Page 81 of The One-Night Heist

You know it’s true.

“I don’t need your charity, Giano,” he huffed, refusing to make eye contact. “Your fucking matched luggage and closet full of sprezza-slut outfits. Your fifty-thousand-dollar watches and liaison liberation. I don’t want any of it—not if…”

“If it means I own you,” I quietly filled in the blanks as the anger bled out of me, as another puzzle piece fell into place. “It doesn’t. Not at all. Just because I enjoy spending money on you—enjoy making things better for you—it doesn’t mean you owe me anything. Jesus, Ro…” I laughed and ran a hand through my hair, wishing I could make him see. “I’d have an easier time trying to control the weather than control you, and I wouldn’t want to even if I could.”

I like you exactly how you are.

His eyes were still averted, his jaw working as he absorbed what I was saying—hopefully along with what I wasn’t saying as well. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I decided to pretend your art was in Italy partly because I had to find out about your fiancée from fucking Markel, of all people,” he muttered, peeking at me from beneath his lashes before looking away again, cheeks flushed. “I know you told me your relationship with Anastasia means nothing, but we both know she’s exactly who you should be with.”

None of that matters.

“The press has said a lot of things about us over the years,” I replied, smiling sadly. “Ana has played her role as my steadfast companion all this time precisely to help both of us exist without constant scrutiny, but we’ve never claimed to be engaged. It doesn’t matter now, because I don’t need to hide who I am anymore. I don’t want to. I want people to know the real me, and who I choose to openly be with now that I have the choice.”

I don’t want to hide what I feel for you.

His gaze snapped to mine, dark with anger once again. “What do you think is gonna happen here, Luxford? The eligible bachelor billionaire leaves his supermodel faux-fiancée to announce he’s got a hard-on for a dirtbag instead? The Post will have a field day with that one…”

“Stop it,” I hissed, equally furious. “You will stop speaking so badly of yourself—stop even thinking it. You are a good man, Ro, and there’s nothing you can do to convince me otherwise.”

What do I have to do to show you how worthy you are?

He threw his head back and laughed, a bitter sound that felt like a knife to the gut. Then his gaze met mine again, glassy eyes filled with pity as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and placed it between his trembling lips.

“Okay, fine. You want to know why else I staged this whole ‘runaway art collection in Italy’ ruse, Giancarlo? Because I could. Because I’m a dirtbag who enjoys doing dirtbag things, especially if it means getting to eat the rich. Nothing gets me harder than hearing a billionaire beg me for what he wants—whether it’s for my tongue in his ass or for his stupid, priceless art collection to be returned to him, safe and sound.”

The force of his rage had me stumbling back a step, but then I realized to my acute devastation, that his biting, vicious scorn wasn’t aimed at me at all.

He truly believes everything he’s saying.

My chest ached to the point of pain. I already knew Rowen stole Poppy #5 as a potential bargaining chip, because he expected to need a reason to negotiate with me. By “strong-arming” the liaison situation, I proved him right, even if I hadn’t taken the bait.

Even if all I’d wanted was to keep him close.

His actions were understandable, in a sad sort of way, since I hadn’t earned his trust yet. Even now, even after giving him the chance to explain himself, to tell the truth, he continued to hide behind the same story he’d probably always told—and been told—about himself, because he assumed I’d believe it too.

Unredeemable, unwanted, unlovable.

Well, allow me to show you how wrong you are.

Instead of replying—because he wouldn’t believe anything I said anyway—I wordlessly dropped to my knees and began to crawl.

“What are you…” he began, eyes widening and unlit cigarette falling out of his gaping mouth. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Anything I need to make you mine.

“Please, Mr. Quincy,” I begged as I stopped in front of his beautiful Berluti boots, gazing up at him with all the desperate longing I legitimately felt. “Please tell me what you’ve done with Poppy #5…”

Tell me you love it—love this—as much as I do.

He stared down at me in clear disbelief for several seconds before huffing a laugh and spreading his legs, that delicious confidence of his returning in full force.

No matter how false it may be.

“I dunno, Moneybags…” he drawled, tapping my thigh with the toe of his boot. “What will you do for that information?”

“Anything,” I murmured, lowering my head and licking a wet stripe from his toe to his ankle.