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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

"Good God, that's enough!"

I grin as my would-be-suitor and current yoga partner collapses face-first on his mat. When his balding head thunks against the floor, he lets out a pathetic groan, and I laugh. "Please, we're not even halfway done."

Fat beads of sweat dot Alistair Moody's forehead and run down his temples. His cheeks, now red and splotchy, puff out, ruining the vexed glare he shoots my way. "How on earth did I allow you to trick me into this misery?"

Continuing on, I transition from cobra to bow and arch a brow. "As I recall, you're the one who invited me over."

"You know full well that I just wanted to see you in that skimpy little outfit." With a grunt, he shoves up on his elbows and tsks. "I had no intention of actually exercising."

"It's just yoga." Another laugh spills out, pleasantly stretching and pulling my abdomen. "You have your own studio, Ali."

And it's a beautiful one, too. Light, airy, with high ceilings, fine, minimalist features, and a wall-to-wall view of Manhattan and Central Park below, it's the kind of space most New York yogis would die for.

"It's torture, clearly invented by sadists." Alistair scoffs like a petulant child and rolls himself into a sitting position. His t-shirt's positively drenched, and when he leans over to grab a towel to mop his face, his breath comes out in choppy punches. I really want to ask him what exactly he pays his trainer to do – it's certainly not training – but then he gives me a sly, mischievous grin and wags his unkempt brows. "Now, how about we try out the sauna?"

"Yeah, that wasn't obvious at all."

He shrugs. "Well, you certainly can't blame a man for trying."

As I transition to another pose, smoke-blue eyes slide up and down my body in undisguised, playful appreciation. They pause and narrow in on my face, and his expression abruptly turns thoughtful.

"What?" I ask him.

"You're distracted today. What's going on in that pretty head of yours."

It's easy to dismiss Moody as just another eccentric old-money billionaire. He is – definitely – but he's also an astute businessman who's built a diverse yet carefully cultivated portfolio of highly profitable assets and companies.

In other words, he's not an idiot.

Which is probably why I actually like him when he's not pawing at me.

It's also why I don't bother lying.

Slowly, I fold my body into a child pose, pressing my forehead to the mat. When I take a deep breath, tension releases from my neck and spine. "The other day, I had lunch with your friend."

With a wheezy chuff, Alistair cracks open a bottle of water. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that."

"The FBI agent. The one from your party."

"You mean, Edward?" I glance over just in time to witness him pouring half the bottle's contents over his bulbous head. Water splashes off his bare pate and goes everywhere. The mess doesn't faze him at all, but then again, he's not the one who'll clean it up. "Why would you do that?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"He's attractive enough, I'll give you that." When I spit out a laugh, Alistair looks over. Lips mashed together, he feigns mild offense, but his eyes give him away. They twinkle and dance. "But dove, you are expensive."

I sit up, fists on my hips, pretending indignation. "Excuse me?"

"Darling, don't play dumb, and don't be offended." He flashes me teeth. "It's a compliment. A woman such as yourself is allowed to have certain tastes and requirements. It's expected even."

My shoulders shake at his matter-of-fact tone. "Is that so?"

"Most assuredly." Nodding, he waves a haphazard hand. "And if you're not aware, the FBI… well, let's just say, I don't think a government job will cut it."

"I'm well aware." Recalling Cullen's sad, ill-fitting suit, I roll my eyes. "But if you must know, it wasn't a date."

Moody's forehead wrinkles. "What do you mean?"

Hesitating, I debate how much I want to share, but Alistair runs in all the New York circles. "What do you know about Aro Taglieri?"

"Oof." He lets out a low whistle and frowns. "Unfortunately, more than I'd like. He isn't a man to be trifled with, that's for sure." As much to himself as me, he muses, "What is that boy up to?"

It's a good question.

"I don't know," I say, pushing off the floor and heading to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. By now, it's approaching twilight, and the soft pink glow from the setting sun gleams off the city's towers of glass and concrete. This high up, the cars look like tiny, scurrying ants. "He didn't say, but he was curious about some of Aro's transactions… and he wanted to know how well I knew him personally."

"What did you tell him?"

A frisson of awareness ghosts down my spine, and I don't miss the undercurrent of caution in Moody's question.

"Nothing to tell." I peer over my shoulder only to find Alistair studying me like one of his priceless works of art. "Everyone knows I've brokered a few deals for him. That's common knowledge."

"Well, yes, that and the fact that he'd like to add you to his collection." He snorts, even as I shiver. "God knows, I'd like to do the same." When I make a face, Alistair throws me a wink, but then his features pinch. "But in all seriousness, I take it this meeting troubles you."

"I wouldn't go that far," I say, shrugging as I take one last look at the shimmering city below and walk back toward him. "But it's not every day that I'm approached by a member of law enforcement. You know how important discretion is in my field."

He hums. "Would you like me to make a call?"

"And do what?" I ask, offering him my hand.

He grips it, and I pull. As he stands, he smiles down at me. It's a gentle, albeit slightly patronizing expression, echoed in the soft brush of his thumb across the back of my hand. "You know that I know people, many of whom owe me favors. I could drop a subtle message with the governor. I doubt you'd be bothered again."

It's tempting, oh-so-tempting. But I'm not convinced it would help.

My gut tells me Cullen's the type who'd take that as a challenge instead of a warning.

Alistair releases my hand, only to slink an arm around my waist. I chuckle at his persistence, and when he pats my hip, I lift on my toes to kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you for the offer, but I don't think it's necessary."

"Are you sure?" he asks, squeezing.

No, not at all.

"Yes," I say, twirling out of his grasp before his hand drifts lower. Ignoring his pout, I pluck a fresh white towel off the shelf. "But speaking of discretion, I have some very good news for you."

Alistair's brows climb to his non-existent hairline, but his cheeks are already creasing. "Do you now?"

"My authenticator confirmed the provenance of your coins yesterday. And…" I pause long enough to wipe the light sheen of sweat off my forehead and chest. "Despite his initial reticence, I've convinced the seller to accept your offer." Not that Moody really cares about the price. "Your dinar should be in your hands no later than next week."

He claps with childlike delight. "You are, indeed, a wonder!"

"That's a given," I say, grinning at his exuberance before shooting him a pissy mock scowl. "But you owe me, mister. You know how much I hate coins."

Moody laughs and laughs as he motions me to the door and the divine aroma of his chef's latest concoction. "Fine, for your next feat, how about you convince that asshole John Caius to finally part with that mysterious Klimt of his. I'll double your already excessive commission if you can manage that bit of sorcery."

"Consider it done." Anticipation bubbles through my veins, and a smirk teases my lips. Because I'm far, far more expensive than Ali realizes. Plus, I've been waiting a year for an excuse to take a peek inside Caius' vault. "Now, let's celebrate."

After Moody's absurdly sumptuous dinner and far too much wine for a weekday, it's half past nine by the time I pick up my mail and make it to the gallery. Intent on the plain, non-descript beige package with typed black lettering, I turn the corner and almost miss the sleek, blood-red Ducati parked diagonally across the sidewalk.

Note, I said almost.

I halt in my tracks as new guy Mark or Mike or whatever reaches for the door. Something niggles deep in the recesses of memory as I stare at the shiny frame and aggressive lines. It takes me a second, but then a horn honks somewhere in the background, and my stomach drops like a ton of bricks.

"Fuck." My fingers clench and spasm around my package.

"Ms. Swan?" Mark/Mike asks, bobbing his pretty platinum blonde head. Concerned confusion sweeps across his face. "Is everything all right? Can I help you with anything?"

Before he can ask again, I give myself a hard internal shake and plaster on my usual flirty smile. "No, no, everything's just fine."

"Are you sure?" he asks, dubious. He fidgets with the cuff of his pristine black suit.

"Just caught off guard, that's all. I guess I forgot that I had an appointment this morning." Waving him off, I laugh at myself and press my fingertips to his forearm in a not-so-subtle caress that would have Jasper screaming. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"

Baby blue eyes widen, and he nods like an overeager puppy. An adorable pale pink creeps up his neck and cheeks. "Of course, but I don't think this…" Frowning, he thumbs at the Ducati. "Is your fault."

"Why do you say that?" I keep my tone even and light, mildly curious.

Nodding again, he leans in almost conspiratorially. "The guy was here waiting when I unlocked the doors. Mr. Whitlock was surprised, too."

I can only imagine Jasper's annoyance. See, my office manager does not like surprises… or walk-ins. According to him, it's unseemly, crass even.

"Did the gentleman say why he was here?" I ask as I nonchalantly slip my package deep inside my leather tote. If I'm right about its contents, the last thing I need is that jackass FBI agent discovering I've been running my own little investigation.

Mark/Mike shakes his head. "Not to me, at least. But he seemed friendly enough."

A soft chuff of a laugh spills out. "I bet he did."

I spot Cullen the second I step across the threshold. Standing in front of my newest addition – a trio of matching terracotta plaques with black engobe, engravings, and Picasso's telltale knifework – he's a hard one to miss, especially now that he's shed that godawful suit for a pair of dark jeans and a loose, untucked button-up, rolled to the elbows.

Coupled with the messy, bedhead hair and perpetual day-old scruff, it's a good look, too. Judging by the loopy smile on Jasper's face when Cullen angles toward me, I'm not the only one who appreciates a firm backside and a nice cut of denim.

"Ms. Swan." Cullen flashes me a row of polite, pearly teeth. It's a nice, friendly gesture, no doubt intended to put me at ease. But as I approach, those bright green eyes of his track me like a hawk, sending adrenaline punching through my veins.

"Special Agent Cullen, welcome to my gallery," I say, waving at the room before offering him my hand, along with an equally polite, responding smile. "I wasn't expecting to see you again… at least not quite so soon."

His hand engulfs mine, warm, inviting, and holding on far longer than propriety demands. When my brows arch in unspoken challenge, his irises darken, and his gaze drags down my fitted sheath before returning to linger on my mouth. He doesn't even try to hide his appraisal.

I'll admit, it's a disarming, effective move, too, and I'd have to be dead not to feel the tiny, electrical sparks skittering beneath my skin.

Just like at the restaurant, despite the danger and risk, I like it far, far more than I should.

"You did offer." Cullen says it like it's a dare and then finally releases me. "I seem to recall you saying that I was welcome to come by and speak to your office manager any time I liked. I thought I'd take you up on that." His lips twitch. "Has the situation changed?"

"No, not at all."

Cullen grins. "Then, I appreciate your cooperation."

Jerk.

I glance over to Jasper, as always, decked out in his fine Italian wool and bright, boldly patterned Zegna tie. That one scowls back, eyeing me like I've grown two heads – not that I can blame him. "Jasper will be more than happy to assist you, provided it's within the scope of what we can share, of course…"

My office manager chokes, covering it up with a swift sip of his horrendous spiced chai-mocha-whatever ungodly liquid he's drinking today. "Yes, of course. My calendar was empty anyway."

I ignore the sarcasm, instead focusing on Cullen, and as we stare at each other, my heart slams against my ribcage like a jackhammer. "That is, unless you have that paperwork we discussed?"

"No, no paperwork… at least not today," Cullen says, and his shoulders roll in a loose, lazy shrug that I don't believe for a second. "I just have a couple of questions, and then I'll get out of your hair, I promise." One corner of his mouth pulls up into that aggravatingly attractive lop-sided smile. "After all, you have a business to run."

Yeah, right.

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Notes:

Fanfiction is apparently screwing up with alerts again (ARGH). You can find me on facebook (katinki writes stuff) to get updates. I also post teasers and whatnot for all my fics. :)