit jacket pocket—the same pocket where he’d stashed his cash.

And so what if I snagged a few crisp fifties for myself as I did so?

I deserve a little treat.

Three

Giancarlo

I’d been haunted by the business card since returning home from The Skyline and discovering it tucked into my money clip.

In lieu of the money I’d arrived with.

I couldn’t bring myself to care about the petty theft. Rowen Quincy had been the most interesting part of my evening—the only part I was still thinking about days later. Obsessing over would be a more accurate assessment. Lusting for even more so. All I could see when I stared at the card was the gap in his devilish smile. When I closed my eyes at night, I imagined his lean body beside me on the bed—that delightful defiance submitting to me in the dark.

Or perhaps I don’t want him to submit to me at all.

Regardless of the direction of my fantasies, Rowen had implanted himself in my brain. All-consuming—like a memory I couldn’t quite place. It felt like there had never been a time when I’d wanted something so badly.

As if to remind me of the blasphemy of my thoughts, my attention was pulled toward Poppy #5 but, for the first time, my gaze didn’t linger. Instead, I returned my focus to the business card. It was bone-white with a serifed font that appeared plain until you noticed the ornamental swashes on select letters of his name. Printed beneath was a vague title—Consultant—with a phone number in the bottom left and instructions to “leave a message” on the right.

Voicemail or text?

The choice was obvious to me. I didn’t particularly enjoy texting, and calling would allow me the possibility of hearing his sinful voice again, even if just on an outgoing message.

Knowing him, he’s kept the generic recording.

The issue was, I didn’t know him, but I wanted to. I wanted to know, memorize, and possess every inch of Rowen Quincy, inside and out, with an irrational craving that was steadily driving me mad.

I need to call him.

Hire him as a “consultant” for… something…

Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached for my phone, then nearly dropped it when it rang upon contact. For one delusional moment, I thought it might be Rowen calling me—despite him not having my number—but then saw Franz’s name on the caller ID.

My actual consultant.

“Yes?” I answered in a more apprehensive tone than I would normally convey—even to him—but Franz cleared his throat, seemingly anxious himself.

“Hey, Giano. I sent you those estimates I’d promised.” He paused, then added, “They’re a bit lower than I anticipated.”

That got my attention. I sat up, gripping the phone so tightly, I was surprised it didn’t crack. “What do you mean?”