Page 18 of Heist in Paradise

My mouth went dry. It must’ve shown on my face because the kind guy with the sunflower bandana on his neck scooted over to the chair beside me. “You can call me Ry.”

“Like the bread?”

“Sure.” He grinned at me. He was like bottled sunshine, and I felt myself thawing on the inside. “And don’t worry. We’re not killers. Well, not…intentionally.”

“What does that mean?”

Fratty boy leaned forward and laughed. “It means if you trip and, say, fall down the stairs, it’s ruled as an accident.”

“Oh.” Funnily enough, that didn’t inspire much confidence. I dragged my eyes to the large window at the head of the room. The sun was high, the green alien world thrown into bright technicolor. I could see the ocean on the horizon, a dark blue lip that was both taunting and comforting. I was losing precious hours. There were still the lower floors to search, plus the creepy basement. I shot a discreet glance at the chocolate-thief—I wanted my knife back. I felt naked without it.

Not moving won me some brownie points because when the leader returned, I was gifted the smallest of smiles. Well, it was more a grimace than anything, but I would take it. My stomach flipped like it did every time I looked at him. He was attractive in a roguish way, with his hair falling into his eyes, his two-day stubble, and his sharp, angular bone structure that made him look effortlessly intense, almost feral. He was a guy who didn’t put people at ease, who probably had a foul temper and punched walls, and who never settled down. I imagined bringing someone like him home to my parents, just so they could combust in shame.

He didn’t sit down again. “We’re going to talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

His smile returned, a bitter imitation but still a vast improvement. “Alone,” he said. He patted his pocket. “Come on. I need some fresh air.”

Fresh air was apparently code for chain smoking. He led me to a nearby balcony just off one of the handful of sitting rooms and lit up a cigarette without saying a word. I wondered if it was some kind of obscure interrogation tactic—the longer he smoked, the more anxious I felt, the harder I stared at the purse of his lips as smoke curled between them.

Catching me in the act, he offered me one.

“Oh, no, thank you.”

He snorted. “She doesn’t smoke. Shocker.”

“Is it?”

He leaned forward, bracing one elbow on the railing, and turned toward me. “You’re clean,” he said. “Prissy.”

My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“Exactly.” His grin was cocky and savage. I wanted to punch it.

I crossed my arms, and his eyes dropped to my chest shamelessly. Prissy, he said, but it didn’t stop him checking out the goods. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I’m good at reading people.”

“Go on,” I said, goading him. I knew it was a bad idea, like inviting the stalker into the house for tea. My instincts told me to run. His arrogant grin made me stay. “Give it your best shot.”

He took the challenge, cerulean eyes raking over every inch of me. I didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe.

“Money,” he said. “Lots of it. Gated community. Trust fund, a big one.” His brow quirked up tauntingly. “Prom queen.”

My cheeks flushed. “Lucky guess.”

“Not a virgin,” he went on, blowing smoke in my face. “But not anything crazy in the sack. Probably fucked the same dude since high school. Jock type. Meathead.”

I scrambled. “That’s—”

“You want me.”

My jaw clicked shut. It took a full minute to pry it open. “I do not.”

“You do. You want me the same way a Stepford wife wants the barely legal pool boy. You want to earn the attention instead of it being handed to you.”

I swallowed my retort, refusing to rise to the bait. I wanted to. God, I wanted to hiss and snarl and tear him to shreds.