Page 25 of Stealing Blinds

She sighs, the slightest shred of apprehension glazing the sweet noise. “That’s not an option. He has to be clueless because what I’m taking won’t be used for over a month.”

“You’re counting on him not checking for all that time?”

Her chest deflates with what is likely a reservation about how much she should share. “He won’t need it until I’m done with it, and I’ll be leaving a dummy in its place.”

Before we make it to the French doors, I grab her elbow. “Anything else I should know?”

“No. This is a simple job.”

I kick my chin to her purse. “Give me your phone.”

“This isn’t the time.” She’s aghast, but there’s a morsel of amusement mixed in there.

She thinks I’m hitting on her again, and I don’t think she hates it. Noted.

“We’re friends now, remember?” I arch my brows to call her on her hypocrisy. “And if you run into a problem, you can text me so I know to cover.”

She huffs, glancing around, as if there’s another solution out here, until she finally concedes, plucking her burner from her purse and handing it over. “Here.”

I take it, logging my number and texting my phone so I have hers too. “This will do for tonight, but I expect your primary number when this is over, Sly.”

She hitches her bare shoulder with coy flirtation. “We’ll see. It depends on how well you do, Noire.”

Peter led a group of twelve to his lounge. The room is impressive and yet nothing special—leather, mahogany, amber lighting, ancient books, art, and humidors. I own several similar parlors.

I’m familiar with all the guests as well. Four of the men are my members, so we’ve had a few conversations over the years. The fifth man and his wife are real estate gurus, who have their own reality show.

None of that holds my attention. No, that would be the fact that Peter Fairfax brought six couples to his private gathering, but didn’t invite a date. I’ve never wanted to murder someone for their internal thoughts, but here we are. Because I know he’s envisioning Sylvie in positions he has no right to imagine.

I sip my whiskey on the rocks, tuning out the droning conversation in favor of eating up every speck of space between me and the beauty I get to flaunt as mine tonight. Pecking her neck, I cruise to her earlobe and keep my voice low. “When is it go time, Sly?”

She shifts our positions, her hand sailing up the lapel of my tux, her lips brushing my ear. “Never, if you don’t stop making a possessive spectacle.”

“You are my date,” I counter, but whether the facade fits or not, I understand where she’s coming from because he won’t take his eyes off her.

Finishing my drink, I set the glass on a coaster on the coffee table, weave our fingers together, and pull her up. “C’mon.”

Peter clocks our every move, but a few of the couples are in a deep and heated discussion about climate change and the environmental impact of burning fossil fuels, so now is not the time for him to interrupt. He has to at least feign a vested interest since it’s his business being debated.

Using the opening to our advantage, I tow Sylvie to the other side of the room, not quite to the thermostat control panel, but closer. There are a few paintings we can pretend to analyze, so while she’s lost in the brushstrokes, I bury my face in her hair, soak in her sexy scent of spiked vanilla, and whisper an idea to move things along. “Let me use the iris contact. You can go to the bathroom. I’ll wait one minute and text you when it’s unlocked.”

She stiffens, her breaths growing shallow at the mere thought of putting her faith—or his eye—in my hands.

“I promise I’ve got this, Palmer,” I assure her with a kiss on her jaw that has her breath catching. “Sylvie and Cash, remember?”

“Okay,” she exhales, reaching into her purse and passing me the lens before she sets sixty seconds on her phone. Her movements are so fast and fluid that anyone else would assume she’s engrossed in a text thread. When her ambers rise to mine, they’re fucking terrifying. “One minute. Don’t fuck this up.”

She sweeps her fingers across my forehead, dusting a wayward hair aside like a girlfriend might, before she excuses herself to the group. Peter’s gaze zeroes in on the door shutting behind her as if he could reach through it to yank her back to him. After indulging a brief vision of choking him out, I seize the opportunity of his distraction, stick the contact in, blinking several times to get it settled, and pull out my trick deck.

The intense debate prospers, and the reality-show couple chuckles as I start to flip my cards around, spreading them from hand to hand in an elongated dribble. They’re bored out of their minds and grateful for something interesting to focus on, so I stage a performance. Nonchalantly, of course, as if I’m simply biding my time until my radiant girl returns.

Partly true.

One of the guys grunts, though I’m not certain what he’s responding to, but his irate retort catches my attention. “Senator Paulke is in bed with Kratos.”

“Kratos?” another guy parrots.

That’s interesting. Senator Paulke is one of our members. And last fall, my brothers and I all helped Axel track down a guy who’d done Zara dirty a decade ago. Part of his explanation was that he needed to get out from under a secret society named Kratos. He had Zara kill most of their members. But it sounds as though they’re thriving now if they’ve got politicians in their pockets. That’s generally reserved for KORT, a cabal with unmatched influence across the globe that my family has some personal connections with.