Page 17 of The San Marco Heist

The car rolled to a stop, and she shifted gears before turning it off. “I’ll be around in a sec.”

This wasn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped, but she’d neither left me at home nor had she shot me. I knew to take my wins where I could get them.

The door opened and she pulled the hat off. She sliced the zip ties with a pocketknife, stuffed it into an invisible pocket in her tights, and stepped back, giving me room to get out. Where was the gun? “Can I trust you inside?”

We’d parked directly in front of a long, nondescript row of two-story office buildings. Gray stone, floor-to-ceiling windows, and cubicle walls hiding what was inside.

“I suppose that depends on where we are?”

“You’re right.” Her lips tightened. Finally, some emotion peeking through. “My brother said I should trust you, so I suppose I’ll have to do that if we’re going to get him home.”

“I’m not the bad guy here.”

She headed for the building without looking back. The tights and sweatshirt look was a far cry from the gold dress last night, but in some ways, it was even better. “Close the door and stop staring at my ass, Malcolm.”

I was liking her more and more with every second.

She used her phone to lock the car door once I’d shut it. Another swipe across her phone screen resulted in a buzz from the door into the office. She held it open and waved me in first. “You’re going to sit in that big meeting room over—”

“Scar? That you?” a female voice called from somewhere inside the cavernous space. The cubicle walls lined the outside, while the interior of the office was full of desks in tight quads, a second-floor mezzanine at the back, and a glass-walled meeting room directly beneath it.

Scarlett replied, “What are you still doing here? It’s eleven o’clock. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

A thinner version of her appeared at the railing to the mezzanine. Hair pulled up in a ponytail, with oversized glasses and another sweatshirt. Emmett had never mentioned havingtwosisters, but they looked too similar to be anything else. “Will and I were just working on a software update for some—who’s that?”

“New client.” Scarlett inclined her head into the glass-walled brig. “Take a seat. I’ll be back in a few.”

I pulled out a leather seat from the meeting table. At least it would be a comfortable wait and maybe I could grab a few minutes of shuteye.

“And give me your phone.” Scarlett held out her hand, and I dutifully passed the goods over. “And your last name?”

“Why?”

“I trusted you enough to walk into this office. But until we’ve vetted you, that’s as far as it goes.” She cocked an eyebrow. Another one of her questions. “Last name?”

“Sharpe.”

“Alright, Malcolm Sharpe. If we disprove anything you’ve told me in the next ten minutes, you’re going to wish Emmett was the one they sent to see me. And trust me, Brie can learn everything we need in a quarter the time of a normal human being.”

Chapter 7

Scarlett

Ilockedthedoorbehind me, used my phone to cut the power to the meeting room walls so he couldn’t see out, and instructed every muscle in my body tonotsag against the wall or blow out some ridiculously deep breath. This morning, all I wanted was for Mum to tell Emmett he’d screwed up.

What was the last thing I’d said to him? Did I tell him to behave himself? Not get arrested? Don’t lose too much money? Those were the condescending things I always said when he flew off to Vegas or Monte Carlo or wherever the hell the best game would be.

Despite that, he’d told her I did a good job. I was so fucking petty, and now he was stuck somewhere in New York, bloodied and beaten, waiting for me to save the day.

The deep breath burst out of me, and I stepped away from the door so Malcolm couldn’t hear me. I’d controlled myself the way I’d been trained since the moment he showed up, but every tick of that frustratingly sexy jaw while we were in the car had posed a challenge.

Not to mention his cologne. Bergamot, like slobbery-mouth Maguire, but with a hint of vanilla instead of pineapple. It set my thighs on fire.

Between my brother and his friend, I was losing it. I tucked my hands into the front pouch of Noah’s old hoodie, the calm that came with his scent settling in. An equal sense of betrayal threatened to choke me. Two shirts to go, then I could move on. Everything else was work until then.

Brie bounded down the stairs from her lab. She whispered, “He’s not really a client, is he?” as if he could have heard her from inside the closed meeting room.

Next office upgrade: holding cells. “What time is it in London?”

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