Page 1 of The San Marco Heist

Chapter 1

Scarlett

Mymarkwaslate.

I ran a finger under the lip of the desk while cataloging every photograph, every book, every little statue in the private library. Pulled on the trunk of the ivory elephant. Nudged the wall sconces. Spun the inlaid globe to check if it wobbled. Started tugging on the drawers.

Nothing.

He must have seen me come in here. Either that or I was losing my tou—

“Library’s off-limits to guests.”

“Oh!” I gasped as I turned to see him, my hand flying to my chest.

Greasy black hair caked with too much luxury pomade. Clean-shaven, tux with gray accents, shoes polished well enough to reflect the pot lights. No bulges or jingles to indicate wallet or keys from this angle.

He didn’t even bother to look at my face. No, the dress was doing its job.

My hand lingered over my lungs, highlighting the plunging neckline. The shimmering gold lurex gown with a thigh-high slit had garnered plenty of attention all on its own, but he deserved extra. I breathed deeply, swelling my chest, dragging the hand away slowly. Pulling his eyes with it. “You startled me.”

“That wasn’t my goal.” He pushed back strands of hair which fell to his forehead and approached, shoulders squared, gaze finally lifting almost to my mouth. “But you still shouldn’t be here.”

“I just…” I leaned against the desk, gripping its edge. Girl next door? Femme fatale? Damsel in distress? Our research said bimbo. My least favorite. Regardless, I pursed my lips and ran one crystal-studded nude Louboutin across the floor in front of me. “Someone at the party downstairs said there was a really cool book in here.”

“We have a lot of those.” He gestured absently around the room. Thirty feet by twenty, mahogany shelving, books enclosed by glass doors. Behind me, two arch-topped springline windows with a view of the gardens and pool.

One locked.

One not.

“Cool books turn me on.” I blinked slowly, but the movement was lost on him.

His eyes followed the foot, like a predator waiting to pounce. I dragged it up to my other ankle.

“I wish someone could show it to me.” I chuckled, low in my throat, and pushed myself off the desk, heading toward the door. As I passed him, I whispered, “But I don’t belong here, so…”

He grabbed my wrist to stop me. “How turned on?”

Gotcha.

“Depends on how cool it is.” I eased my mouth open and ran my tongue along my upper lip.Come on, just show me already. We both know you’re going to. “Does it have pretty pictures?”

He closed the small distance between us, his chest flush against my arm. As repulsive as he was, as much as his vocal fry grated on my nerves, his scent was heavenly. Bergamot. Pineapple. Clive Christian, maybe? X? “They’re called illuminations.”

“Ooh!” I shivered, turning to face him. “Like lightbulbs?”

“Not quite.” He smiled, aYou’re not very smartsmile, and gestured to the other side of the room. Walking behind me to take in the exaggerated sway of my hips. “Medieval manuscripts have pictures in them, which are called illuminations.”

“I like that.” I stopped at the end of the room. As with the other walls, it was covered in dark wood shelves and crammed with books. But this section included flat file drawers without locks.

He pulled one drawer, which only came out half a foot. Far enough to reveal a keypad I’d missed.

“Turn around,” he said, fingers hovering over the numbers. “This is private.”

Oh, no, you don’t.I took his free hand in both of mine and positioned it over my eyes. Another giggle. He hesitated, but when I bounced slightly in excitement, he punched in the code.

Eight digits. Ridiculously easy.

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