Page 16 of The One-Night Heist

Not that I ever had the chance…

“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” Rowen asked, and I could’ve wept in relief at the segue. When I nodded, he puffed out a breath. “Okay, well… I don’t really know much about the value of art. The only time it's ever mattered is when someone else has hired me to…”

I silently watched as realization washed over his criminally handsome face. When his bright green eyes met mine again, they were dark with anger.

“Is that what you were planning to talk to me about, Giancarlo?” he gritted out, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s the professional conversation we needed to have?”

I opened my mouth to confirm, but he held up a hand to silence me, as if needing a moment to compose himself.

While I normally would be too polite to push, desperation made me bold. “When we parted ways at The Skyline, you mentioned the value of my collection would increase if it were stolen. Is that true?”

Rowen’s jaw worked beneath the surface, but then he appeared to relax. Slightly. “Yes… That’s why the Mona Lisa is so famous—because a handyman at the Louvre wanted to liberate her back to Italy. It’s part of why the value of the thirteen pieces still missing from the 1990 Gardner Museum heist are now worth close to one billion dollars.” He eyed me suspiciously. “Is that all you need from me? My expert opinion on stolen art?”

Not even close.

I shook my head, and he advanced so quickly, I barely had time to stand before he was on me.

“Who put you up to this?!” He practically ripped open my suit jacket, shoving his hands beneath. “Was it Markel? That asshole has been wanting to pin something on me since the day they brought me in as a consultant.”

“What are you doing?” I gasped as he roughly ran his hands over my chest, making my dick instantly harden.

This close, his eyes blazed, framed by red and filling my vision, and his scent—fresh sage and lemon with an undertone of spicy amber and cinnamon—had me close to passing out.

“Where’s the wire, Giano?” Rowen growled, sliding his hands around to my back, yanking me closer. “Where’s the fucking—oh.” He glanced down to where his groin was pressed flush against mine. “That’s not a wire.”

“N-no, it’s not,” I choked out, dizzy from his proximity—from the way he’d just handled me. “I’m not setting you up, Rowen, I swear.”

I need you.

He abruptly released me and stumbled backward, his gaze lingering on the evidence of my arousal before slowly lifting to my face. “What about this room? Is it tapped?”

“What?” I smoothed out my shirt before rebuttoning my jacket, beyond flustered. “Of course it isn’t⁠—”

“Are you sure about that, Luxford?” He gave me a look that had cold dread skittering down my spine.

“No one comes in here aside from me and my family’s longtime staff,” I huffed, wanting to get on with things before I lost my nerve. “If you would prefer, we can head upstairs, where you can pick any room you like. We could go to the roof for all I care!”

“You have roof access?” he asked in an oddly flat tone.

“Yes,” I snapped, confused as to why he was focusing on that detail at this exact moment. “The apartment has three levels—all the way to the top of the building.”

“Of course it goes all the way to the top…” he muttered under his breath before sighing heavily. “Listen, Giano, I can’t…” His expression was pleading—oddly vulnerable. “I can’t end up in prison. I can’t be… trapped there…”

My protective instincts rose up so forcefully, I blurted out the first thing I could think of. “I won’t let that happen to you. I promise.”

Please, trust me.

His panic instantly morphed into cold calculation—a practiced mask—and, once again, I wished I could read his mind, if only to ease my own.

Please.

“Okay. Get me a piece of paper, a pencil, and a lighter,” he finally said, circling the desk and sitting in my chair, making it abundantly clear who was in charge in this situation. “Then we can talk.”

Six

Rowen

An hour later I was walking along Central Park East, stomping my way downtown and ignoring the M4 bus periodically speeding past, hoping the crisp night air might clear my head.