Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters, dressing them up in sequins, and making them steal things.
Unbeta'd, unedited.
I'm so tickled that you all are joining me! I absolutely loved seeing your reactions to the first chapter. That's what makes this all fun for me.
My watch chimes nine by the time Jasper buzzes me into the gallery.
Coffee, croissant, and phone in hand, I grin at our newest hire – a burly, black-suited security guard that tops my measly 5'4" by nearly a foot. With his platinum, perfectly coiffed hair, baby-smooth skin, and pale blue eyes, he's a cute one, all right. There's a particular vacancy there, however, and my gaze involuntarily drops to his waistband and the weapon sitting neatly against his hip.
I sure hope he doesn't shoot himself.
"Ms. Swan." Mark, Mike, whatever his name is, dips his pretty, dimpled chin and flashes me a row of blinding, neon-white teeth. "Can I help you with that?"
"I'm good, thanks." With a shake of my head, I wave him off before he can argue. As he graciously opens the door, my grin widens, turning mischievous and maybe – maybe – a little flirtatious. "Just don't shoot any of my clients, okay?" Mark/Mike's lips sink into an adorable frown, so I throw him a playful wink, just because I can. "Well… at least not today."
It takes him a beat to realize I'm joking. By the time he rumbles out his belated laugh, the door snicks behind me. Without wasting any more time, still amused, I make my way across the dark, immaculately-laid, chevron-patterned flooring. Like always, with each pop of my heels, my muscles unwind, and when I inhale, my body sighs at the unique blend of oil, age, paper, and iron that displaces the more pungent scents of Manhattan.
See, my gallery is a thing of absolute beauty, a long, rectangular oasis of pristine white walls, museum-worthy art, and fine, exotic collectibles.
Like Alistair, my current obscenely wealthy would-be suitor, and his mansion perched on the Hudson, my tastes are eclectic, running the gamut from Haring to Hockney to Cézanne to Degas. Wedged between colorful, abstract lines of modern masters stand mixed-media sculptures and millennia-old bronze and marble statuettes. Flawless, brightly woven Brazilian tapestries decorate one wall, opposite gilded 15th-century Italian altarpieces. A trio of matching Art Deco wrought iron chandeliers swing from the ceiling.
Then there's my jewels. Resting inside a long, velvet-lined display, a rare, rare sapphire-encrusted Audemars Piguet pocket watch glitters like the sun. Only the extravagant Rayaz Takat diamond and emerald pendant at the other end can rival it. Dozens of other pieces – all precious, sparkling heirlooms from now and bygone eras – sit in between. Artfully cut rubellite, tourmaline, and azurite crystals the size of my fist line the inset shelf above.
It's beautiful – all of it – and unlike Alistair, I'm not tacky when it comes to display.
Which is why people like him call me when they want something extraordinary.
It's also a very, very good cover for my other, less-than-legal activities.
"Ahem!" A pissy baritone echoes off the walls and breaks my abstraction. "Are you fucking with Mike already? Seriously?"
My brows climb halfway up to my hairline. As I spin around to face that familiar Southern drawl, I start to lift my hands in mock surrender. Instead, I take a bite of my croissant.
"What?" I say, trying and failing not to moan as rich, buttery goodness hits my tongue. "I was just saying hi."
"Like hell you were!" Dressed in his typical Italian wool and hand-sewn leather finery, my assistant, office manager, and sometimes friend huffs. "Bella, I swear, if you make this one quit, I'm leaving you. Sotheby's called me literally yesterday and raised their offer, so don't think I won't." When I just cram in another bite, Jasper's steel gray eyes narrow as he studies me from across the gallery. "Are you eating carbs?"
I manage to shuffle my coffee just enough to flip him off.
"Jesus Christ." Huffing again, he shoves an aggravated hand through stylishly unruly, dark blond hair. His cheeks suck in, and his pinched face tilts toward the ceiling. "Ugh, since you're running late – like usual – keep eating, and we'll run through your appointments."
Ten minutes later, seated behind my desk – a stunning, mid-century modern gift from one of my favorite clients – I drain the last of my coffee and scowl. "Damn it, when did he call?"
"This morning around seven," Jasper says, scrolling down his tablet without acknowledging my screwed-up expression. "On my personal cell since you weren't picking up yours." He throws that in there like it matters. There's no such thing as personal in our world. "Mr. Moody said he just got back and simply must see you. Preferably, today."
Some indecipherable sound of annoyance comes out of my mouth. Hopefully, it's enough to mask the abrupt sinking in my gut.
Not that I should be worried or anything.
After all, it's been two weeks since I plucked that diamond out of Alistair Moody's office safe, one since it crossed the Atlantic, destined for my anonymous buyer in Dubai. There hasn't been a hint that he's missed it, not a peep. Judging by the gigantic floral arrangements that continue to arrive at my front door, even if he's aware it's gone, I'm not on his radar.
Then again, Moody's been in Switzerland since the day after the party, skiing, drinking, fucking, doing whatever he does at that massive chalet of his in Zermatt.
"And yes, before you ask, Mr. Moody called himself." Ever one for a bit of morning drama, Jasper pauses for a sip of his customary spiced chai latte. It smells terrible, like maple syrup or something invading my nose. Then again, it could always be worse. It could be pumpkin. When I look suitably intrigued, he deigns to continue. "I politely told him I'd arrange it with his assistant just as soon as you bothered to come in."
I wonder if Alistair's assistants give him as much shit as Jasper gives me.
Probably not.
"Fine." Kicking off my heels, I lean back in my chair and throw my feet on top of my desk. Unsurprisingly, Jasper glares at me. I blow him a kiss. "I'll see him this afternoon, and, yes, I'll go to him. Did he say if he's in the city?"
Jasper nods, still glaring at my freshly pedicured toes. "He said he's staying at his place on 57th."
Well, that perks me right up. Nothing like a visit to Billionaire's Row. "Did he happen to mention what he wants?"
It's a careful, careful question, delivered with the mild tone of idle curiosity.
Because as much as I adore him, Jasper Whitlock is not cut out for criminal affairs. If he knew about my other… activities, he'd probably call the cops on me himself.
"Other than you, you mean?" he says, as dry as summer in the Sahara. When I flick my wrist in casual dismissal, he snorts. "Apparently, he was at an event last week, and someone let it slip that a small collection of seventh-century Byzantine dinar will soon be coming out of hiding. He wants to arrange a private acquisition before word gets out, and he wants you to handle it for him."
"Of course, he does." Nose scrunching, I swear under my breath. "God, I hate coins. That man knows I hate coins."
Jasper's lips twitch because this is funny to him. He's not the one who has to deal with the inevitably weird coin people, however. Seriously, they are a special breed. And talk about security… Those people know their security, and they get awfully annoyed when their collections disappear.
No, thank you.
"Jacob Black also called." The statement hangs in the air, and Jasper looks at me over his tablet like he's just waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Not about to take that bait, I still, and my nails drum a tight staccato against my thigh. I give him my best bland, disinterested smile.
Jasper's lips twitch again. "You don't even want to know?"
"No, I don't," I say, too sweetly, then my smile disappears. My nails dig into the delicate fabric of my skirt, leaving tiny crescents in my skin. "At all. Ever."
I've been down that road, and let's just say I've learned my lesson. At this point, I'd rather date an emotionally stunted teenage vampire than another hedge fund manager, regardless of the size of his… art collection.
Plus, Jake's place is locked up like Fort Knox. The last time I attempted his vault, the wolves descended, and I nearly got my ass shot.
"He pays extremely well," Jasper says, singsong and cajoling, smirking for all he's worth.
"Don't care, it's not worth it. Tell him to call Christie's. Leah will be more than happy to help him." I straighten and suddenly brighten. "Or better yet, why don't you handle him? You keep telling me you want to take on a few clients of your own."
Now, it's Jasper's turn to scowl. "Ugh!"
I revel in the fidgets he so desperately tries to hide. Leaning on my desk, I drop my chin into my palm and flutter my lashes. "You were saying, darling?"
"Whatever. Moving on." With a grumpy roll of his eyes, Jasper adjusts his tie, turns his attention back to his trusty tablet, and begins rattling off the rest of my appointments and messages. It's a surprisingly busy week, and that doesn't even count dealing with Moody.
"Okay, what else?" I ask when he hesitates at the end.
His pen taps against his lower lip. "Right before you came in, we got a cold call from a potential client."
Already speeding through my laundry list of things to do, I sigh. "And?"
"He didn't say what he was looking for specifically," Jasper replies, still tapping away. "He just said he recently moved to the city and was told you were the best in town." My irritable assistant's brows slam down, and I almost laugh. "He dropped a few names, some of your more… illustrious clients, including Alistair Moody and Alex Retzos."
"Did he leave a name?"
"He said his name was Anthony Masen and that he'd really like to speak to you this week, today if it can be arranged." Jasper sniffs in mild offense. "Do you want me to see if he can come by the gallery this evening, or do you want me to push him off until Friday?"
My cheeks crease. "No, now that he's back, I have a feeling Ali will be… time-consuming. He'll probably try to get me to stay for dinner." Not exactly what I had in mind for this evening, but Moody's personal chef is amazing. I also need to ensure he doesn't start putting two and two together. "Call Mr. Masen and see if he wants to meet for lunch. I'll catch him before I head over to 57th."
"You got it."
Which is how I wind up pushing through the tall, all-glass door at Forks on Fifth, a swanky little lunch spot that even the most sophisticated palate can appreciate, at precisely noon.
"Ms. Swan!"
Glancing over my shoulder, I smile at the tiny, black-clad maître d' and pour on the charm. "Benjamin, it's so good to see you! And I've told you, it's Bella." Clasping him by the arm, I give him a quick peck on each cheek and whisper in his ear. "Thank you so much for squeezing me in on such late notice."
"Of course, of course," Benjamin says, his accent pronounced, lovely, and very, very French. Pink-faced and flustered, he throws a graceful hand in the air and motions toward the private, rustic, white-on-white dining area off the right. "Come, come, this way! Your guest is already waiting." He throws me a flirty little wink. "And, mademoiselle, the gentleman is very handsome."
Laughter bubbles up my throat.
"I took the liberty of putting you at your usual table by the windows," Benjamin continues as we walk. Dark eyes sparkling, he waves at the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room. Sunlight streams in through the frosted glass, bouncing off the plaster and white-washed brick. Like always, the space is light and sparsely elegant, punctuated by the fresh, artfully arranged sprays of magnolia and eucalyptus dotting the linen-covered tables.
"Perfect," I tell him, only mildly surprised he managed to secure my favorite table on such short notice. I wonder who he bumped on my behalf.
"Should I have your standard order of wine brought to the table?" He glances at his wristwatch as if to say, why not?
I laugh again as we round the tall brick pillar in the center. The second my table comes into view, the sound dies on my lips. My heart climbs my throat, and in a rare show of nerves, my heel catches on a seam in the slate gray tile.
"Damn it," I mutter, quickly correcting my balance before anyone notices.
Of course, he notices, which is the last thing I need right now.
As we approach, a probing, gemstone gaze sweeps down my body, lingering on my face, then the curves my thin silk blouse and skirt refuse to hide. It's a frank, disarming assessment – different, yet not, than the usual stares – and everywhere his eyes touch, my skin tingles with awareness, even as my stomach knots with the probability of impending disaster. When he finally returns to my face, I vaguely recognize his irises are the same deep emerald as the center stone in that Rayaz Takat pendant sitting in my gallery.
Benjamin seats me with his usual flourish and professional silence. As he drapes my napkin across my lap, I take the opportunity to do my own assessment.
I have to give it to my favorite maître d'.
Very handsome doesn't even start with this one.
This guy's jawline could probably cut glass. In fact, he's nothing but hard angles and planes, topped by the same messy, touchable, bed-head hair he wore to Alistair's party.
Not even that boring, ill-fitting government suit and tie can disguise it.
"Ms. Swan." He tips his head in a well-mannered greeting as soon as Benjamin departs. "Thank you for meeting me today."
"Special Agent Cullen," I say, nodding. His title and name roll off my tongue like a caress. "You're not who I thought I'd be meeting, but it's nice to see you again." Folding my hands neatly on the table, I smile politely before ripping off the band-aid. "Why the subterfuge?"
Cullen doesn't reply at first. Instead, with an eerie stillness, he casually slings one arm across the back of his chair and kicks an ankle over the opposite knee as he continues to study me.
It's an unnerving sensation, reminiscent of a hawk circling above its prey.
But I, too, can be a patient woman, and while I may have the markings, I'm not exactly prey. When I don't press or visibly squirm under his scrutiny like he expects, a reluctant smile ghosts across his lips. It's lopsided, a slight imperfection in an otherwise perfect face.
Despite the inherent danger in doing so, I find it fascinating.
Nonetheless, I don't react at all, and after a long, drawn-out second, one brow lifts in arched expectation.
He finally breaks. Reaching across the table, still wearing that hint of a crooked smile, Cullen grabs the bottle of sparkling water and fills both of our glasses. "Well, for starters, I wasn't sure if you would want your employees or, perhaps more importantly, your clients knowing that the FBI was sniffing at your door."
My mouth goes dry.
"While I appreciate your discretion, why should I care?" I ask, tilting my head with feigned bewilderment. It's a move I learned long, long ago, one that men almost universally respond to. Almost on cue, his expression shifts in momentary surprise, and a soft laugh tumbles out before I can stop it. I take a slow sip of my water, then give him a wide, beatific grin. "I have absolutely nothing to hide."
.
.
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Notes:
If you're interested in teasers for both Heist and OPERATION: Light the Fires, random funnies, and/or just want to chat, you can always hit me up on Facebook. I'm "katinki writes stuff"