Page 7 of Tempting Little Thief

“I only wanted a taste,” she quips, tossing her tiny purse on the seat.

One backward step at a time, she changes her mind about sliding into her car, not bothering to close the doors, even though her bag is now sitting right inside, begging to be stolen.

I follow her, my movements slower, eyes locked on her long, toned legs as she crosses the right in front of the left, then spins, her skirt swirling around her thighs, hand coming up to hover over the hood of my car. Starting at the passenger side, her steps follow its contour, palm tracing the body without so much as letting a finger meet the frame.

“Yours?” she wonders as she rounds the vehicle, stepping out wide to avoid the stained proof of the asshole who ate gravel near the front right tire. She leans a bit closer, her eyes trailing over the hood before snapping to mine. An expectant blonde brow hikes up, the girl not used to being made to wait.

“Mine,” I confirm, keeping my face blank, but this chick saw a body on the ground before she walked into the store and didn’t so much as blink. Now, she skipped over a puddle of blood as if it was nothing but water and is pretending to admire the long, rusty-red hood of my ride … right where the VIN number used to be before I took a razor to that bitch. “It’s a—”

“A Cutlass, 1972,” she interrupts, bending at the knees, and my eyes dart to the curve of her ass so close to showing itself in that skirt. “And with the original grill.”

She glances over her shoulder, and I move my eyes to hers.

Hers narrow slightly, but it’s a play. Fake as fake can be.

This one knew exactly where my attention would be, just like I knew it was exactly where she wanted it.

She rises to her feet, completely ignoring Hayze’s presence when he makes his way back up the hillside. He slows, eyes darting my way in search of a signal—should he bag and gag her or let this play out. Arms loose at my side, I skate my fingertips over my jeans, silently letting him know without a word or glance that all’s good.

Blondie moves forward, hands folded behind her back like the perfect fucking prep she is, pausing when she’s about to pass me. Her left breast presses into the sleeve of my jacket, and her hand lifts, pushing her glasses up onto her head, and as it lowers, the points of her white-tipped fingernails graze along the edge of the zipper.

Mossy-green eyes lock on mine, and she blinks, nice and slow. “Your car has potential. Hate to see it wasted.”

“What can I say.” My gaze falls to her body, but I bring it right back with a quick flick. “I like a rough ride.”

This girl, there’s nothing rough about her. She’s all satin and silk, with smooth skin and sleek curves.

She doesn’t blanch or react in any way, but slow and fuckin’ steady, those lips of hers curve to one side. “What you mean to say is you can’t afford to fix her up.” She cocks her head, speaking with mocking innocence. “Shame.”

Yep. Piranha.

I’d let her teeth sink into me, and then I’d bite her spoiled ass back. Literally. And harder.

She steps in closer, waiting for a reaction from me she won’t get, but it doesn’t take her long to realize as much, and her lips part with a wider smile, her tongue peeking between perfectly pearlyexpensivewhites.

And then, on her way past, she shoulder-checks me.

I don’t watch her go because I know she expects me to.

Less than a minute later, she peels out, leaving us in a cloud of burned rubber.

I do spin around then, and Hayze comes to stand beside me, our eyes following the taillights down the dark, supposed-to-be deserted road.

A quick, surprised chuckle escapes him, and he shakes his head. “She thinks she’s slick, don’t she?”

I pull in a deep breath.

She sure as fuck does.

Rocklin

The double doors are pulled open the second my heels hit the final step. The second I’m through and closed inside the entryway, the outside light is cut off. Only once the sensors register the entrance has been sealed do the automatic doors five feet ahead disappear into the wall.

As I step into the Distinction room, the room where several sets of eyes you can’t see, seeyouand decide which door ahead is to be opened for you, I’m instantly sealed inside what I like to call our lovely little lockbox. Of course, as quickly as the one at my back clicks closed, my team grants my entrance.

The moment my heels click against the white-and-gold marble flooring, Damiano slips from the security room, falling in line beside me. He’s as silent as his steps, and my gaze slides his way, the two of us continuing down the hall, passing and ignoring each set of black double doors along the way. We pause in front of the Greyson suite, the largest one in the place, built and designed specifically for me and my girls, Bronx and Delta. It’s located at the end of the hall, where the space splits into aT, the crossing point of thehundred-yard catwalk, as Delta calls it.

It’s also the grandest of entrances, the archway carved and crafted from pure white, rose, and standard-colored gold. The three-dimensional serpents weave along thorny vines, their mouths open wide, fangs sinking into broadly bloomed roses, each a soft, delicate shade of pink akin to a ballet slipper. Dead in the center of the flowers, where the pit should be, a diamond sits instead. Rather than leaves framing the stems, they’re woven with the illusion of lace, lace that falls intoharsh points at the ends and plays like stony icicles protecting the archway. Weapons in disguise,just in case.

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