Page 18 of City Of Thieves
The three-piece look was always Nero’s calling card, not mine. I prefer the anonymity of my black jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket.
Black like my heart.
But even though I’m dressed like a corporate shark, I’m blending in with all the CEO assholes flooding the sidewalks.
I glance at my watch.
7:50 p.m.
The sun’s already dipped below the horizon, slipping the city into darkness. I’m used to people dropping to their knees and begging for my mercy when I show up at their doors at this time, yet something tells me Miss Sanders’s stilettos won’t be leaving her gallery floor without a fight.
Let the games begin.
Striding down Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, I slow my pace as I approach the polished glass frontage ofElysium.The gallery is understated elegance, classy as fuck, and reeking of money—ironic considering what a little extra background check on Miss Sanders turned up earlier.
The place is still kicking out light, but no one is entering, and no one is leaving. An empty gallery means she’s expecting me. This woman is as smart as she is beautiful, and I can’t decide what turns me on more: the thrill of the chase or the anticipation of war.
Maybe a little of both.
I press the intercom, prompting a security guard to glance up from his station. Running his eyes over my expensive suit, he buzzes me in.
“Marchesi,” I state, noting he doesn’t even check his guest list.
“Miss Sanders has requested you join her in the atrium.” Following a half-assed pat down, he gestures to the far end of the art gallery. “Through those double doors. Can’t miss it.”
Wouldn't want to.
As I walk, my gaze trails like dirty fingers against each canvas. They all look like kids’ paintings to me. Still, I’m impressed. At twenty-three years old, Miss Sanders has created quite a business for herself.
Shame she’s about to lose the whole fucking thing.
Stepping into the glass-domed atrium, I spot her slender silhouette right away. I take in her profile as she gazes up at some abstract piece of shit painting that looks like gasoline-splashed asphalt. She’s more than appraising the canvas—she’s absorbed in it—her head tilted to the side, her dark hair still twisted into that tight bun from yesterday morning, not a hair out of place, with her tight black pencil dress holding all her secrets in.
What is it about this woman?
My type is uninhibited, not uptight. But there’s a dark part of me that wants to see her come undone in my hands; to take a hammer to that icy facade and see what’s really underneath. To close my fists around that hair and arch her back as I slam my cock into that frigid pussy.
I take a step closer.
She must have heard me, but she’s refusing to turn.
And another…
“Careful, Miss Sanders.” I move in close behind her, watching as her shoulders stiffen. “You’re becoming dangerously predictable.”
Her eyes never stray from the painting. My eyes never stray from her tiny waist, the material gently flaring into the kind of curves that make me pay close attention.
“And how’s that, Mr. Marchesi?”
Christ, even her voice is like a rainstorm in December.
One more step brings us to an even level. “You have a strange fascination with complicated artwork,” I note, gesturing at the canvas.
“Oh?”
“Does it reflect a complicated woman?”
She tilts her chin in the air, the light catching on a razor-sharp cheekbone. “Have you come to psychoanalyze me or to take something else that belongs to me?”
