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I momentarily get lost in the sound of his voice. His English is almost perfect, though he has a slight accent where any hard R’s are concerned. It’s the most seductive thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Uh, okay… How long was I out?”
“Three days.”
“Three days?” I echo, my stomach flipping uneasily. “Shit. Shit, did my phone—” I look around. “Where is it?”
He lifts the black flip phone from his pants pocket and tosses it gently onto the bed by my thigh. “No calls,” he assures.
I want to get out of bed, but I’m uncomfortable with the idea of standing half naked before him. I haven’t been given pants. I look down and inspect my hands. Gabriel’s taken great care to clean my cuts and wrap them in fresh bandages. While I’m grateful for his efforts, I’ve never been with a man before. The thought of Gabriel —a stranger— handling me in my sleep…
My pussy throbs with another pulse of wet heat.
I suddenly can’t stop thinking about his big, rough-looking hands.
I want them all over me.
Wait, what?
“W-where are my clothes?” I stammer.
“Tossed them.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“There was no salvaging what you arrived in. I’ve sent my housekeeper out shopping for you. She’ll be back shortly.”
I stare at him. His intentions… seem to be honorable? I remember there being a lot of blood. Not mine, I don’t think, but that’s hardly a reassuring thought. Maybe he’s telling the truth about not wanting to ruin the sheets. It feels like Egyptian cotton. It’d be a shame to destroy them. Still, I’m not naive enough to take him totally at his word. He might not give off creeper vibes, but neither did Ted Bundy.
My hand flies to my neck. My necklace is gone. “Where—”
“Bedside table,” Gabriel informs me.
I sigh with relief. That necklace is all I have to remember my mother by. I’d be beside myself if I ever lost it. “Why did my father send me to you?” I ask him. “Who are you? What is this place? Why has he never mentioned you to me before?”
Gabriel clicks his tongue. “I’m not going to answer your questions until you answer a few of mine.”
I bristle at his response. As a thief, I’m not in the habit of giving out answers willy-nilly.
“Where is Chet?” he asks me. “How did you sustain your injuries? Why have you come here?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, debating how much information I should and shouldn’t give. “I don’t know where Dad is,” I admit. “There was an explosion, and I was caught up in the aftermath. I came here because Dad said you’d keep me safe.”
Gabriel frowns steeply, his brows knitting together. “An explosion?”
I don’t know a thing about Gabriel, but if Dad trusts him enough to send me to him, then I should trust him, too… right?
“We were in the middle of a heist,” I say slowly, carefully. I watch his face for any sort of reaction. He gives none. He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed, which tells me two things: he’s familiar with the fact that Dad is a thief and he’s comfortable associating with criminals.
The only questions now arehowandwhy?
“Chet’s still into that stupid modern-day Robin Hood schtick, huh?”
Something defensive sparks in my chest. “It’s not stupid,” I retort hotly. “It’s honorable. We only steal from—”
“Other criminals,” he finishes for me, waving one hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Who was the target this time?”
“Ronaldo Bianchi. He has a stolen Picasso in his private collection back in Paris.”
