Page 35 of The One-Night Heist

“Hello, Ana…” I put the call on speaker while I pulled on the shirt I’d ironed last night as a distraction. “Where in the world are you?”

“I am standing in the lobby of your building, Gianechka,” my longtime friend cooed over the line in her slight Russian accent. “But Robert tells me you are not home…”

Shit.

Robert had been one of our doormen since shortly before my father died. While some of the younger ones might have told my unexpected guest I was simply unavailable to protect my privacy, Robert knew Ana personally—had watched us both grow up in the building. He wouldn’t dream of lying to either of us, and I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Woe to the man who tries to lie to Anastasia Bosco.

She was the daughter of a Russian oligarch and an American supermodel, and was one of the only other people on earth who knew I was gay. She was a favorite “date” for my mother to set me up with, but after a particularly disastrous kiss, she’d asked—in her usual blunt way—if I wished she was a boy. I’d confessed everything and she’d surprised me with an uncharacteristically warm hug before stating matter-of-factly that she was to be my “lavender wife” from that day forward.

Since then, I’d invited her to be my date at every gala and soiree I was expected to attend, including the one happening this Friday. Sometimes she could join me, but more often than not, she was booked for an international photo shoot or premier runway event. In those cases, I fulfilled my social duties alone, and since neither of us had ever been publicly tied to anyone else, the press simply assumed an ongoing, casual relationship between two independent heirs.

Which has been the perfect arrangement for both of us.

Until now…

“It is unlike you to spend the night elsewhere,” she murmured, humor lacing her tone. “Even when you’ve enjoyed an evening with someone from… the club.”

I should never have told her about the club.

The issue was that I also found it impossible to lie to Ana, but Rowen had stressed that telling even one person about our connection could doom the entire operation.

“Yes, I… was too tired after last night’s encounter to head home,” I haltingly explained. “But I can be there in fifteen minutes if you want coffee or⁠—”

Ana snorted. “As much as I would love to squeeze the details of your encounter out of you over a double espresso from that glorious machine of yours, I must run to a fitting nearby. But count me in for the gala, Gianechka! You know I wouldn’t miss it. Scott can pick me up in Chelsea at seven o’clock and then we’ll swing back here to get you… Since I know Robert will want to see my outfit.”

Robert confirmed as much in the background before we said our goodbyes. As soon as I hung up, the full weight of what I was planning with Rowen washed over me like a bucket of ice water.

There’s no turning back now.

While I knew I could call the whole thing off at any time between now and Friday, I wouldn’t. Not only was I desperate to sell Mother’s art for a small fortune of easily accessible funds, but now I needed to keep Rowen in my life for as long as humanly possible.

What if he takes the money I give him and runs afterward?

The idea—the probable reality—of that happening weighed heavily on me as my car headed uptown. Even Franz’s text message stating that not only were the photos of Mother’s art up on the Sotheby’s website, but that considerable buzz was already building, could snap me out of my dark mood.

“Good morning, Mr. Luxford,” Robert cheerfully called out as he held open the lobby door for me to stride past. “Ms. Bosco was looking well.”

I huffed a strained laugh. “We’ve both told you that you don’t need to be so formal with us, Robert.”

He made a noncommittal sound. “Yes, but… especially in your case, you are the head of the family now.”

I am, aren’t I?

My face must have shown the sheer panic I was feeling—the weight of generations of Luxfords before me—as Robert warmly chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Oh! I have a package for you. It was delivered via… Instacart this morning.”

Instacart?

I knew what it was, of course, but I’d never used the service myself. Anywhere I ordered from was usually bespoke and used a private courier service for deliveries.

Rowen would probably call that “snooty.”

“It’s from a Mr… Q?” Robert read off what appeared to be a handwritten note stapled to the side of a plastic Duane Reade bag.

“Oh, yes, I’ll take that, Robert, thank you!” I practically yanked the bag from his hands, manners be damned as I was terrified over what the bag might contain.

It could be anything, knowing Rowen.