Page 12 of Stealing Blinds

“Ahh.” He smiles with don’t-even-try-to-keep-your-panties-on arrogance. “Someone’s been pining for me, I see.”

I scoff and sip my coffee, staring him down. “In what delusional universe did my inquiry lead you to believe that?”

He steps to the side and leans over the back of the booth, facing the city with me, his cheek inches from mine and his citrus-and-sin fragrance enveloping me. “You recognized me without a second glance, after only seeing me once. In the dark, with a mask on. You do the math.”

Mentioning that I saw his license won’t help my case. Nor will pointing out that he’s a quasi-celebrity. I stay composed and fight the dueling compulsions to either breathe him in or slide away. Both will reveal weakness.

“The math says you showed up here on purpose, finagling a false serendipity. Your ego is too large for this state, so you should probably go home.”

“Can’t.” That single word fans my neck, sadly evoking goose bumps on my skin, before he kicks his chin to the far side of the lounge. “I’m having dinner with my family, which means I’m not the one with the ego problem.”

His family? I bend forward to verify his story, and sure enough, there are the Noires, covertly watching Cash, like parents might beam at a child who is playing piano. What the hell is that about?

Maybe this is a simple run-in, which would be bizarre. But what are the chances that he’d recognize me across the restaurant? He really did only see me once, in the dark, with a mask on.

Not giving in that quickly, I scrunch my forehead in doubt. “In San Francisco?”

“Clearly.” He straightens, comes around the booth, plops down beside me, and snatches my coffee. “But”—he takes a swig with a hefty dose of nonchalance—“I’m guessing you’re suspicious because you’re here with an ulterior motive. Who are we conning tonight?”

“We aren’t doing anything.” I take my coffee back, wipe the rim with a napkin, but refuse to drink it. When I swing my gaze to find the waiter, I land on Rod, still immersed in a discussion, but it helps anyway. “I’m on a date.”

Cash chuckles. “Not a real one.”

“Is that what you need to tell yourself to ease the rejection?”

“Rejected is the last thing I feel right now, Sly.” His eyes rake over me, like he’s mentally incinerating my clothing. “There is enough electricity in this booth to light up the city. You and your date couldn’t power a headlamp.”

All of that is infuriating. And true. It’s his use of Sly that stills me though. That’s a nickname for Sylvie, not one that anyone else uses for me, but it’s strange. I suppose he could be calling me that because he knows what I do. Or he found out my name and tracked me down here? With his family?

That’s either brilliant or insane. It definitely pollutes the scent of whatever this is.

I glance their way again, and I have to admit I’m intrigued by whatever wholesome deception the duplicitous Noires are gathered here for. The men are dashing and formidable, with various shades of corruption dressing their billionaire threads, but that’s unsurprising. I’ve seen them before, and everyone in my line of work knows who the Noires are. But the women are another story. One is a girl-next-door type with a blonde bob and a too-pure disposition—she gave a hilarious toast at a banquet I attended once. Another is striking with silver hair and piercings. And the last is elegant with thick mahogany waves and a baleful warning scrawled across her gorgeous features.

An odd mix of eloquent power and unruffled buoyancy blankets their table. I can’t make sense of it.

Cash rests his arm behind my head, eating up more space between us. “If you were interested in that guy, then before I stole you away, I’d be compelled to inform him that only a moron takes his eyes off a treasure as stunning as you for even a second, let alone for this long. But you don’t want him, so I’m inclined to believe he’s a means to an end that I shouldn’t interfere with directly. Of course, since he’s preoccupied, you and I should have …” He trails off, gaping at my lips—which are parted in indignation—and shaking his head. “Look at your mind going to filthy places, just like last time. It’s kind of desperate.”

Much to my chagrin, a laugh puffs out of me, which only emboldens him.

His haughty smirk bleeds into a dimple that should be a crime. “I was going to say crème brûlée. I hear it’s orgasmic, but I gotta warn you: no matter how good it is, if that’s what you consider foreplay, I don’t think you can handle me.”

Pinpricks of fire skitter from my neck to my cheeks and chest and arms. Turned on? Perhaps. But outraged that he peeked at my texts is more likely. All that does is reopen scars and shed light on the type of guy he is.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“So you’ve heard,” he quips, hubris escorting his flirtation.

“That’s my cue.” I grab my purse and shimmy to the other side to stand up, waving my hand in front of his smug face. “Does your family know about this?”

That sends him into near hysterics as he rises to meet me. “They know far too much.” He spins his finger in a circle around the table. “Does yours know about this?”

I’m sure he’s fishing, but I probe to be certain. “Know about what?”

He doesn’t answer. He gestures for the waiter to bring coffee in another cup, tips him when he does, grabs two creamers and a sugar from the set that the waiter delivered earlier, stirs it in, and hands it to me—made the way I drink it.

Flurries detonate in my stomach. In another life, I would’ve thought he was sweet. He paid attention to something small about me. Very few people do that. But cons do. Stalkers do. And men who want a quick fuck can manage it briefly. The verdict is still out on which applies to him.

He gestures for me to sit back down, but I prop my hip against the outside of the booth and relish my coffee. Once I have a mouthful, he picks up where we left off.