Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters, dressing them up in sequins, and making them steal things.

Unbeta'd, unedited.

Heist

Jewels, fine art, exotic collectibles, you name it. It's all fair game to me. After all, my marks are just a bunch of dumb, rich men, ripe for the picking. Too bad a certain do-gooder investigator keeps getting in my way. AH.

Footsteps echo through the dimly lit hall.

Freezing, I curse under my breath and strain to pinpoint where they're coming from.

The best I can tell, whoever it is, he's somewhere down the long, perpendicular corridor coming from the East Wing. His stride's long and sure, distinctly male and obviously familiar with the surroundings. Instead of the crisp pop of expensive leather, rubber soles scuff and squeak.

Security.

That's the last thing I need right now, and with the high, vaulted ceilings and fine Italian marble flooring, it's almost impossible to gauge how much time I have before he spots me. Seconds, no more than that. At best, I give myself thirty. At worst, five.

"Fuck," I whisper as I dab at the fine layer of perspiration gathering at my hairline. Heart racing, I press myself deeper into the shadowy alcove of the arched doorway. Careful not to thump against the wall or the elegantly carved door on accident, my fingers slip into my pocket for a better tool. When I finally feel the telltale shape and weight, an involuntary smile creeps across my face because this one's my lucky pick, the one that never lets me down.

"Security 3," a voice says, flat and tinny through the speaker of a radio. "This is Security 1. What's your location?"

The footsteps halt as I insert my tension wrench and begin to set the pins. A low, baritone growl of irritation reverberates down the hall. "Security 1, this is Security 3," he says, and I pick up another gruff sound of annoyance. "Just hit the West Wing, third floor. What's the problem?"

"Copy that," the voice replies, dry and indifferent. "Hurry up and finish your round. I need you to head toward the front gate. We have a potential Code Orange, and Michaels may need backup."

The guard grunts. "Where the fuck's Dave?"

There's a bleep of static, followed by a wry snort. "He's out back. He's escorting one of the bossman's guests back to her driver before she makes a scene."

I mute my laugh in the crook of my elbow because I know exactly which guest he's talking about. Tanya Romanova – socialite, erstwhile model, and now third and much younger wife of billionaire-shipping magnate Alex Retzos – can't hold her liquor for shit. Plus, by now, that blonde beauty's got a nose full of blow, and when she's high, she's a handful and a half.

As the guard signals his affirmative, I set the final pin. When I gently wriggle the curved handle, there's a soft click of the lock giving way. That little click sounds positively deafening in the silence, and for a second, my eyes squeeze shut. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I hold my breath, just waiting for that SOB to come barreling down the hall.

Instead, I hear him hum some old ditty under his breath as he jiggles the knob of another door.

My lungs deflate in a sharp expulsion of air. Without wasting another moment, as the security guard checks another room, I ease the door open and silently slip inside, flipping the lock behind me.

Like the rest of the sprawling mansion overlooking the Hudson, with its high, trayed ceilings, exotic wood furniture, and opulent linens and cushions, Alistair Moody's private study is the picture of old, aristocratic wealth and affluence. But… like the man himself, it's eclectic, too.

As my eyes slowly adjust to the deeper darkness, I glance around and mentally tag the fortune's worth of fine art decorating the walls. With the pale moonlight streaming in from the west-facing window, it's just enough that I can tell they're all Old-world Masters, framed in thick, gilded wood and positioned behind museum-quality glass, with no more than the barest hint of security.

Across the room, a Grecian marble bust, likely dating to the late Hellenistic period, sits in a hollowed-out niche. A blue and white Ming vase occupies another. A 15th-century Gothic German coat of armor – complete with longsword and ceremonial halberd – guards the northeast corner. Hundreds of antique, leather-bound books line floor-to-ceiling shelves, and in the center of the room, beneath a glittering Swarovski chandelier, a priceless Persian rug floats on top of the delicately-laid wood flooring.

It's all interesting, and my fingers itch at the sight of it, but that's not why I'm here tonight.

Pivoting, I scan the scrollwork plaster panel beside me and feel for the tiny lip I know is there. It's a little harder to find with gloves on, but soon enough, the hinge releases, and I'm left staring at a thin, modern security panel, completely at odds with the room behind me. On the LED screen sitting above the keypad, crimson block letters blink: SECURITY ARMED.

I pause, listening for the guard outside one last time. He's closer now, definitely on my hall, and the low humming has now morphed into offkey whistling. His rubber soles scuff on by, not even slowing when he passes the study, and after a few more seconds, the pitch of his steps changes as he turns down another hall.

I key in Moody's code, and a beat later, those little red letters flash to yellow: TEMPORARY OVERRIDE.

An annoyed huff spills out, and I scowl at those glowing letters. That code was supposed to get me in indefinitely. Apparently, my source was wrong.

No matter. I don't need that long anyway.

With a nonchalant shrug, I silently cross the room, padding over the priceless rug to the brightly colored French still-life situated between a pair of darker Flemish hunting scenes. Grinning at Moody's obvious choice, I touch the frame and gently swing it open, only to reveal the square black safe behind it.

This one's a piece of cake.

I punch in my second code – the one I obtained myself – into the keypad, and with a soft whir of the bolt, the safe door pops open. My stomach flutters with anticipation. Reaching inside, I find exactly what I knew would be there. Careful not to disturb the stacks of aged parchment on either side, I extract a velvet-lined tray, spin around to Moody's desk, and risk a quick flicker of my penlight.

Swaddled in inky velvet, dozens of loose jewels wink back at me. Fine diamonds, Burma rubies, Colombian emeralds, and Kashmir sapphires, they sparkle like a sea of gleaming stars in the midnight sky above.

It's a jewel thief's wet dream.

While it's oh-so-tempting, I don't clean him out, however. No, that's too obvious, and my goal is singular tonight. So, using my penlight, I tip back a layer of velvet.

"There you are," I whisper, marveling at the rare, rare 7-carat crystalline blue teardrop diamond lying in the back of the tray. Internally flawless and cut by a master's hand to shine like the sun, the thing's worth a fortune… despite its murky provenance.

Without a hint of ceremony or hesitation, I pluck the jewel from its nest and slip it into my opposite pocket. "And now, you're mine."

Ten minutes later, back in my floor-length, blue-black dream of a dress, I descend the grand central staircase on sky-high, red-soled stilettos. My heels rap against the marble, barely discernable over the roar of the adjacent ballroom and the melodic strains of the string quartet floating in the fragrant air. As I follow the arc of the stairs, the ornate ivory and gold ballroom comes into view, along with the throng of Moody's well-heeled guests in all their sequined, tuxedoed finery.

Like most of these events, Alistair Moody's winter spectacular is a veritable buffet of exceptional beauty and wealth. Everywhere I look, tall, leggy models with flawless faces and figures mingle with salt-and-pepper tycoons twice their age in a transaction as old as time.

Not like it matters. After all, everyone brings something to the negotiating table.

Speaking of, a high, nasally tenor reaches my ears as soon as I hit the bottom step. "Bella!"

Sporting my best sultry smile, I slowly turn, only to be dragged into a now too-familiar embrace. Long, bony fingers frame my hip, and when the thin, balding sixty-something dips his bulbous head, attempting to plant a kiss on my lips, I breathe in an unfortunate concoction of seafood, bourbon, and Cuban cigars.

"Ali," I purr, dodging Moody's not-subtle advances with a firm palm on his Italian wool lapel. While there's no way he could feel it through all the layers of shimmery organza, the fortune bouncing at the bottom of my dress pocket feels like a lead weight. Grinning at his exuberance, I press my lips to his cheek in a lingering kiss, staining his wan skin stoplight red, then surreptitiously reposition so I can pretend to straighten his tie. "You've really outdone yourself tonight. The house looks gorgeous. How many made it out?"

"Pfft!" Moody scoffs and waves me off, oblivious to my dissembling. "This is nothing. Just the usual crowd, along with a bit of fresh meat." He wags his unkempt brows and makes a show of eyeing me up and down, pausing in all the places that make me want to bathe… with bleach. "Now, Cinderella, I must show you off before you disappear on me. You are absolutely stunning tonight."

I let out a peal of throaty laughter and let him tug me toward the roaring ballroom. Halfway across the entry, Moody halts as if he's suddenly remembered something. His head cocks, then he glances over my bare shoulder. His thin, almost-translucent lips spread into a wide, toothy rictus of a grin.

"Edward!" Alistair's nasally voice echoes off the marble. I wince as another round of pungent breath washes over me. "It's about time you showed up!"

Throwing his arm up to signal a tuxedoed attendant, Moody spins us toward the entry just in time for me to catch a guarded, emerald-eyed gaze widen in momentary shock. The guy recovers quickly, however, and his face creases into a semblance of a polite, unassuming smile as he heads over to meet us.

The new guy says something back as he approaches, but I miss it.

No, I'm too busy admiring the scenery.

Moody's bony fingers cinch around my hip, breaking my abstraction. He leans in to whisper in my ear. "Behave yourself, young lady, or I just might get jealous."

It's a playful, chiding rebuke, and I laugh again, still eying the tall, lean, handsome stranger with messy, bed-head hair the color of a dirty penny. The closer he gets, the better he looks. "Why on earth should I?"

"Bella," Alistair says, nodding at the newcomer. "I'd like you to meet Edward Cullen. He's just moved to the city." Moody leans in closer, this time with a conspiratorial wink. "He's with the FBI, of all things. How exciting is that?"

.

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Notes [Please read]:

1. Yes, I'm aware I have another fic going. But a bunny bit me and wouldn't let go, so I'm going to attempt to run two stories at the same time like I used to way back when.

2. This story is written for the express purpose of entertainment and is rated M for a reason. Expect adult content and language, probably a little violence, and a few sexual situations along the way. Characters may behave badly and in ways that I don't personally condone.

3. You may see a few familiar names from other stories (e.g. Alex Retzos). These stories aren't linked in any way. I'm just recycling a few characters that I enjoyed writing.

4. I really hope you decide to join me on this little ride. I think it's going to be fun. I always, always love hearing from you.