Page 13 of Heist in Paradise

That made the leader scoff. “He probably has pillows worth more than that.” His eyes found mine again, darkening. “I notice you’ve stopped crying.”

“He told me to get that,” I said defiantly, feeling caught. “It’s a gift.”

“You don’t lie as good as you cry.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m not lying.”

“Who’s the gift for? You?”

“Yes.”

“That’s generous.” Even though I couldn’t see his mouth, I felt his grin, the way it mocked me. “You fuck him first, or is it a down payment?”

Anger flashed hot through my veins. “Fuck you.”

That amused him. His eyes roamed over me from head to toe, calculating my scuffed sneakers and cut-off shorts, my salt-wrinkled linen shirt. His lack of comment said nothing and everything.

The violation continued. Next, he found my passport and travel documents. “Olivia Wood. Born June eleventh. Twenty years old.” His eyes crinkled slightly. “You’re far away from home.”

I clung to my story and said nothing. From the corner of my eye, I saw a gloved hand snake around me and snatch up a chocolate bar from the floor pile. Before I could splutter in disbelief, the leader reached in one last time and hit the motherload. He froze again, eyes narrowing as he felt the smooth plastic cover of my binder. A war drum pounded in my skull as he pulled it out. Shit, shit, shit.

“Stop,” I said, but he was already flipping open the cover, my backpack dropping empty and gutted at his boots. Emotion clogged up my windpipe as he dived into my obsession. The newspaper articles, Molly’s diary entries, coroner’s reports, police reports, and Salvadore’s business travels. I watched in real time as his shoulders tightened, tension bleeding into his frame.

Then he snapped it shut like he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. He hadn’t even made it halfway.

When his eyes met mine again, a new danger lurked there. I straightened like prey caught in a trap. My stomach gave a sickening lurch, a missed step.

“You better start talking.”

His words promised violence.

“Okay,” I said, holding out my hands placatingly. I wasn’t dealing with a potential burglar anymore—I was dealing with a killer. I could see it in the coiled tension of his body, the restless twitch of his fingers, the unwavering hardness in his eyes. I’d lost control of the situation and was spinning out, heading toward a fatal collision.

“I’ll tell you,” I said, swiping absently at my face to remove the last residue of tears. “Just—please. It’s not easy. You have to be patient with me.”

“Start. Talking.”

But I barely got a word out before he tensed up, and the two masked men behind him exchanged a quick look. He pressed a finger to his ear and barked: “Not now.”

Whatever reply came made him inhale sharply. A bated breath later, he exhaled and said, “War room.”

The meaning of that was lost on me, except that I was once again manhandled into the same hard chest from before. Without my backpack, his warmth bled through my shirt and into my skin. My already raw nerves zinged at the contact.

The faint scent of chocolate wafted over my face.

With a jolt, I glanced up and realized he’d removed his mask. The dark fabric was bunched under his jaw, and, god, what a jaw it was. So sharp it could cut ice. Green eyes watched me in amusement. The rest of his face was absurdly striking, the kind of face you wouldn’t easily forget.

I knew that was a bad sign.

JAX

“Found the painting.”

What should’ve been good news fell flat in the wake of our unwelcome discovery. It had taken Nate less than ten minutes to locate the painting. He was still nattering in our ears like the obnoxious prick he was, uncaring of our resounding silence.

Nate’s shocking lack of awareness lasted until we reached the dining room on the second floor. A long stone table beneath a deer antler chandelier seemed oddly fitting for the occasion.

“Is this thing on? Hello?” Nate’s voice pitched in annoyance. “Come on. This has to be some kind of record. I bet Big Foot is seething right now—”