Page 126 of Stealing Blinds

My heart thumps to the beat of the music—the rush that always feeds me when entering a job coursing through my bloodstream to mix with this deep-seated trepidation I can’t shake.

Right before we pull up to the dock, Jax sways closer from the seat beside me. “Nothing says triumph more than sticking the landing when no one knew you were jumping.” He’s relating this to my first night in the Underground, pausing for me to nod that I’m following. “You’re a victor. You’ve already jumped, and from what I’ve seen, you always stick the damn landing.”

Not always, but I don’t say that.

“I do,” I whisper as Cash massages my neck, digesting this sidebar I’m having with his brother.

“Good.” Jax peers out at the expanse of water and sky, the blurring blues of the horizon. “This time … we stick it to the assholes who crossed us.”

I don’t have time to offer anything in return because the boat idles at the dock, and a hospitality crew greets us and helps us to solid ground.

“The Noires have arrived. I am Phillipe, and I will be attending to you this weekend.” The man’s whole face lights up with the thrill of someone who truly loves his job. “Rumor has it, you have been long-awaited guests.”

“This beauty finally convinced us.” Cash curls me into his side before tucking five hundred dollars into the bellman’s palm.

“Thank you, sir.” Phillipe offers a small bow in appreciation as Axel, Maddox, and Jax take care of the rest of the bellmen collecting our things, and he addresses me with a wink. “So, you are the brains of this group.”

“You could say that.” I laugh. “Rumor has it, you all have a lot to offer here.”

“Vous en rêvez, nous le réalisons,” he replies before his brown eyes twinkle, and he translates with his strong French accent. “You dream it, we make it a reality.”

Counting on it.

Once we’ve been issued our keys, we stroll into the main resort, weaving through and mingling with the throngs of guests also arriving. Panoramic views of the French Riviera cliffs in the distance and a sparkling blanket of navy water are accentuated by the quaint but lavish decor. Candlelight and lush florals, reclaimed wood and artistic touches of pottery, antique silver, and paintings I’d like to come back for. Soft music from a live band escorts the cocktail and hors d’oeuvres reception, cloaking the entire event in intimacy from the start.

“We’ve got a twenty on Peter Fairfax—main lobby,” Gage announces through the comm. “Beatrice Shaeffer …”

His information fades into the background as we all scatter, handling our designated tasks.

Cash and I sip champagne, making small talk and tagging anyone we presume suspicious. We’ve worked out a system where we both say the person’s name if we think they warrant recon. For the most part, we’re limiting our unnecessary conversations to three minutes—polite but freeing.

Unfortunately, our current situation has had us discussing stocks for upward of four hundred excruciating seconds. God knows how that happened.

“I put it all on Broadcom,” the sixty-something guy with a combover reveals. “It’s been quite a ride.”

“I imagine it would be.” Cash tips his glass in a way that is clearly condescending, but seems to go unnoticed by everyone else. “I might be coming your way, Jefferson. That’s a ride I’d like to take.”

Dear Lord.

“Fucking hell,” Maddox hisses into my ear, echoing my thoughts. “Are you gonna be blowing smoke up asses all night?”

“You can’t attack him now,” Wells chides from the boat. “He can’t respond.”

“That sounds like … ideal conditions,” Jax quips.

“Agreed, but save it and focus,” Axel redirects as he strides to greet Beatrice Shaeffer, his mouth near Zara’s ear, as if he were whispering sweet nothings to his wife, not the rest of us.

Since Cash seems to be holding his own, I roam. It will give him an excuse to break free, and I’m better at gauging people if I can simply observe.

A blonde, who appears a bit jittery, stops at the bar and requests a dirty martini, so I sidle up beside her and plop down on the stool.

“A lemon drop martini with Belvedere, please.” I let out a sigh. “Just a splash of lemonade.”

A moment later, the woman accepts her martini, plucking out the blue cheese–stuffed olive. “Exhausting travel day, overwhelmed by the amount of peopling required, or fighting with a significant other?”

“All of the above?” I grin, gathering the sugar on the rim as I sip. “Well, not fighting. Bored. I left an intense discussion about stocks in the dust.”

“Oh dear. I’m bracing for a few too many of those.” She offers her hand. “Lemon Wilkeshire.”