Page 3 of The San Marco Heist

I scanned the room below us and located Rav. Taller and broader than most of the other guests, with deep-olive skin and slicked-back, wavy black hair, he stood out from the crowd. And yet somehow blended in at the same time—one of his specialties. I swept two fingers across my nose. He raised a full champagne flute in salute, and he was gone.

When Rav moved, the man behind him looked up at me. I gripped the railing when my eyes met his. So blue I could see them from thirty feet away. Blue as the sky at sunset. Like the Winston Blue diamond. His hair was dark-blond, styled in a medium quiff, and he sported enough facial hair that it wasn’t a beard but was definitely intentional. Lips so sensual I felt their curl deep inside.

The evening might have gone differently if Thomas looked like that. Probably not for the best though.

Emmett’s face appeared in front of me. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, my shoe landed funny.” I resumed my progress down the stairs behind him.Focus. “Twelve minutes to the hour.”

“You never space out.”

“And you’re never two minutes late,” I shot back.

A slender, dark-skinned woman in red brocade and a tuxedoed man with matching accents stood at the base of the staircase, in our way. Emmett smiled at them and excused himself, then another couple, a pair of women, and we were almost at the exit.

“Emmett Reynolds!” came a deep voice behind us.

Don’t react, Em.

Emmett spun us around, his scrunched brow quickly replaced by a wide smile. Blue Eyes. The two shook, and Emmett clapped the man’s shoulder. “Mal? I haven’t seen you in forever! What are you—”

The newcomer inclined his head and glanced toward me, looking pointedly at Emmett. “Who’s the beauty with you?”

“My wife.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Eloise.”

Instead of taking the offered hand of greeting, I folded my arms. Ten minutes to the hour. We didn’t have time for this. Rav was already on the move. “I thought we were leaving.”

“We are, baby cheeks.” He grinned, and I huffed rather than slapping the look off his face. Making a scene wasn’t an option. “This is my old friend, Mal—”

Blue Eyes held up a hand.

Over his shoulder, I spotted Thomas coming down the stairs, studying the crowd. Looking for me? Or his father? I turned to face Emmett, presenting my back to his friend. Eyes narrowed, I whispered the one word that would snap his attention to me. “Broccoli.”

Shit, he mouthed. About time. “Sorry, Mal, but we’ve got to go.”

He grabbed me by the upper arm and yanked me the final fifteen feet to the exit. One of the staff took his information to the valet.

In a moment of weakness, I checked the glass in the front doors. It was dark enough outside to reflect the crowd at our backs. I was looking for Slobbery-Mouth, but what I caught was Blue Eyes staring at me. Not at my back, but locking eyes with mine in the reflection. My lungs heaved for real this time.

Dammit, he was gorgeous. But a distraction I didn’t need.

He smirked at me, and a furious heat flushed through my body. Not good. I barged out and stalked across the granite landing, down the stairs, onto the circular cobblestone driveway. A black Ferrari rolled to a stop, and a valet opened the passenger door so I could slide in as Emmett did the same on the driver’s side.

Once the doors shut, he revved the engine once—typical—and pulled out.

I rolled my eyes. “Twenty fifty-eight. Cake should be coming out in two. Rav, you got that?”

His light French accent sounded in my ear as Emmett progressed down the long driveway. “Copy.”

“Jayce, manuscript is still there and matches the specs we lifted from the safe company. Your carrying case will work. You’re good in two?”

“Copy that,” came a female voice.

“Per plan, the northern-most window is unlocked, and the library has been secured from the outside. Drawer is number eight on the schematic. Pull it out to see the keypad.”

“Confirmed number eight.”

“Code is…” I shook my head and looked at Emmett. “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight.”

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