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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"I have absolutely nothing to hide."

"Is that so?" Cullen asks, staring over his glass. While that vague, lop-sided smile never wavers, something in his expression sharpens. A muscle in his cheek ticks. His irises darken and glint.

"Of course." I keep my tone light and breezy, and my shoulders rise and fall in a seemingly loose, indifferent shrug.

Across the table, Cullen tracks the movement, and I watch him trip over the delicate silk of my blouse – typical. Used to that kind of reaction from the opposite sex, I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, one brow arches, and I take another slow, deliberate sip of my water, drawing his attention upward to my mouth.

"But… by all means, inquire away." My glass clinks against the table. "My life is an open book."

"An open book, huh?" His lips twitch. "I doubt that very seriously."

We stare at each other for another long moment. The room and everyone in it blurs and fades, and with each passing second, a kind of electricity creeps in, sparking and crackling in the space between us. My skin tingles under his scrutiny, and when cool, dry air from the nearby vent kisses my nape, the tiny hairs stand on end, threatening to make me visibly shiver. Beneath the fine linen tablecloth, my knee bobs, and inside my chest, my heart rate ticks up in time, pounding against my sternum like a kettle drum.

A cork pops.

I flinch, nearly coming out of my skin as the restaurant roars back into sharp, unrelieved focus.

Damn it.

I'm not the only one who reacts, however. Cullen's hawk-like gaze immediately cuts left, away from me, and unerringly targets a boisterous table across the room. Before he can stop himself, his fist flexes on top of the table, tipping slightly toward his jacket in a barely-there giveaway that he's not only carrying but conditioned to respond to things that go bang.

Interesting, but I suppose not exactly surprising for an FBI agent. Not that I hang around with enough of them to know for sure.

Either way, the scene across the restaurant is just enough diversion for me to regain my equilibrium. As Cullen frowns at a quartet of laughing middle-aged socialites in head-to-toe Chanel, I inhale a deep, steadying breath and will my pulse to slow. That creeping electricity gradually dissipates, and by the time he angles back to me, my heart rate resembles something close to normal.

Before he can comment, I chuckle, waving at the giggling socialites, and give him a bland, almost bored smile. "So, what do you want to know, Special Agent Cullen?"

"Edward."

Both brows hit my hairline. Judging by the lines that abruptly bracket his mouth, I'm not the only one surprised by his lapse. Nonetheless, I incline my head in polite acquiescence, even as I silently revel in his discomfort. "All right. What do you want to know, Edward?"

When his name falls off my lips, he stills and goes quiet for a second, as though mulling his line of questioning.

At this point, I'll admit that despite the inherent danger, I'm starting to get annoyed. When his fingertips slowly drum against the table, loud and intrusive against the background noise of the restaurant, I have to school my features to keep from showing it.

"So," Cullen finally says, drawing it out as if to spite me. "I don't think I've ever met a…" A deep furrow bisects his forehead. Unlike his earlier slip, this one is a feigned, put-on gesture that spikes my irritation even more. "What is it that you do, Ms. Swan? Mr. Moody wasn't entirely clear on that."

I make a mental note to ask Ali just how he knows this guy. Old-money billionaires don't usually slum it with law enforcement.

"Not surprising," I tell him, and a low, throaty laugh spills out. It's just on the verge of condescending, but honestly, I can't bring myself to care. "Ali isn't really concerned with mundane things like jobs or titles." When that pretty mouth of his twitches again, I flash my annoying, stupidly attractive inquisitor a row of pearly teeth before letting out an exasperated sigh. "I do a lot of things, but if you want to give it a name, I guess you could call me a sort of concierge."

"A concierge," Cullen repeats, dubious. "What exactly does that entail?"

Long, sure fingers scrub his chin, rasping across the coarse, days-old stubble he can't seem to be bothered to shave. Despite my annoyance, my stomach dips without permission, this time for an altogether different reason, and I curse myself for the fleeting thought of what that stubble would feel like scraping against my inner thigh.

I tell myself he's probably terrible in bed.

Or at least mediocre.

"I locate and curate rare, beautiful, investment-level assets – art, jewels, antiques, collectibles… things of that nature." As I give him my usual spiel, I run my thumb around the rim of my glass, and again, he tracks the motion, following the glossy, contrasting lacquer of my nails. I inwardly smile when his Adam's apple bobs beneath the collar of his ill-fitting oxford. At least I'm not the only one affected. "I broker discrete deals between private parties. Sometimes, I advise clients on their collections."

Sometimes, I steal them.

Of course, I don't say that.

I pause to signal the sommelier, and Cullen hums a vague agreement. "Judging by Moody and your apparent familiarity with his guests, your client list is…"

"Exclusive," I say, finishing the obvious statement with a tip of my chin. "Very exclusive."

On cue, a raven-haired twenty-something in starched black and white appears at my elbow, bearing gifts in the form of liquid fortitude. When I nod in response to his wordless query, he uncorks the bottle with expert ease and pours up my usual pinot noir. Like the consummate professional he is – like all of Benjamin's equally French and equally attractive minions – François waits for me to confirm what we both already know.

"Perfect," I tell him, inhaling the rich, fruity aroma of my favorite wine. The vintage he's selected is complex and interesting, and the darker, more nuanced notes that had been missing from the prior year flood my senses. I almost moan when it hits my tongue. "Excellent choice, François, thank you."

Inclining his head, François turns to pour a second glass, and his handsome features pinch when Cullen places his hand over the glass. "Monsieur?"

"I'll stick with water, thanks," Cullen replies. When I glance over, amused, he shoots me a seemingly apologetic smile and shrugs. "Against the rules. I'm sure you understand."

"Well, that's unfortunate… for you, that is." I give my glass a pointed swirl, and the ruby liquid gently sloshes, coating and sliding across the concave surface. "It's superb. Might just be the best they've produced."

Not breaking eye contact, Cullen throws back the rest of his water, and with a lazy casualness that I don't believe for a second, he leans back in his chair once more. As he studies me, that smile morphs into a faint smirk. "That so?"

I roll my eyes – at him and the absurdity of this entire exchange – and take a slow drink of my wine, but, really, all I can do is shake my head at him. "Like I said, your loss."

Before Cullen can start up again, François reappears to see if we're ready to order. He doesn't bother with me. They all know me well enough by now, and I know the chef well enough to let him do his magic. I'll give Cullen credit, though. If my lack of ordering throws him, he doesn't show it. With a quick grimace at the leather folio, he picks out some variety of dry-aged beef along with potatoes.

Suitable, but, again, typical. But when the agent coughs and adds, "Well done, please," François' left eye ticks, and I almost lose it.

"Something wrong?" Cullen asks, feigning ignorance.

"Not at all," I say, following the stiffly squared shoulders of our retreating waiter. "The chef may want a word with you, however."

Cullen's lips curve. "I think I can manage a guy in an apron."

"Whatever." My whole body quakes with silent laughter. "It's your funeral."

Cullen's smile widens, but then he goes quiet again, watching me as I sip my wine. Like he's got all the time in the world, he folds his hands in front of him, and as his right flips over, I clock the faint, yellowing bruises staining his knuckles.

"You know," he says, tracking my attention. He doesn't bother hiding his wounds. If anything, that smirk grows more pronounced. "I've never met an art broker who didn't run a few deals off the books."

Fuck.

It's not the angle of attack I was expecting. Yet it's far too close to the mark for comfort, and some of that sparking electricity returns, zinging between us like a live wire. Air catches at the base of my throat, but all I say is a light, breezy, "Do you meet a lot of art brokers in your line of work?"

"I've met a few."

I laugh at the dryness in his tone, even as blood sings in my ears. "Well, you've obviously never met my office manager. Even the idea of an illicit sale would probably give Jasper a coronary."

Cullen hums. "Is that ri–"

"In fact," I say, cutting him off. "You're welcome to speak with him any time you like. Jasper would probably jump at the chance. He's always held members of law enforcement in very high esteem."

Might try to take him home, too.

My office manager and sometimes-friend can be quite flexible when it comes to pretty people.

And Cullen certainly is pretty.

"That's good to know." It's a flat, uninterested response, but those gemstone eyes give him away. They flash with a level of intelligence, intensity, and challenge I rarely encounter. "Hopefully, that won't be necessary."

"I wasn't aware that the FBI had such an interest in art," I say, propping my elbows on the table. As I drop my chin into my palm, his gaze dips to a blue-beveled Seamaster looping his wrist. It's a nice piece – subtle, understated, and unexpected, especially considering the cheap government-issue suit. His nails are neat and tidy, too, completely at odds with the callouses and boxer's bruises along his knuckles. "Aren't you too busy hunting…" I flip a random hand. "Terrorists and murderers and things like that?"

Cullen makes another non-committal sound. Before he – or I – can speak, however, François materializes once more, this time bearing dainty plates of bite-sized, gastronomical marvels. He turns to me with a closed-lipped smile and another one of his signature nods. "Mademoiselle, Chef sends his regards."

"You're wonderful." Placing my fingertips on the young man's forearm, I turn up the charm. "Tell Michel he is truly the finest artist in all of Manhattan." I throw him a flirty little wink. "And… you should probably warn him that Alex Retzos' wife is looking for him." I laugh, watching Cullen watch me in my periphery. "Since Ali's party, Tanya has been positively obsessed. She told me she simply must have him for her next gala."

Cheeks flushed and warm, François ducks. As he spins toward the kitchens, I turn back to Cullen right in time to see his eyes widen and fall to the table.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, motioning to the bevy of plates. "Is this a normal lunch meeting for you?"

"What can I say, the staff like me." Amusement bubbles in my chest as I pluck a tiny stack of perfectly cured meat, capped by a sliver of soft, silky Alpine cheese, off the nearest plate and pop it into my mouth. "Eat... And then we'll talk."

Shaking his head – at me, the dollhouse portions, or both, I can't tell – Cullen halts his inquiry and follows my lead. He warily picks up an oversized porcelain spoon, filled with a swirl of salmon mousse and littered with delicate beads of red caviar. He hesitates, inspecting it like it might be poison, huffs, and shoves the whole thing in.

I grin like the devil when his jaws go slack, and for the next hour, as François parades out plate after plate of dishes nowhere to be found on the menu, we eat in relative companionable silence. In fact, it's not until the agent polishes off his finely aged steak that we start up again.

"All right." I drain the remainder of my wine. "As much as I'm enjoying your company…" Cullen laughs at that, and it's a deep whisper of sound that makes my traitor stomach flutter in response. "What are you really after? Why are we here?"

Frowning, Cullen looks at me and slips a hand inside his ill-fitting suit. A slim black phone appears a beat later. As he slides it across the table, he quietly asks, "Do you know him?"

I peer at the screen.

Tall, dark, and objectively handsome, the guy glancing over at the camera is somewhere close to fifty. It's a good fifty, too. He's trim and fit beneath the black, bespoke suit, with smudges of ash at his temples and a strong, angular jawline that rivals that of the agent sitting across from me. Standing outside a luxury SUV, he has the bearing and arrogance of a modern king, along with a distinctly monied look that I'd recognize in my sleep.

Gooseflesh pebbles my skin as I slide the phone back across the table, but I don't dare let the agent see that reaction. "Of course."

Cullen tucks his phone back into his pocket. "How so?"

"Anyone living in New York would recognize Aro Taglieri." I give him another bland, bored smile, belying the tension slithering through my muscles. "He runs Volterra Capital, one of the largest private asset management firms in the city and probably the most successful, dollar-on-dollar." When Cullen doesn't respond, my lips mash together, and I flick my wrist at the massive, frosted window to our right. "If you're not aware, there's a few buildings named after him, not to mention an entire wing at the Met."

Cullen studies my face. "Do you know him personally?"

I do, of course. "We've met."

"He a client of yours?"

"It's common knowledge that Mr. Taglieri is an avid art and antiquities collector." My teeth grind, but I hold my smile. "But I don't make a habit of discussing my clientele."

Fingertips drum against the tabletop. It's an unnerving habit, one I suspect he's cultivated intentionally. Cullen's brows climb. "I thought you said… open book."

"My life is one thing." Beneath the table, my fist balls into a tight hammer and digs into the top of my thigh. "My clients' lives are another. Discretion is essential in my line of work." I flash him teeth as I repeat his earlier line. "I'm sure you can understand."

"Fair enough." Cullen's shoulders roll in a lazy shrug, but his eyes bore into mine, dark and probing. "May I ask if your relationship with Mr. Taglieri is purely professional or if there is a… personal component, like with Mr. Moody."

Jerk.

But I'm not stupid enough to take that bait.

"Professional, although Aro has pressed for more a time or two." A chill races down my spine. "He's married, which I'm sure you're already aware, and I try very hard to avoid messy entanglements like that."

Especially with men who make my skin crawl.

"I see." Something relaxes in his demeanor. It's subtle, a slight release in his features and frame. "So, he is a client of yours."

I let out a soft chuff of laughter. "It's possible that I've arranged a few transactions for him."

Like the twenty-million-dollar Renoir he picked up from my anonymous seller out of Bahrain last year.

Or the thirty-million Jackson Pollack he bought in the fall.

"What kind of transactions?" Cullen asks. His thumb swipes back and forth across his forefinger, rubbing a callous that I belatedly realize likely came from his service weapon. "What's he buying these days?"

I smile and lift my palms in vague apology. "I'm afraid I'll need to see some paperwork for that."

"A subpoena?" He clucks his tongue in mild disappointment, but he's not surprised, and we eye each other across the table for what feels like a short forever. "Are you sure that's necessary?"

As if called, Benjamin appears in my periphery with a barely detectable nod to the front. I peek over Cullen's shoulder, tagging Moody's dark-suited driver apparently waiting, and with another polite duck of my head, I slowly gather my jacket and handbag. "My apologies, Special Agent Cullen. As much as I hate to end our discussion, I do have another appointment."

"Understood." Cullen follows me to my feet, then clasps my hand in a well-mannered farewell. His touch is warm, inviting, and firm, lingering a beat too long for simple propriety. "I appreciate you meeting me in spite of the subterfuge."

I nod. "Show me a signature, and I'll give you what you want."

"I'll keep that in mind." Cullen's gaze slips to my lips. His thumb grazes the back of my hand, soft as silk, and another unwelcome frisson of awareness sweeps through my limbs. One corner of his mouth pulls up into that lop-sided smile. "I'm sure we'll be talking again soon."

My stomach takes a sharp, nauseating nose-dive. "Then, I look forward to it."

Five minutes later, as Ali's driver pulls away from the curb and heads toward Billionaire's Row, I whip out my second phone. I tap in my code, then another, and my thumbs race across the keys.

A tinny, digitized voice answers on the first ring. They don't bother with a greeting, instead settling on a metallic, "It's been a while."

"I need a favor," I say as I gaze out the window, blindly watching the passing traffic. Yellow, marked cabs speed past, darting between sleek, jet-black sedans and SUVs. A blood-red Ducati revs and splits the lanes, earning a blaring honk of a horn.

"Go ahead," they answer, and in the background, I pick up the plasticky clacking of a keyboard.

I eye the tinted glass between Ali's driver and me. A glowing, blue LED panel indicates noise cancellation has been engaged. Nonetheless, I'm careful when I whisper, "I need you to find out why the FBI is investigating Aro Taglieri."

"Oh, is that all?" A digitized laugh cackles in my ear. "Would you like me to break into the Treasury Department, too?"

"No… not today, anyway," I say, clicking my nails against the glossy, burled wood armrest beside me. "I want you to pull everything you can on Special Agent Edward Cullen."

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Notes:

Seamaster refers to the Omega Seamaster Diver 300M watch. Standard models run between $5-7k, with some special limited editions running over $100k.