Page 41 of Heist in Paradise

Terror bolted through me. I stiffened, a scream budding in my chest before a firm leather hand clamped over my mouth from behind. Solid warmth pressed to my back, a terribly familiar voice in my ear: “Don’t fucking scream.”

Madoc.

The overwhelming relief was short-lived. His other hand latched onto my throat, cutting off my air supply. I realized I was making noises, small gasping whimpers against his palm. The squeeze of his hand stopped all sound from escaping. It also sent sparks shooting behind my eyes.

Would he kill me to maintain his cover?

Probably. Out of all of them, I suspected Madoc was the most ruthless. Jax was the only one who didn’t fear him. Plus, he clearly hated me, and the fact that I kept finding myself under his hand was like tempting fate.

“Stop moving.”

Hard to do when my muscles were spasming with oxygen deprivation. His hand on my throat loosened, enough that I took in a long, silent breath.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear. “Move one step to the left. Make a sound, and I’ll slit your throat.”

Jesus.

Madoc wasn’t playing around. His voice was terse, clipped. I could smell his sweat, woodsy and masculine, tinged with the sweet notes of stolen chocolate. The space was extremely limited, so I felt all of him—the press of his thighs on the back of mine, the clip of his belt in my lower back, the hardness of his abs, the sharp butt of his gun. His leather glove was clammy on my mouth from my desperate gasping.

On his command, a hard nudge to my ribs, I moved one careful step to the left. The hangers didn’t clink, the fur coat slipped slowly off my shoulder. Madoc slithered around my body, his chest dragging against my shoulder, before he took up position in front of the crack and peered into the office.

He had to have put the painting back as soon as he heard the chopper. It didn’t lessen my vehement dislike of him, but I admired his quick thinking. I stared at his profile, the sliver of light slicing across his left cheek and turning his eye emerald. His jaw was tense.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, man. I’m not on the clock, you know. I might just stick around for a while, take advantage of those double showerheads.” The stranger barked another laugh, then said: “Man, this painting sucks ass.”

The sound of the safe clicking made my pulse kick. I stared at Madoc with wide eyes, hoping he had super vision that could see the combination. Madoc was so still, I was pretty sure he wasn’t breathing.

“Alright, it’s in. Tell the boss man he can relax.”

Footsteps approached, and my hand snapped out to tangle in Madoc’s shirt on instinct. I held on to him, taking comfort in his solidness. His stillness. When the footsteps receded, the annoying voice with it, Madoc reached down his side and gripped my wrist. It took a herculean effort to unpeel my fingers from the material. Madoc didn’t rush me, perhaps suspecting I was right on the edge. Once he was free, he slipped out. I made to follow, but he shot me a dark warning look. Somewhat sheepishly, I stepped back into the wardrobe and watched him scope out the corridor. He disappeared for a few minutes, but I knew he didn’t go far. His return was as silent as the grave, his face just as cold.

“He’s in the shower.”

I burst out of the wardrobe, nearly tangling myself up in the coats. “What—did you get it?” I pointed frantically to the safe.

Madoc’s face didn’t change. “What do you want?”

Was he for real? I flailed in exasperation. “What do you think? I want you to open it. This is our chance.”

“Ask nicely.”

My teeth ground together. “Please,” I managed.

His mouth quirked up in a smirk. “Please, what? Be specific.”

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

“Please open the safe. Quickly, before he comes back.”

Madoc watched me for another long, frustrating moment before he shrugged and went to the safe. I sagged in relief. I knew I couldn’t make him do anything, but god, I was glad I didn’t have to try.

He lifted the painting and placed it carefully against the wall at his feet, ready for transport. Then he started on the dial of the safe, turning it with such confidence that it was like he’d done it a thousand times. I was begrudgingly impressed.

“How do you—”

“Eidetic memory,” he said shortly.

I stopped asking questions.