Page 12 of The One-Night Heist

“Robert and I used to love Fire Island in the summer,” Dowager Winchester added as we were miraculously waved through. “I would spend hours sunbathing while he disappeared with his friends…”

Disappeared into his friends more like it.

Once inside, I led my geriatric bestie to a salmon-colored velvet couch before waving down a waiter to bring over the drinks and nosh.

Lemme get a look at those cocktail weenies…

Of course, the selection was more like puff pastries full of air and garnished twigs, but I still loaded up a napkin and grabbed two flutes of champagne.

“Oh, nothing for me, dear.” Mrs. Robert A. Winchester waved off my alcoholic offering, her diamond bracelet catching the light. “I came for the art. Angelica Luxford had such an eye for beauty…”

Following her rheumy gaze, I finally took in my surroundings. The art was a well-curated yet predictable mix of Art Nouveau, Abstract Expressionism, and Cubism—with a few newer pieces thrown in the mix—but the decor was what truly caught my eye.

For some reason, I’d been expecting the Luxford compound to be decorated like Versailles but fancier, with taxidermied wild boars and formal family portraits covering the wallpapered walls. Instead, I was getting Old Hollywood vibes—black, white, and gold accented by jewel-toned velvet and lacquered finishes. The lighting was dramatic and, thanks to all the mirrored surfaces, created a glamorous atmosphere I hated.

Because I don’t hate it one bit.

As my gaze fell on what was probably an actual Picasso, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, my body instinctively tensing as I realized I was being watched.

“Hello, Mrs. Winchester. You’re looking well.”

Slowly turning, I mentally prepared myself to take in Giancarlo Luxford in all his glory.

I still wasn’t prepared.

Good Lord.

I’d thought he’d looked delectable at The Skyline, but apparently, that getup had been what he probably considered “casual.” The black suit he was currently wearing screamed bespoke tailoring, the structure so flattering and the fabric so rich I wanted to run my hands all over it.

All over him.

To add to my daze was that scent of his—smoky and warm. I caught leather and tobacco with a hint of citrus, and I would bet my stolen money that even the bottle looked expensive.

I just want to bathe myself in it.

“Rowen…” I snapped out of my stupor to find his gaze running over me appreciatively as he added, “I’m so glad you came.”

Don’t you dare take that opening.

There’s an ancient lady present!

“Mr. Quincy has been playing host in your absence, Giancarlo.” Mrs. Winchester patted my hand in what I assumed was a grandmotherly way. “The perfect gentleman.”

Pffft.

Giancarlo pointedly cleared his throat. “Yes, Rowen is known for his excellent manners.”

His eyes met mine, sparkling with humor, and my stomach flipped.

It would definitely be bad manners to run for the door, right?

As if sensing my internal panic, Giancarlo’s brow furrowed, but then our chaperone blessedly spoke.

“Well, it’s nice to see you making friends.” She turned to address me alone while not lowering her voice one bit. “Giancarlo was always such an odd child…”

Oh?

“May I steal you away, Rowen?” The “odd child” in question hurriedly cut in, adorably blushing beneath his naturally tan skin. “I would like to… ask you a few questions about my mother’s art.”