Page 75 of The One-Night Heist

“Giancarlo! What a lovely surprise…”

Hardly.

Stanley Monmouth, possibly the most loathsome of Luxford Holdings shareholders—especially now that Ana had shared what happened—strode toward me from one of the consultation areas, his smile blindingly white against his overly tanned skin.

“Indeed,” I lied, unable to think of almost anything else aside from how his hands had been up my lavender wife’s skirt. “I’m surprised to find you inland when your infamous yacht awaits.”

Infamous for all the wrong reasons.

His expression turned sour even as his smile never wavered. “Yes, well, business first! The young ladies of the Riviera will simply have to wait until after the ink has dried for my triumphant return.”

Asshole.

Rowen snorted beside me, drawing Monmouth’s attention his way.

“Stanley,” I nodded at the man I hated more than anything before gesturing at the one I was most certainly falling in love with. “This is⁠—”

“Rowen Quincy.” The object of my obsession held out his hand, grinning in a way I now recognized as disingenuous. “FBI Art Crime Team.”

“Ah yes…” Monmouth put on an air of sympathy that was equally false as they shook hands. “I heard about your mother’s collection being stolen from right under your nose, Giancarlo. How terrible! Between that, Angelica’s tragic passing, and the Luxford Holdings condo deal we out-voted you on… Well, you just can’t seem to win lately, hmm, son?”

Deeeeep breaths, Giano.

“I have no doubt my art will be recovered quickly,” I icily replied, channeling my tragically dead mother once again. “And last I heard, the condo deal has yet to be approved by the city. Bureaucratic red tape can be so… aggravating, hmm, Stanley?”

Too bad the Luxford name holds a lot of sway down at City Hall.

Rowen was watching our volley like a front-row spectator at the French Open, and while I knew Monmouth was trying to humiliate me in front of an audience, I wanted my partner in crime to know exactly who we were dealing with.

This is the face of our enemy, Ro.

“If I discover you had anything to do with the surveyors being delayed…” my opponent seethed. “I will consider you in contempt of the company your father created, and unworthy of running it moving forward.”

“Well, aren’t you a fucking delight,” Rowen interjected, and it was all I could do to hold in my laughter. “This is the only son of your late boss—a man who’s currently grieving—and you’re having a full-on temper tantrum in front of him over… what? Some shitty, luxury condo deal being delayed? How very uncouth of you.”

I am going to marry this man.

The entire store became deathly quiet as Monmouth’s jaw dropped to the marble floor. I knew I should attempt to step in and smooth over the situation—that my rigid upbringing required I do exactly that—but I couldn’t find it in me to care.

Tiny rebellions everywhere.

“Excuse me, but who did you say you were you again?” a red-faced Monmouth sneered in Rowen’s direction. “You’re with the police?”

Rowen barked a laugh. “Oh, nonono. You must have misheard. I’m the guy who’s about to buy a fifty-thousand-dollar watch. So if you’ll excuse me, son…”

With that, my perfect companion sashayed away. Monmouth muttered something about discussing his concerns about the delay at the next shareholders meeting, along with an unenthused apology for his rudeness, but I barely acknowledged him. I was too engrossed in watching Rowen buy the Piguet I’d picked out for him with my forbidden funds, while exuding enough confidence to outshine anyone in the store.

In all of Rome.

I take it back.

Mother would have loved him.

Twenty-Five

Rowen

I’d only been half-joking when I said we shouldn’t arrive at Mick’s after dark, but I hadn’t expected my foster brother to be cheerfully waiting for us on the sidewalk when we pulled up at his Florence studio.