Page 23 of Stealing Blinds

A waiter delivers a drink to our host, briefly interrupting us before he scurries on his way.

Peter sips his cocktail and scrutinizes me over the rim. “I’ve invited Axel out here countless times. I was told Noires hold parties, but rarely attend ones that aren’t theirs.”

Tugging Sylvie closer, I shove my other hand in my pocket and hitch a shoulder. “There is plenty of truth in that statement, especially for Axe. You were inviting the wrong Noire.”

That’s partly bullshit. Axel would be the last to attend, but the rest of us generally don’t frequent parties on a member’s turf either. There is an inherent risk in not having the home-base advantage. Our whole business model thrives on making people come to us, not the other way around.

His forehead crinkles, announcing his intent to probe seconds before his words confirm it. “Heard he got married recently.”

“He did.” I boast a genuine smile because I suspect where he’s headed and the thought of Axel finally happy with Zara does bring me immense joy. “About six months ago.”

He lifts his drink in acknowledgment to a couple passing by, scans the room, and returns to me. “You planning to be next?”

Whether I saw that coming or not, I applaud the tactic. He knows my reputation and that Sylvie was engaged before, meaning she’s likely the type to only attach herself to someone who promises a future. That translates to no great way for me to answer this.

My eyes never break from his so he reads my dominance, even if my reply expresses a lack of firm commitment. “Jax and I are the last Noires unattached, so you never know.”

Deciding not to venture further into that, he says, “Well, enjoy the party.”

As he starts to walk away, Sylvie’s shoulders tense, so I squeeze her hip, and after a second of my fingers branding her through her dress, he turns back toward us.

“I’ll be having drinks with a small group in about a half hour. Join us.”

I dip my chin. “We’d be honored.”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Peter,” Sylvie sings.

He holds her gaze for a beat longer than he should, but I choose not to lay him out for it in the middle of his party. Only because Sylvie has something riding on this and he knows she’s off-limits tonight.

Once he swaggers away to mingle with his other guests, I usher Sylvie toward the French doors we were standing at before, snatching us each a glass of champagne on the way to keep up appearances.

When I lead her outside, she doesn’t protest. This will be the best place for us to speak freely. There aren’t many other people out here, only about a half-dozen couples scattered throughout the gardens. The fragrance of chlorine and fresh-cut grass blends with the floral aroma of night-blooming jasmine and eucalyptus, which is likely from a scent machine. And the blanket of stars instantly renders the space more private.

We stroll around the lavish grounds, the grotto providing enough white noise that our low voices should be indiscernible to anyone else.

She sips her drink, admiring the landscaping while I admire her. “That was lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it. He wouldn’t dare have me here and not invite me to a private gathering. It would tarnish his reputation with us, and no one wants that.” I wish that were the only reason for the invite, but I reluctantly add the rest. “He also wasn’t going to pass up a chance to get more time with you. But it had to be issued as an afterthought.”

She peers up at me, her lips scrunched with genuine curiosity. “Why?”

Guiding us to the lit pathway that follows the curved outline of one of the pools, I glide my hand over her lower back to be sure she watches the slight change in elevation as I explain, “Because he’s letting me know he’ll respect that you’re my date. Tonight. He isn’t happy about it.”

“Testosterone.” Her chest rises with a deep breath, enhancing the swell of her perky breasts above the corset bodice of her dress, but she doesn’t expand on her barb, not until we turn to take in an isolated area of the meticulous estate. “I’m not going to dwell on how much more complicated everything feels. At least we got the invite.”

“Tell me your plan.”

“No,” she asserts, evidently dwelling on my meddling more than she claimed she would. “I’m a solo artist.”

“Not tonight you aren’t.” I stop, so she halts her steps and grants me her full attention. “We’re in this together now. And I can’t cover appropriately if I don’t know what you’re engaged in. You said you needed to get into his office. What about security cameras?”

She hesitates, but she eventually relents. “I’m already in his security system. I got in this morning. When I’m ready, I’ll start a loop. His guards will see me go into the hallway bathroom and come out of it when I’m finished with the job. The hall will appear empty in between, but that makes sense since everyone will be in his lounge and that area is otherwise off-limits.”

That’s thorough. Home jobs are often simple because owners generally rely on their security system without considering all the ways it could be tampered with.

“How long do you expect to be?”

A sigh falls from her plump red lips. “Less than ten minutes, but hopefully closer to five.”