Page 57 of The One-Night Heist

He stole from me.

Again.

“Rowen…” I growled into the phone, hearing his breath catch on the other end. “What. Did. You. Do?”

Now him needing to borrow a jacket made sense—and my thickest, longest peacoat at that. The question was why he’d felt the need to take the painting at all, other than to drive the knife of betrayal in deeper.

And I refuse to believe he’s that heartless, despite his best efforts.

True to form, he huffed a carefree laugh. “Are you referring to whatever the hell happened back there or something else?”

When I didn’t reply—too angry to trust myself to speak—he quietly added, “Now you know why I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to come over, Giano.”

There seemed to be more behind that statement than what he was saying out loud, but his blessed return to using my nickname caused my brain to go into a strange, almost primal mode.

“Come over here. Now.”

I needed him here—along with my precious painting—and until I could have both of them in my sights again, permanently, I didn’t see how I could be expected to rest ever again.

This is going to be a problem.

“No,” he calmly replied, sounding back to his confident, cocksure self. “And that’s Mr. Quincy to you, because I’m the one in charge.”

Not of everything, you’re not.

I still had an ace up my sleeve, and at this point, he knew it. “Is that so? Tell me, Mr. Quincy. What was it exactly that Agent Lowry wanted to talk to you about before the press conference?”

He went silent again, and this time, I could tell he was seething. “You know damn well what,” he muttered. “But you can forget it.”

I tsked, channeling my mother facing off against anyone she’d seen as an opponent—which had been most everyone. “I don’t think I will. It would look a bit suspicious if I suddenly retracted my insistence that you be my trusted liaison, hmm?”

“Giano…” he warned, and I closed my eyes, envisioning his gorgeous face becoming even more beautiful with righteous anger. “You don’t want this.”

Don’t fucking tell me what I want.

“Oh, I do,” I chuckled, low and dark. “I want you to fly with me to Italy in my private jet, so we can search for my missing art together. I want you by my side every waking hour—right where I can see you—in case I need your expert consulting advice. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Mr. Quincy?”

It sounds like heaven to me.

“Fucking hell, Luxford!” he shouted, and I wished he was by my side at this moment, to see the triumphant smile on my face. “You win. Tell Lowry you want someone else being your personal pet and I’ll return your silly little flower painting.”

Oh.

I see.

Rowen hadn’t stolen Poppy #5 to betray me, or as a keepsake for his personal collection. He’d noticed the seemingly insignificant painting meant something to me and figured he could use it to negotiate with in the future.

Looks like the future came faster than expected.

Unfortunately for Rowen, I wanted him more than I wanted Poppy #5.

And I’ll have them both soon enough.

“No,” I replied, my lip curling in a sneer. “And that’s Mr. Luxford to you. Pack your bags, Rowen. Your new position starts tomorrow.”

Nineteen

Rowen