Page 6 of Tempting Little Thief

His eyes close again, and my boy Hayze chuckles from behind me.

“He ain’t conscious …” he trails off, his voice coming back quieter. “And we ain’t alone.”

Wiping the blood from my knuckles along the edge of my shirt, I glance over my shoulder to find a sleek and sinful wet fucking dream.

Curves any man would die for—kill for even—and a guaranteed wicked ride.

It’s an Aston Martin, shining a custom candy-blue paint job, with a mean-ass black grill, and it only gets sexier. The doors lift straight up in the air.

You’d expect a ritzy fucker to climb out of it: the tailormade type. A stiff prick who flicks his eyes our way in disgust ordisregard, but expectations are for fools, a fact that’s proven a single second later.

The first thing to come into view is a sharp spike in the form of a heel, nearly equal in size to the switchblade in my pocket, the black strap at the back of it latched tightly around a creamy, arched ankle. A pleated skirt is next. Hitting just above the knee, I follow it upward to where it stops at the fullest point of sharply narrowed hips, a tight white long-sleeve top disappearing beneath it. Large golden cuffs cover the girl’s wrists, and the small rings along her fingers gleam in the sun as she reaches up. She pushes a few strands of long, thick blonde hair back, saving them from being caught in the hot-ass pink of her lips, when a gust of wind meets her skin as if she summoned that shit herself, like some kind of fuckin’ wind deity.

“Goddamn.” Hayze groans.

Yup.

A goddess in the flesh, and no doubt, the girl knows it.

Her steps are slow and effortless, the kind stemming from years of practiced perfection.

She looks every bit the prep school princess, but it’s the shade her mouth is painted and the way her tongue slides across that pouty top lip that gives her away.

She’s no princess. She’s a piranha.

Slick, predatory … prone to bite.

Not the petty high school type.

As she heads toward the small building, behind and a little to my right, her eyes float our way, but only her eyes, narrowing on the bulky bastard on the ground at my feet. She can’t possibly spot more than an arm and the string of duct tape hanging from it, maybe a hint of his hair, but no more than that.

I shift, slowly pushing to my full height, and her attention snaps my way, holding as I turn to face her fully, ready to move in if needed. This is when we’d normally witness the freezing of the muscles, the widening of the eyes, and the quick flicker of panic that sends someone scurrying away from the big bad wolves.

If her bravado snaps and she bolts, I’m only six steps away. I’ll chase her, back her up in the corner where Hayze will be waiting, but that doesn’t happen.

It’s like I said, this girl … she’s not what first glances will tell you, so it’s not so unexpected when she tsks her tongue instead, her hand running over her long hair as if to make sure it’s still perfectly in place. “Boys and their toys.”

And she teases. Interesting …

“This one malfunctioned.”

Her lips twitch, and she hums, keeping toward the small brick building to my right. I watch until she disappears inside it and then turn to Hayze.

“Grab some pain pills and stuff ’em down his throat before you roll him down the hill. He’ll wake up enough to run once the ache’s hidden a bit.”

Hayze says nothing but rushes for the trunk.

Bending again, I empty the guy’s pockets, coming up with a wallet, cell, and a busted lighter. Hayze is back right as I’m climbing to my feet.

In tune as fuck with my thoughts, like always, he passes me my phone and I move toward the gas pumps, coming up behind the chick’s two-hundred-thousand-dollar beauty for a quick shot of the plate, just in case shit goes south and she’s not as immune to blood and bondage as she appears.

The second I toss the items into the trash can wedged between the window-cleaning station and the pump, the door to the convenience store is pushed open, and out she walks, silver-lensed shades now pulled down over her eyes.

She doesn’t falter at the sight of me standing two feet from her ride, just keeps on coming, a deep-red straw buried between her lips.

A perfectly arched brow lifts behind the large frames as she places herself an arm’s length from me, pressing a button on the keys in her hand. The butterfly door lifts, and she holds her right arm out, dropping her slushy into the trash. The blue liquid splashes up the barrel, but neither of us bothers to look to see if it marked us or not.

“Done already, huh?”

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