Page 2 of The San Marco Heist

“All done.” His hand drifted from my eyes, along my chest—but no touching—and circled to the small of my back, pulling me closer. This was a man used to taking what he wanted. Fortunately for me, what he wanted most was my reaction, and I’d gladly exchange it for what he was giving me.

Intel.

When the drawer opened fully, I sucked in a deep breath. The manuscript was exquisite. Fifteenth century vellum, the Latin lettering executed in immaculate black ink, framed in vines and leaves. Five oversized capitals of filigree and gold leaf. The top left contained an illumination of three men, two hills, and an angel.

The Codex of San Marco. Worth just shy of three-point-four million dollars.

Encased in an argon-filled titanium frame with double-walled glass. Not quite as secure as the Charters of Freedom, but that case certainly inspired this one.

“It’s so pretty,” I breathed, leaning against him to get a better look.

“You like?”

“Mm-hmm.” I bit my bottom lip, fluttering my eyelashes, which he actually saw this time.

“Legend has it this manuscript points to an immense treasure.”

“Ooh, that makes it even cooler.”

He shoved the drawer closed, but it slowed on its mechanized track. A nearly inaudible click sounded before he spun me against the bookcase, one hand leaning against a shelf by my head, the other dropping to my hip.

My left hip. Dammit.

A quick check of the clock on the far wall. Eight forty.

His hand eased down my side, inching slowly, and I slapped mine over it, halting his progress.

“I don’t even know your name,” I purred.

“Does it matter?” He dipped his head, lips brushing my neck, body pressing against me.

Thomas Gregory Maguire. Thirty-three. Eldest son of Phillip Maguire. Shame of his father, yet heir to a property development empire. Oxford dropout. Broke up with his model girlfriend two months ago. Still lived in this immense mansion with his parents.

I slid his hand on my hip to my ass—eight forty-one—and hooked a foot around his calf. This was approaching my cut-off point. At least he smelled divine.

His lips found their way to my earlobe, and I groaned, pulling him closer. Eight forty-two.

“Eloise!” came a sharp male voice from the doorway, and I pushed Thomas away. Emmett charged toward us, chest puffed, face red. His black tux and shirt, paired with the slick dark-brown hair and close-cropped beard, made him look more intimidating than usual. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Nothing!” I rushed to intercept him, leaving slobbery-mouth Maguire behind me. “Nothing happened, I swear!”

Emmett shouldered past me, finger raised. “If you ever touch my wife again, I will end you.”

Thomas looked more put out than worried or upset. “She came on to me.”

Instead of standing up for my honor, Emmett stalked back to me, grabbed my upper arm, and hauled me out of the room. “Typical.”

He stormed down the hall to the front of the house, muttering the whole way. ‘Gold digger. Irresponsible. Unfaithful.’

I hazarded a glance over my shoulder to find Thomas leaving the library. He closed the doors behind him, fiddled with the handles, and slipped something into his pocket. I winked at him before turning back to Emmett.

“You’re a brute,” I growled as we arrived at the gallery overlooking the foyer. Dozens of well-dressed people milled about below us, spilling into rooms that radiated out like the legs of a spider. The study, the drawing room, the snooker room. Laughter and chatter echoed through the space, bouncing off the chandeliers and statuary adorning the ostentatious display. Men in tuxedos and women in ball gowns dotted the balcony.

“Better a brute than a sleazebag.” He shot me a grin and continued dragging me.

“I hate attending these things with you,” I said louder than was necessary.

“Good, because we’re leaving.” Emmett slowed as we stepped onto the grand, white marble staircase. He was considerate of that, if nothing else, even though my stilettos were as comfortable as bare feet.

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