Page 38 of Stealing Blinds

His wheels are turning, his eyes darting between the two of us. “Sterling Palmer, or …”

She lights up with pride. “Palmer was my maiden name and what I went back to. You might be familiar with my husband’s last name, Jenkins. Although most people don’t know it off the top of their heads. Either way, Heath didn’t want me or the girls to keep it after everything went south.”

He rubs his fingers over his jaw, somewhat taken aback, before whipping his head to me. “Your parents are Sterling and Heath? World-renowned art thieves Sterling and Heath?” His enthusiasm bleeds into a pall of sadness as what that means I endured in my childhood sinks in, but he snuffs it out and turns back to my mother in shameless fangirl mode. “So much respect for you.”

She cackles. “You’re right, Sylvie. He is cute.”

I’m going to kill her.

“So much respect for you, young man. You and your brothers are legends. We’ll talk shop later. Can I get you something to eat or drink?” When she notices his hesitation, she goes in for the kill. “I’ve got some vintage Pappy Van Winkle. How do you take it?”

He throws out a noncommittal hand. “In a glass.”

“Perfect. You two catch up. I’ll be a few minutes.”

Once she’s gone, I hop up again. “One drink, and then you need to go.”

“That’s not very hospitable, pal.” He wraps an arm around my waist, holding me so close that the air between us is devoured as he glides his knuckles down my cheek. “I came a long way to make sure you were okay. Nothing would’ve stopped me from getting to you, and you want to shove me out the door?”

I’m unsure if it’s his words or his proximity, his seductive scent or the graze of his skin against mine. Or maybe it’s just a day that feels as long as a lifetime. But my chest is heaving, and my heart is pounding, and I’m suddenly stupid.

“It hardly even hurts, so we’re … good.”

He tilts his head as if he caught me in a lie. “You told your mom I was cute.”

“She’s delusional,” I huff, but every part of me is aware of every part of him.

“I don’t think anyone’s used that word to describe me since I was twelve.”

“Proof that she’s losing her mind,” I counter.

His eyes flick to my parted lips, and his curl with a dare. “Your body reacts to me, whether your mind wants it to or not.” He smooths one of my rebellious hairs away from my face, tucking it behind my ear. “I’m here. I’ll do this friend thing, but I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you, that I don’t want your dress on the floor, like you mentioned at the party, or to mark every inch of you until your cells don’t feel whole without me. But I will respect it. For now. Because I’ve never enjoyed spending time with a woman the way I do with you, so I’ll take what you can give.”

Thank the heavens that he’s holding me up and I have the excuses of a sore ankle and too much wine because my knees are Jell-O.

“That’s quite a line, Noire.”

“You think I’ve chased you from corner to corner of the US to feed you a line?”

“Maybe you’re bored.”

“I own a resort and casino and host parties with farm animals; I’m certainly not bored. I know a treasure when I see one.” He rasps that into my ear as he palms my head, his scruff scratching my heated cheek, his breath ghosting my neck, before he pulls back and grips my chin. “And it wasn’t a line. It was a warning. I will be the best goddamn friend you’ve ever had, Sly. Then I’ll destroy that friendship because you’ll beg me to. And I already know I’ll be helpless to your pleas, which means I’ll have you panting and screaming until your throat is raw and the only thing you want me to call you is mine.”

Jesus, I’m on fire.

“I think I should sit.”

CASH

I’m admittedly starstruck, which is a rarity for me. I’ve met all types of famous and revered people, but Sterling and Heath pulled art heists that any illusionist or con man has to admire. They were epic. And their fall was tragic. Until their capture—or Heath’s—they were known as The Mailers because it was suspected that they often shipped the stolen art to various PO Boxes right from the facility, leaving them free to walk out empty-handed.

Their arrest and Heath’s gallant insistence that his wife had nothing to do with his crime—a job pulled after years of being out of the scene—won him praise in the media. He was a thief, but also a devoted husband, a family man, and a charismatic personality, who’d simply slipped into an old way of life. His face was everywhere. He even landed a remote interview on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. He was so charming that it became a must-watch segment.

The court never could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was responsible for the countless missing pieces in the decades before that. But one misstep was enough to bring him down, even if they couldn’t tie Sterling to it beyond the profiling from their previous jobs. People latched on to Heath’s over-the-top love for his wife so tightly that the world grieved when he was sentenced and even more when he was killed.

Of course, every ounce of awe and melancholy is amplified for me since it concerns Sylvie. The only honor that could outdo the monumental thrill of being in the home of one of my idols is being in a home that is special to her. There aren’t a lot of pictures—only some artistic black-and-white candids of who I’m assuming are Sylvie and her sister when they were small—or overtly personal touches anywhere, but that’s common for those who may need to get out of town at a moment’s notice. Even going legit doesn’t change that mindset. There’s always a chance the past will bite them in the ass.

It still seems like an insider’s glimpse. The house—with its coastal chic interior design—has been owned by S. Palmer for fifteen years, so Sylvie spent some of her teen years here.