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  Melanie comes up beside me, poking me in the ribs. “Hey, the bidding is about to start. Come on.”

  A tiny bell rings, a call for all to exit the gallery and take their respective seats in the auction room. I opt to keep quiet about Frosty to Melanie for now and instead keep a surreptitious eye on him as we all shuffle into the room.

  After much—ten whole minutes—introductory chatter, the bidding begins.

  Frosty is seated two rows ahead on the opposite side. Out of nowhere, a pretty brunette slides into the vacant seat beside him. She lovingly touches his arm and peers up at him with a serene smile, conveying something to him without ever moving her lips.

  I should not have picked up on it, but I have done that too many times before not to have picked up on it. With a closed-lip smile, Frosty lowers his head to press a kiss to her lips, and then they both refocus their attention on the auctioneer.

  Melanie jabs me with her elbow. “What are you looking at?”

  I turn to her. “Do you remember that run-in we had at Castellos in New York last year?”

  At this, her eyes darken with hate. “Remember? Of course I remember that rat-arse filth.”

  “Right,” I mumble. “Well, I think I just spotted one of them.”

  “That’s impossible.” She is shaking her head at me. “They were wearing masks.”

  “But his eyes. I remember his eyes.”

  Melanie rolls hers. “Okay, I know you have your superpower photographic memory, and all, but I also know it doesn’t work that way. There aren’t that many different eye colors in the world. Therefore, millions of people share the same eye color and shape. Some are so exact they could be one and the same. Thus, your supposed recognition is improbable. Not to mention, this encounter was a year ago, in a different country. What other proof do you have?”

  I could argue back with his height and stature. The winning proof, of course, would be his voice. Melanie is great with voices—she never forgets a voice—and considering she was threatened and manhandled that night, his is undoubtedly a voice she hasn’t forgotten. But the debate would be lengthy, tedious, and distracting from Frosty’s impending doom.

  Therefore, instead of picking up the gauntlet, I give her the win. “You’re right. Silly thinking, that bit.”

  Her mouth opens to concur, but then her lips pinch together in suspicion, distrustful of my easy relent. I never give in without a debate. I’m as fierce a challenger as she is, and she knows it.

  Turning away from her suspicious glare, I flick my gaze over to Frosty again. Or rather, to his chair. Because he is gone. Pretty Brunette is still there. But he is smoke.

  I glance around the room, searching. Pretty Brunette raises her number board and calls out a bid. Nothing suspicious about that. Except that the second she lowers her board, two dark shadows move in the periphery of my vision.

  A cue. Her bid was a cue.

  And there it is. She’s setting Frosty up.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m up and moving. “I need to use the loo,” I tell Melanie. “The coins are up next. Be sure to win them.”

  I sidle down the row and out of the bidding room before I can question my sanity. As I re-enter the gallery, I catch sight of two suits moving into a wide hall with large framed paintings on the walls.

  Quietly, I start to follow. Yet, after a few feet, I stop. And I think.

  Nope. This is too easy.

  What professional thief journeys all the way to Paris to allow himself to be caught this easily? On the one hand, Frosty is being sold out by someone he appears to trust. On the other hand, no one in the art of conning and thievery really trusts anyone, do they?

  Simple answer: no.

  Going with my gut instinct, I turn and go in the opposite direction, down the other hall.

  There are three doors along this hall, and Frosty is behind one of them. Of the three doors, two are locked with regular knobs, easy to pick. Door number three is key-card entry. Behind which door do you think something valuable is hiding?

  Snapping my purse open, I retrieve my credit card—translation: swipe access hacker—and move to door number three. My faux credit card has a built-in chip that, when swiped, hacks the system and grants access.

  I swipe.

  Smooth as oil, the door unlocks, and I slip in, a soft click sounding behind me as the door automatically closes.

  Frosty is not behind the door. Behind the door is an empty room leading to a sturdier door. Stainless steel. There is a rotating camera above it. Except it’s not rotating but stuck pointing toward the left of the room—to the wall, to be precise.

  It’s been overridden.

  Sticking to the right side of the room, I move to the door. Fingerprint access controller. Crap.

  Do I have T63 with me, or does Melanie have it? Once again, I snap my purse open and feel around for the familiar shape of the T63 case. I whisper a tight, “Yes,” when my fingers wrap around it.

  Flipping open the case, I carefully take out the COF (chip-on-film) and scan it at the controller.

  Half a minute later, I’m granted access. I turn the door handle and push in.

  And there he is.

  I knew it.

  Aside from the thief, nothing but a tall glass case stands in the middle of an all-white room. On the sole velvet shelf inside the case sits a golden Fabergé egg. Beautiful in its intricate details, sizable diamond cuts punctuating each looping pattern on the egg, glistening under the light. A piece of art worth millions of dollars.

  Frosty, who appears to have just finished picking the lock on the case, slowly turns at the sound of the door.

  After thirteen months, those unforgettable eyes meet mine again. They are expressionless. No sign of shock, or fear, or panic. He watches me. Roves me over, but gives me nothing.

  A real pro.

  As I stare back, it dawns on me that my being here is rash and stupid. I left an auction to search for him, hacked through two doors to get to him, and now that I’m face to face with him…what?

  How is he any of my business? Why do I care if he gets caught? What does it matter if he looks like a Shakespeare sonnet?

  After much staring, much silence, much waiting to see what the other will do, I say, “She’s setting you up.”

  Just barely, one eyebrow lifts. Still, he doesn’t speak. He’s trying to deduce just what the hell is happening here, I assume.

  I push my glasses up on my nose and expound. “The pretty woman you were with? I saw her signal two suits to follow you. They went in another direction. Seeing as you are here instead of there, I take it you didn’t trust her with the truth of what you are really here for, yeah?”

  Nothing but an intense stare.

  Okay, then. I search him—eyes, fingers, pulse—for something, anything that would belie his equanimity, expose his feigned insouciance.

  I find nothing. He’s good. Bloody hell, he’s good.

  At last, he asks, “Who are you with?”

  “I’m not undercover to take you down, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Why are you here, then?”

  “The Greek coins,” I reply. “My mate and I flew here to Paris to bid on them.”

  His thumb and forefinger rub together, one, two, three times. There it is! A tell. But a tell for what? “Why are you here? In this room.”

  “Oh. Um…” Again, I nervously push my glasses up on my nose. That’s my tell. “Well, I saw your eyes. They are blue. Frosty ice blue. And I’ve seen you—those eyes—before. I told my mate, but she’s anal and logical, and doesn’t believe it’s probable that you are the same man we had an unfortunate encounter with over a year ago. I, however, am 99.9 percent sure it’s you. So, I was watching you, and then I was watching her when you disappeared. That’s how I saw her signal the suits. I followed them, and then I stopped following them. Because I had a gut feeling you weren’t where they were headed. And look at that! Mel—my mate—she doesn’t believe in gut feelings. Or fat
e. She thinks all that is—”

  “Stop. Now. Please,” Frosty halts me, looking assaulted.

  Oh. Right. I talk too much. I’ve been working on that. Not with much success, apparently.

  Frosty roves me over once more, probably to assess if I’m truthfully innocuous.

  After a long moment, he turns to the case again and locks it. He then proceeds to move past me as if I’m just a gray cat in a gray corner.

  Pinching my brows together, I glance between his retreating form and the glass case. The egg is still there. If this is the reason he is here, why is he leaving it? Because of me? He doesn’t believe me?

  And then, it hits me.

  “A fake,” I mutter. He swapped the real egg with a fake so no one will notice—at least not for a while—that the real egg has been stolen.

  My inadvertently voiced conclusion stops him in tracks, and with three long strides he is in front of me again, eyes narrowed. More forceful this time, he demands, “Who are you with?”

  Startled, I start to move back from him, but he grabs my upper arm and locks me in place.

  “I-I told you. I’m not here to—”

  “Then explain to me”—he gestures to door—“how you got in.”

  It’s what I do. I hack things. For fun. Because I can. Okay, sometimes for worthy trades. “I cannot tell you that. But I promise, I’m not your enemy.”

  His stare digs deep into mine, searching. With a decisive twist to his lips, he spins me and begins leading me out of the room. “You’re coming with me.”

  “You mean, like, as a hostage?”

  He pauses to close the door. I accept the reactivation beep of the security controller as his answer.

  “Well, then,” I bravely carry on, “where is your weapon?”

  He glances at me, his annoyance unhidden.

  “If you’re going to take me as a hostage,” I say, “you need to have a weapon. Otherwise, I can just employ my self-defense tricks and run off. And you best believe I can defend myself. I know tricks that can make you stop breathing in five sec—”

  “Know any tricks that can make a person shut up in half a second?” he mutters.

  With a huff, I shut up and let him haul me out the second door.

  Do not ask me why I care that he gets out of this situation unscathed, but I do. Which means, I can’t shut up. “I have a knife I can loan you,” I suggest.

  Frosty stops moving. Stares down at me like I’m a loon. He’s so tall. So pretty. So deceivingly harmless. If I had seen him on a mundane day, in a mundane setting, like in a grocery store purchasing laundry detergent, I’d never, ever guess this beautiful piece of art to be a common criminal. Hell, he should be propped up in the auction room to be bid on, starting at one billion.

  “You…have a knife?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “A knife you want to willingly give me to take you as a hostage?” He says the words so slowly, stressing every syllable as if speaking a language he’s not quite fluent in.

  “Loan,” I correct. “I’m loaning you the knife. It’s one of my favorite toys. Handy little bugger. I can’t permanently part with it.”

  He blinks at me. Once. Twice. Three times. “Give me your purse.”

  Hmm. Still doesn’t trust me.

  As I hand over my purse, I offer him the location of the weapon. “Zipper on the right.”

  He gets out the knife, unsheathes it, and examines it. It’s then I notice the bulge in his jacket.

  “Do you want to put that in my purse?” I point to the bulge. “You know, just in case someone decides to search you.”

  One eyebrow wings up. “And they won’t search you?”

  “If I were as outrageously beautiful and conspicuous as you, definitely.” I offer a pathetic shrug. “But I’m wallpaper. No one ever notices me. And that is a tremendously useful asset.”

  He studies me for a beat, then shakes his head as he tucks the knife inside his jacket and retrieves a violet velvet pouch from his pocket. Gingerly, he fits it inside my purse and snaps it shut.

  He looks at me. “I know you don’t really believe that about yourself. You just want to be a part of this.” He holds the purse out for me to take. Once it makes contact with my hands, he leans in and warns, “Never try to con a con man.”

  Chastened, I swallow. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Then I grin. “But this is just so ace!”

  He eyeballs me as if I’m some kind of puzzle he can’t solve. “Were the suits feds?

  “Maybe. But feds enjoy kicking down doors and creating a scene, so maybe not. These suits were being carefully discreet. Besides, we’re in France. Do they have feds in France?”

  With a nod of agreement, he grabs my arm. “Come on.”

  “A word of advice,” I say as I skitter alongside him down the hall. “If we do happen to get caught, you might want to try being a wee bit more convincing with that knife. Because, to be honest, you seem to be more afraid of it than of getting caught. And I would hate for you to get caught. You have some incredibly gorgeous eyes and it would be a shame for them to be locked up.”

  Without breaking stride, he throws a glare down at me. But even his glare is art.

  I’m giddy as he drags me along. I love the thrill. The thrill is the reason Melanie and I steal valuables from time to time, but we’ve never even been suspected of a heist, let alone been on the run. So this is new.

  The main gallery is free of people when we finally get there. Frosty releases his hold on me and pockets the knife.

  “Act normal,” he whispers. “The fake is back there and I’m not. The alarm hasn’t been triggered. Whatever I do from here until we get out, go with it.”

  When one long arm snakes around my waist, my breath catches.

  Oh, my precious.

  I’ve never been held like this before. By anyone.

  His long arm yanks me into his side, and I gasp. Oh. Wow. He smells good. Like mischief and trouble. Like sweet wrongs and delicious danger.

  I move when he moves. I go along with it. I know nothing about this bloke, but I’ll go along with him, anywhere, on any occasion.

  With flowing steps, he sweeps me over to the lift and pokes the call button.

  I decide to compliment him. “You smell nice.”

  No answer.

  Okay. I’m okay with that.

  “Why the lift and not the stairs?” I ask. “It’s harder to make an escape in an elevator than the stairs, you know. Fact. An elevator can be controlled by outside forces. Can lock us in. Open when we are surrounded with no escape. Also—”

  “Shut. Up,” he hisses beneath his breath.

  I shut up.

  The lift opens, and we walk in, his arm still snaked around my waist. Just as the doors begin to close, the two suits break around the corner. They spot us in the elevator and hurry forward, one throwing an arm out to stop the doors from sealing.

  A cocktail of nerves and thrills has me adjusting my glasses. Looking up at Frosty, I flutter my lashes to convey that these are the suits. I’m worried he might think I’m a sicko with an eye-twitching problem, but when he gives me a playboy wink, I know he gets it.

  As the two men—complete with suspicious glares and menacing faces—settle into the lift and press the lobby button, I’m suddenly slammed up against the cool stainless steel wall of the lift, my left leg hiked up and hooked around a slim waist.

  A startled squeal escapes me, but then my whole body blushes and tingles when he braces his lean, rigid self against me.

  “Why’re you still sulking?” he asks through gritted teeth, bringing his lips close to mine. “That orgasm I just gave you in the bathroom wasn’t enough?” His voice lowers to a gentle whisper, “I told you, baby, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to do?”

  For a brief moment, I’m speechless. And feeling things. Hot, sensual things.

  Oh. My. Precious. I have never felt this hot in my life.

  His body and mouth and words are all sex, bu
t his eyes scream, “Go along with it.”

  I swallow hard and attempt to ad lib. “You swore to me that nothing was going on between you two. You told me she was just a business partner. And yet I see you here”—I let my voice break—“kissing her.”

  My gaze falls between us, but it’s only so I can sneak a peripheral peek at the suits.

  They exchange glances. I read their doubt and confusion.

  Good.

  Frosty paws one side of my face, tips my face up to him, and peers into my eyes with such conviction I almost believe the words that follow. “She means nothing to me, baby. But when I look at you, I see…everything. I won’t lose you. I won’t let you go.”

  With that, his other hand slides under my dress—the below-the-knee, flower-print pin-up dress Melanie forced me to wear. If I had gone with the slacks and beret I’d originally planned on, I wouldn’t have this stranger’s hand up my frills right now…and I wouldn’t be scolding myself for liking it way more than I should. I shouldn’t be liking it, at all. Period. I don’t even know him!

  “I need you.” His hand slides up my thigh. “Tell me you won’t leave me.” His lips descend. “Tell me you won’t give up on me.” His head dips. “Can I trust you”—his lips brush teasingly against mine—“to stay with me?”

  God.

  Blind.

  Me.

  It feels as if I have been doused with gasoline and set on fire. There is a foreign feeling unfurling in my stomach. My nipples feel weird. A nice kind of weird. I’m so fruity I can barely breathe.

  The word is a wisp of air as I breathe out, “Yes.”

  And with that, he kisses me.

  Not a peck. Not a press. He full-blown, flat-out kisses me.

  It’s a rage of a kiss, his tongue plunging in and taking over. His hand leaves my face and sweeps into my hair, gripping and controlling, tilting my head just the way he wants so he can go deeper.

  Blimey, he’s going all out with this improv.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  What he doesn’t know is that this is my first time to ever be kissed by a man. Really kissed. First time to be touched so intimately. And it’s all so thrillingly dangerous.