Page 4 of The One-Night Heist

“What a fucking creep.”

Agent Markel drunkenly peered around, seemingly confused by the disembodied voice, but Franz smoothly steered us all to safer waters.

“As I was saying…” My longtime mentor and friend cleared his throat while shooting me an apologetic look. “The sarcophagus case was one of the most exciting I’ve ever been involved with, and Agent Markel here was the one who cracked the case.”

“That’s correct.” The federal agent hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and rocked on his heels, his chest puffed up with pride. “The department nailed that French art dealer on fraud and money laundering after we determined the provenance papers had been forged⁠—”

“Am I included in that ‘we,’ Markel?” A velvety voice shivered down my spine as our mysterious guest walked toward us from the shadows—his cigarette stub bouncing off the terrace’s concrete floor ahead of his arrival. “Considering I alone proved the documentation was fake.”

My breath caught as he stepped into the light, just as it had when I first saw Poppy #5.

The similarities were unnerving.

Entrancing, mesmerizing…

Trouble.

The rapidly fading sun was creating a fiery, orange halo around the man’s brilliant red hair and causing his bright green eyes to sparkle mischievously. This may have been his natural state, however, as a cheeky grin spread across his cherubic face, revealing the incredibly distracting space between his front teeth.

Definitely trouble.

“Oh,” Agent Markel’s tone was sour, as if the sight of this newcomer had instantly sobered him up. “Hello, Quincy…”

Now Franz was smiling widely, already extending his hand toward the glowing angel before me. “Rowen Quincy?! Well, this is a treat. I’ve heard so much about you⁠—”

“All good things, I’m sure…” Rowen purred as he shook Franz’s hand before turning those piercing eyes my way. “How ‘bout you, Moneybags? Am I a treat for you as well?”

It certainly appears so.

I’d experienced this brand of fixation before—in the pages of a Sotheby’s auction catalogue—and I immediately knew there was no escaping the pull.

That one.

Against all reason, and despite, or because of, the danger emanating from his presence, I wanted this mysterious, achingly beautiful man. Not only to admire in an abstract sense, as I had with Poppy #5, but to make him mine.

Something just for me.

Two

Rowen

“Ignore him,” Markel sighed—talking about me, of course—shaking the ice in his empty glass and looking around as if the waitstaff were awaiting his beck and call. “I need a refill.”

“So do we,” I shot back, snatching my new friend’s empty glass and practically shoving it at my nemesis. “A Boulevardier for Moneybags here and an amaretto sour for me. Extra sweet.”

Agent Markel’s face was turning a lovely shade of purple at this point, but before he could take a swing at me, the older guy in the pinstripe suit threw his arm around the washed-up Fed’s shoulders and guided him back inside.

Smell ya later, G-man.

“I’ll send out a waiter with your drink orders, Giano!” Pinstripes called over his shoulder as they crossed the threshold, the familiarity implying they had a close relationship. “Enjoy talking to one of the greatest art thieves of the last twenty years.”

Psssh…

The last century at least.

If “Giano” was surprised by the news of my provenance, he didn’t show it. His conventionally handsome face was the epitome of calm—a perfect example of the placid mask all rich people wore, because they’d never had to deal with the struggles of real life the way us “poors” did.

Some of us more than others.