Page 11 of The One-Night Heist

RUDE!

“Passable,” I huffed, even though I hadn’t seen the doorman at all. Then I slapped the less presumptuous one on the shoulder before slipping one of Giancarlo’s fifties into his back pocket and helping myself to his keycard while I was in there. “But never fear, my prenup is ironclad.”

This seemed to appease the crew on my behalf. As we rattled upward, the conversation drifted to where the, frankly, hideous floral arrangements were headed—and of course, I knew the Wentworths! My cheating wife and I had dinner with them last week—before the others got off at a lower floor, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Always a dangerous place to end up.

Now that I had nothing to distract me from watching the numbers light up one by one, I could feel my anxiety rising in time with the elevator car.

What the fuck am I doing?

That was a question, although not the question, which was more along the lines of why Giancarlo had invited me here in the first place. Because the service elevator was moving at tortoise speed, I had more than enough time to replay the voicemail he’d originally left for me—like a Boomer in a thirty-something-year-old’s hot body.

“Hello. This is a message for Rowen Quincy…”

That part made me smirk, knowing my generic outgoing message probably threw him for a loop.

“Giancarlo Luxford calling. We met at The Skyline during the FBI… team event.”

A slightly awkward clearing of the throat happened at this part, and the vision of Mr. Easy Street sweating his way through this exercise delighted me to no end.

“…I’m calling with an invitation to an exclusive pre-auction art viewing event at my family’s home on the Upper East Side. With your background, I was hoping you could attend.”

Then he’d rattled off the address before repeating that he hoped to see me there.

Someone with my background…

Does he mean my current gig or former hustle?

As I continued to ascend to the not-quite-tippy-top of the building, I was no longer sure I wanted to go through with this—whatever this even was. But the instant the doors opened on the 29th floor, that expensive Giancarlo scent wafted into the elevator car and I drifted out into the hallway like a cartoon skunk.

It’s like a goddamn sex potion!

Ignoring the nondescript door with keycard access straight ahead—and instinctively turning away from the security camera mounted above—I rounded the corner, following the murmur of voices echoing off the gold-veined Italian marble floor. As I rounded the corner, I spotted an elderly woman looking straight out of Bridgerton, hunched beneath the weight of her sparkling jewels and hobbling toward the short line awaiting entry.

That’s my cue!

“Please allow me to help, ma’am,” I murmured, flashing a chivalrous smile as I offered the old dowager my arm.

“Oh, what a polite young man you are!” she chirped, slipping her thin arm through mine. “And so handsome.”

“My looks are entirely thanks to my mother’s side,” I lied, since I had no idea who I looked like. “Unfortunately, my father’s family practiced the storied tradition of consanguinity—you know, to consolidate the wealth—so they all had pretty big chins.”

“That’s nice, dear,” she absently replied, either stamping historical intermarriage with a seal of approval or not hearing me at all.

Maybe both?

“Names, please?” A pert blonde with a metal clipboard and boobs nearly up to her chin smiled brightly as we reached the ornate door.

“Mrs. Robert A. Winchester,” my companion announced with a wavering voice. “Of the Connecticut Winchesters.”

As opposed to the San Jose faction.

The blonde checked something off with a fluffy pink pen before turning her expectant gaze my way.

For one horrifying second, I wondered if I would even be on the list. I doubted Giancarlo left a voicemail at Mrs. Robert A. Winchester’s Connecticut mausoleum, so the possibility was there that my personal invitation might have gotten lost in the administrative shuffle.

“Rowen Quincy.” I lifted my chin, determined not to show any fear in these shark-infested waters. “Of the Fire Island Quincys.”