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I’ve got to hand it to him, it’s no wonder all the women are falling all over themselves when he’s around. The man may as well have invented the sexy smolder.
“I’m not playing any game,” I say innocently, though we both know, I definitely am. “You and I had a deal. You haven’t followed through with your end even though I havemorethan followed through with mine.”
His eyes flash menacingly and he leans forward, placing his hands on the hood on either side of me, effectively caging me in. My breath hitches and heat pools in my core at the press of his thighs against my knees, forcefully spreading them apart.
Yeah . . . I definitely need to get laid.
“You know B and E is a crime, little doe?”
I swallow over the lump in my throat, my heart hammering in my chest from the proximity of him. His scent encompasses me and something warm flutters in my core. Fresh soap, smoke, and leather. Him.
“So is hacking into the governor’s private databases,” I whisper, and his jaw flutters dangerously.
Gently, almost involuntarily, his finger traces the line of bare skin that shows where my t-shirt rests on top of my jeans. I let out a shaky breath, and even though my palms are slipping against the hood of the car, I force myself to stay rooted in place.
He doesn’t say anything, but if the heat in his stare was enough, I would have gone up in flames.
“Get in the car.”
He steps away from me in a flash and my heart nearly bottoms out from the wash of intensity firing in the air between us.
Good. Distance is good.
Carefully, I slide to my feet, stumbling—unfortunately—into Mason.
Maybe I shouldn’t have drank so much to prove my point.
“What’s the matter, little doe?” Mason cocks a brow at me. “Too much to drink.”
He holds out his hand and begrudgingly, I give him the keys.
He chuckles darkly, moving to the driver’s side of my little yellow bug, shaking his head.
“Passenger seat.”
Mason
Hannah is a shit criminal.
“It’s that one,” she whispers loudly, pointing at a blue two-story house off a canal in Venice.
I shake my head, grabbing her hand and pushing it down.
“No. It’s that one.” I point next door to Melissa Gaine’s orange adobe “house” that cost Parker a fortune. The two buildings are almost identical. Like most things in LA, everything’s a carbon copy of something else and I’m not just talking about houses.
“No, it’s not,” Hannah argues, stepping up to the back gate of the blue house and peaking her head over the bushes that are almost as tall as she is.
I step up beside her, nodding to an upstairs window.
“There’s a TV on in the bedroom. You really want to go breaking into some random stranger’s house in the middle of the night, or do you want to get what we came for?”
She narrows her eyes on me. I wait for her to admit she’s wrong.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she steps up to the bushes behind the orange house, sneaking down the line of foliage as if she’s auditioning to be the next James Bond. I resist the urge to chuckle. It’s evident she’s never fucking done this before.
California’s princess, breaking the rules.
