Page 26 of Stealing Blinds

“None of that here,” Peter snipes, setting his glass on a side table with enough dramatic flair that it serves as a sundering gavel.

There isn’t time to jump into that rabbit hole. Tucking it away for another time, I keep wandering around the room, shuffling my deck and scrutinizing relics as the crickets following Peter’s edict slowly morph into a tentative discussion about baseball—one of the couples owns a team. At the one-minute mark, I blow past the thermostat with a waterfall that extends far beyond my head. That small diversion enables me to tap the access button without detection and scan my iris. I cough in case it beeps and keep to my blasé exploration while removing the contact.

Exchanging my cards for my phone, I send off a quick text.

Me: Done.

And just as it shows it’s delivered, Peter rises and heads for the door.

“Hold up, Peter. I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.”

“It can wait,” he calls over his shoulder.

“It definitely can’t because when Sylvie comes back from the bathroom, our party will be moving to my private jet. The waiting portion of my night is officially over.”

The chatter stalls to a grinding halt. Not a word or breath resounds, only the quiet hum of the thumping music from the festivities on the lower level.

Peter spins, and, fuck, the man is down bad for her. I don’t blame him. Who wouldn’t be? But I also won’t sugarcoat his loss.

And while he’s leering at me for stealing her from him, Sylvie has her open window.

A thrill rushes through my veins. There is undoubtedly a shift in the climate. A heat storm is in the forecast.

Sly and Noire.

SYLVIE

Seconds after I start the security feed loop, Cash’s text comes through. I don’t like having a partner. It exacerbates everything. And I’m certain E would have a fit if he were aware, but with Peter’s gaze tracking my every breath, letting Cash use the contact to unlock the safe was my best option. Getting in with assistance is superior to failing alone.

I exit the bathroom, slink through the hallway, and swiftly unlock Peter’s office with his code. It’s the date his grandfather opened their oil business, so even if I hadn’t watched him enter it on the security feed, it wouldn’t have been difficult to guess. It’s also the code he uses at his beach house, so it was a top pick anyway.

The aromas of leather, musk, and stale spices smack into me. And even in the dark, I can tell that the decor is similar to his cigar lounge, but once the door is shut behind me, I don’t pay much attention to anything other than the sculpture. It’s a giant steel Texas longhorn, and the compartment is tucked up in the bull’s junk. You really can’t make this shit up.

Crouching beside it, I use my key-chain light to assess whether there is any other security measure added to it. Once I’m certain it’s as I surmised during recon, I leave my glove on, but quickly slide on the gummy finger I made with a 3D printer from Peter’s fingerprint, which was also obtained at his optometrist appointment. One of the medical assistants who worked there is now very happy in a fabulous cottage in the Cayman Islands.

I reach between the bull’s back legs, locate the censor on his testicles, and press my index finger to it. The compartment pops open immediately, so I pluck out the USB-based hardware authentication device and grab the dummy from my purse to swap in its place. Just as I’m shutting the safe, booming voices transcend the door.

Shit.

My heart thrashes against my sternum. I swear this whole job is cursed.

Rushing to the corner of the room nearest the door, I squat behind a sofa because that is the best shot I’ve got if someone comes in here. The rest of the office is wide open. And after thirty seconds of deep baritone agitation, the office door swings open, the overhead light is flicked on, and my stomach flips.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Cash?”

“Is that any way to invite someone into your office?” Cash chides as he swaggers inside, one hand in his pocket, cards in the other.

He leaves the door ajar, which is appreciated, but I can’t go yet because Peter is at his desk, facing my direction. From this angle, I can see them in the reflection of the bull. It’s distorted, but good enough. Like surveilling someone through a funhouse mirror.

Peter barks a laugh, and even the sound drips with condescension. “I’m not inviting you.”

“Precisely the fucking problem.” Cash’s tenor blasts through the space, and his entire demeanor stiffens, but he also pauses his card shuffling and points to the floor. It’s all a show. He’s telling me to go when I can. He heads toward the far wall of the office, plucking a book off the floor-to-ceiling shelf. “Why the hell not? You’ve been a La Lune Noire member for fifteen years, and if I’m not mistaken, you’ve been well taken care of.”

Unfortunately, Peter doesn’t take Cash’s bait. He drops into his chair and glares at the cracked-open door with his rebuttal. “You know that has nothing to fucking do with this. What the hell are you doing with her?”

Cash swings around, book still in hand. “Am I missing something? Did you have some sort of claim on her?”

“I was giving her time to heal.” Peter pushes out of his chair, snatching the book from Cash to return it to the shelf. “Do you even know what Danny put her through?”