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

Unbeta'd, unedited.

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For the umpteenth time, I find myself flipping through an irritatingly redacted stack of papers.

Name: Edward Anthony Cullen
Birthdate: June 20, REDACTED

I'm fairly certain my eyes roll to the back of my head. Why his age is some big secret, I have no clue. Cullen's muscle mass and posture alone tell me that he's well out of his twenties, likely somewhere in his mid-thirties. The lack of gray countered by the faint creases lining his ridiculously attractive face just seals the deal.

Birthplace: Chicago, Illinois
Father/Mother: Deceased
Siblings: None
Marital status: None listed
Next of kin: Uncle, REDACTED

Looking away, I take a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee. For a moment, I just stare out the floor-to-ceiling window, past a set of gauzy, white drapery panels. My lips curve at the pale blue sky and tufts of cottony clouds. While nowhere close to Moody's eye-popping vistas of Central Park and the famed New York skyline – nor anywhere near his massive square footage – my little penthouse on the Upper East Side with its views overlooking the river still feels like a dream some days.

In the distance, a double-decker tour boat slices through the gray, murky water, small and lonely against the backdrop of the Queensboro bridge. As I follow its steady progress, my nails drum a slow, unconscious rhythm against the thin mahogany arm of my chair. A tiny pang of sympathy threads its way through my irritation, which, frankly, only aggravates me more.

Education: US Naval Academy, B.S. Political Science & Military Intelligence
Military Service: Yes
Service/Branch: United States Marine Corps
End Service Rank & Assignment: O-3, Marine Raider Regiment, 1st Marine Special Operations Battalion
Deployment History: Iraq REDACTED, Afghanistan REDACTED, Mali REDACTED
Medals conferred: Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Joint Service Commendation Medal, Navy-Marine Corps Commendation Medal, Navy-Marine Corps Achievement Medal, Combat Action Ribbon, Marine Corps Expeditionary Medal, Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal, Global War on Terrorism Service Medal…

That's a whole lot of words I don't know much about, but it sounds impressive. Vaguely, I recognize that a Bronze Star is a pretty big deal. And the Purple Heart tells me that at some point, Special Agent Edward Cullen likely had a very bad day.

From there, Cullen's work history gets even sketchier. All the file says is that he joined the FBI after he left the Marines. Bouncing around the US, he moved from Field Office to Field Office, from El Paso to Seattle to D.C., and then finally, two months ago, he transferred to New York.

Huffing, I thumb to the end of the stack before tossing the whole thing onto the coffee table. Absolutely nothing in there tells me what that man actually does. Or why he's supposedly interested in art. Or why he's poking around for intel on Aro Taglieri.

Or most importantly, what that has to do with me.

As I pick up my phone to call my contact, my other one vibrates, rattling against the marble end table to my right.

"Working on a Saturday?" I ask, not bothering with the usual pleasantries.

Jasper snorts, and in the background, I pick up the steady whir and thump of a treadmill. "Really? That's how you greet me?"

I laugh at my office manager's perpetual pissiness. "Okay, fine, I'm sorry. How a–"

"No, you're not," he says, cutting me off with an annoyed scoff. I swear, I can hear those steel gray eyes roll. "You're never sorry for anything. In fact, I think you take joy in my suffering."

Another laugh spills out before I can stop it. "Wow, someone's bitchy this morning. Rough night in the East Village?"

"As if I'd tell you." The treadmill stops whirring. "You do realize that it's almost lunch, right?"

Mildly surprised, my eyes slip to the slim, sparkling Cartier watch looping my wrist, then flit over to the file on my coffee table. "I guess it is."

Jasper mutters something snippy under his breath. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Of course I do," I tell him. Draining the rest of my coffee, I haul myself out of my comfy chair and wander across the living room to my private terrace. As I crack the oversized French doors, brisk winter air rushes in, pebbling my skin. "It's all part of my irresistible charm… But that's nothing new and not why you called."

"Fine. I finally got ahold of John Caius' assistant like you asked."

Well, that perks me right up.

Moody wasn't joking about needing my sorcery. Caius is nearly impossible to track down these days.

Tugging my robe tighter, I step out onto artfully etched concrete tiles and skirt a set of cushioned patio chairs on my way to the wrought iron railing. "And? What'd she say?"

"Turns out he just got back from Europe," Jasper says. "She confirmed that he'll be at Retzos' gala tonight… She also said that he's heard quite a bit about you and is 'very much looking forward to finally meeting you.'"

He says that last bit reluctantly, maybe even through gritted teeth, and a wide, beaming grin stretches my cheeks. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

"Hardly." Some wordless, wheezy noise comes out of him. "Unlike you, I prefer my partners to be…"

"Not rich?" I say, sing-song and teasing. "Not powerful? Not connected?"

"No." Jasper sniffs with overly prim, faux indignation. "I was going to say closer to my own age, Swan."

"What you mean is that you like them hot, like what's his name? Peter… is that it?" My shoulders shake, and as I lean against the railing to watch the cars roll by on the street below, my grin stretches even wider. "Or was it Char that kept you up late last night? Or… maybe it was both?"

A loud, scandalized groan answers me. "Jesus Christ. I'm not talking to you about this… ever."

After his repeated mocking over that dumbass hedge fund manager Jacob Black, it's oh-so-tempting to keep going, to see how far I can push until he starts cursing, but this time around, I let him off the hook. Instead, for the next few minutes, as I pace the length of the terrace, Jasper updates me on a few of our other clients and – unfortunately – some of the more mundane administrative tasks he always manages on my behalf.

"Whatever," I say, flicking my wrist. "Just have Maintenance fix it, like yesterday, whatever it costs. I can't have that kind of humidity fucking up the inventory, and I have two new oils coming in next week."

"Consider it done…" He hesitates before slowly drawling, "But going back to our previous discussion and speaking of hot and not too old…"

"Yes?" I ask, sighing.

Unexpectedly serious, Jasper's voice drops in both pitch and volume. "I have to ask, why was that FBI agent snooping around the gallery the other day?"

Cool air whispers across my nape. Something presses against my senses, and I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to retreat inside. Instead, I pivot toward the building to my left – an ornate stucco affair with iron fretwork and blue-green copper detailing – and scan the curtained windows. A fat black and white tuxedo cat watches me from an upper-floor balcony.

"I don't know." I smile at the sneaky feline when he stretches. "What did he want?"

"Not much." Jasper clucks his tongue. "He seemed mostly interested in what we specialized in, where we sourced our inventory… who our clients were." Jasper makes another wordless, strangled noise, and I don't have to be there to see the offense written all over his face. "As if I'd tell him that! Really, who does he think he's dealing with? Some podunk redneck from West Texas?"

I laugh at that. "Wait, I thought you were from Midland? Isn't that close enough?"

"Oh, shut your face," Jasper says, grumbling. In the background, I hear a locker door clang and the pitter-patter of water spraying against tile. "That's where my grandma lived. You know I grew up in Dallas."

"If you say so." I chuckle, even as tendrils of unease continue curling their way through my veins. "Did he ask about anything or anyone in particular?"

"A few… He started to ask about Moody, casually, of course, but I shut that down immediately." Jasper hums. "But I don't think that's who he was after."

"Who do you think?"

"Well, he specifically asked about that Pollack you brokered for Aro Taglieri, as well as those Etruscan sculptures you secured for his brother-in-law, Marcus."

"Is that so?" With a final glance over my shoulder, still finding nothing more than closed curtains and the same fat tuxedo cat, I slip back into my apartment. "Anything else I need to be aware of?"

"No… well… maybe."

"Spit it out," I tell him as I park my bare feet over the nearest floor vent to thaw.

"Fine." I can see his nose wrinkle in distaste. "Coincidentally enough, Gianna called me right after you left yesterday."

That curl of unease turns into a flood, and my heart rate ticks up in time. "What'd she want?"

Fabric rustles. "Taglieri wants you."

I startle and slump down onto the nearest sofa. "Excuse me?"

"Apparently," Jasper says, "he wants to hire you to help curate his collection. Says he doesn't know what to do with all that artwork he's accumulated over the years. He thinks this would be right up your alley."

My gaze drops to the coffee table, focusing on the file I discarded. Black and white letters fade in and out. "Interesting."

For a moment, Jasper doesn't speak, but then he clears his throat. "Bella, I really think you should turn him down, regardless of what he offers you."

My office manager and sometimes friend's tone is one that I don't quite recognize. "Why's that?"

"Are you kidding me?" he says, barely above a whisper. "One, he's a fucking lech. But two, have you been listening at all for the last few minutes? It looks like the FBI is interested in him. The FBI!" His voice cracks, rising in volume. "And that is not what I signed up for. I swear to God, I will go to Sotheby's before I go to jail for you."

"You keep saying that." Despite the utter free-fall going on in my gut, I laugh and laugh. "But come one, you know they're not nearly as fun."

It's eight by the time my driver pulls up to the museum, eight fifteen by the time I weave my way through the throng of well-heeled, sequined partygoers and step out into the sculpture garden.

Unsurprisingly, the MoMa looks like a fairytale come to life. Out in the garden, thousands of tiny sparkling lights glitter in the trees, bouncing and dancing off the reflecting pools and cascading fountains. Rainbow-hued spotlights play colorful shadow games with life-sized bronze and lead Picassos, Matisses, and Maillols. Half-dressed satyrs, nymphs, and woodland fauna flit about, offering silver trays of Chef Michel's finest gastronomical marvels.

I do my usual rounds, hobnobbing with New York's finest. Like usual, behind the veil of class and sophistication, there's a certain hedonistic undercurrent to the proceedings. Everywhere I look, I see the typical too-pink cheeks, glassy eyes, and wandering hands. Models mingle with moguls. Politicians ply their patrons. Old money politely humors the new.

"Bozhe, where did you get that dress?"

I spin on a pair of ridiculously high stilettos. The second I turn, a grin splits my face at Tanya's put-on, envious scowl.

"This old thing?" I say, sweeping a hand down my body with a not-so-subtle wink, knowing full well this dress is anything but.

See, tonight, I'm in an exquisite jewel-laden dream of a dress. Gifted by another one of my clients – an up-and-coming designer I brokered an absolute sweetheart deal for last fall – the hand-sewn, crystal-beaded bodice and skirt cut from ethereal swaths of nude silk fit my body like a glove and make my legs look like they go for miles. Topping it off, antique ropes of diamonds and emeralds, borrowed from my gallery's stores, loop my throat and wrists. Matching drop earrings dangle from my ears, glittering in the twinkling lights.

"Who the fuck is your designer?" Tanya asks, pouting despite looking like a fae queen herself. "It's Nahuel, isn't it? That little asshole won't return my calls."

I laugh and nod. "I did him a favor."

"Pfft! You do everyone favors." Tanya scrubs her scalpel-perfect nose, telling me she's already started her fun tonight. "We must have lunch. I need to talk to you. It's very important."

"About?" I laugh again when she slides her slim arm through mine and simultaneously plucks a glass of pink bubbly champagne off a passing tray.

Swigging half her glass, she nods at the dark-haired, olive-skinned shipping magnate with the slick, easy smile on the opposite end of the reflecting pool. "I need you to help me with Alex."

Both brows climb my forehead. "Okay, you're going to need to elaborate on that."

She giggles at the insinuation before turning as serious as death. "Bella, he brought home the ugliest piece of shit painting I have ever seen in my entire life."

My whole body vibrates with silent laughter. "That's quite the statement. Who's the artist?"

Tanya rolls her pretty ice-blue eyes, then lets out a screech of irritation. "Fuck, if I know! He calls it some modern bullshit name. It looks like some children drew on the canvas with crayons. Crayons! He tells me he won it off Jacob Black at their weekly poker game."

Before I can even start to reply to that, she swaps her glass for another and downs the whole thing. "Fu, he's so happy with himself, too. He hung this monstrosity in the library and absolutely refuses to remove it, no matter how much I scream. It ruins my house. I hate it, Bella..."

"Okay, what do you want me to do?"

Steal it?

She huffs. "Everyone knows you have unparalleled taste in such things. Alex trusts you like no other. I think maybe… maybe if you tell him it's hideous, he will listen and throw it into the garbage where it belongs."

I doubt that very seriously. And Tanya isn't exactly the best judge of art. Based on what little she's shared, I hate to say it, but that supposedly childish eyesore is probably worth a fortune, not to mention whatever macho bragging rights came with it.

Plus, despite trusting me, Alex Retzos isn't an easy client. And while he seemingly adores and coddles his much younger model of a wife, he's the one who writes the checks, so I'm not about to insert myself into their marital bliss.

But…

"Tell you what, I'll come by next week and take a look," I say, leaning in with an appropriately conspiratorial whisper. "If Alex got it off Jake, it's probably worth a pretty penny." I should know, I've seen Jacob's collection more times than I care to admit. "Maybe I can find a buyer for it or at least convince him to hang it at his office down in the District. That's probably a better place for his little poker trophy anyway."

"Yes, exactly! Perfect!" Before I can blink – or protest – Tanya throws her arms around my neck and plants a sloppy, drunken kiss on my cheek. "This is why you are the best!"

Five minutes later, after having finally extracted myself from Tanya and her nose full of blow, I park next to one of the glowing patio heaters and watch a blond man in a dark gray suit step out into the garden. Half-hidden in the shadows, his symmetrical features, set into a long-ish face ending with a pointed chin, appear harsh. While I can't make out the creases and marks of age I know to be there, the smattering of gray at his temples puts him somewhere in his mid-fifties.

And like most who occupy such rarified levels of the social stratosphere, John Caius moves with the distinctly unhurried, monied gait of the ultra-wealthy. A beefy bruiser of a bodyguard trails him.

As I sip a glass of fine Pinot Noir, I watch him stroll through the crowd. He stops here and there to chat, smiling all the while with just the right blend of interest and condescension. It's tempting to approach him, but I know better than that. No, over the years, I've learned the far more effective strategy is to let the prey – especially big game like him – come to me.

It sets the tone, if you will.

"Is he another one of your illustrious clients?"

My glass stills against my bottom lip. Stunned surprise ripples beneath my skin as the ground figuratively falls out from under my feet. I register the rainbow-lights aimed at a nearby statue cycle. They transition from yellow to green to blue, morphing Picasso's She-Goat into something oddly demonic. The dizzying scene lasts no more than a second before I swallow back a mouthful of wine and give myself a hard internal shake.

"Special Agent Cullen," I say, plastering on a seductive smile as I turn and deposit my glass on an empty table.

Attractive as ever, Cullen tips his chin in polite acknowledgment. "Ms. Swan."

As I walk toward him, I put a little extra sway in my hips and cock an arrogant, arrogant brow in both disbelief and challenge.

He's smarter than that, however. Rather than taking the bait, Cullen just stares me down as I approach, and with his hands casually tucked into his pockets and sporting his usual two-day scruff, he's as still as one of the statues. His eyes give him away, though. Darkly alive, they slide from my face to my chest to my legs, only to rise and repeat the same circuit all over again.

Tiny pinpricks erupt across my skin, and heat curls low in my abdomen, warring with fear.

It's an unnerving sensation, not to mention aggravatingly arousing.

"Why am I not surprised to see you here?" I ask, purring almost, pouring on the charm. "I'm beginning to think you're stalking me."

I stop maybe a foot away, and right on cue, one of the half-dressed satyrs accidentally bumps me from behind, knocking me forward. Cullen reacts like lightning, catching me by the forearms as I teeter on my ridiculous sky-high stilettos. When my palms flatten against his chest, we both freeze, locked in an unexpected embrace.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Behind me, the rainbow lights cycle again. Almost in slow motion, still clasping me by the arms, Cullen slowly leans down, close enough that his stubble scrapes my cheek, and he whispers in my ear, "If I were truly stalking you, you'd never know it."

It's a slick little line, and I can't tell if he means to intimidate or seduce. Maybe both.

My fingertips slowly walk down his lapel to straighten the triangle of silk in his pocket. When I glance up, his mouth hovers mere inches from mine, and when I breathe in, I taste peppermint and hints of a warm, masculine cologne I can't quite name. I tilt my head to draw him in, playing with him just because I can, and then abruptly pull away.

"Nice tux." Grinning, I give his chest a playful pat.

There's a beat of silence. Without warning, Cullen's face tips toward the sky, and a surprised bark of a laugh tumbles out. When he finally looks down again, his eyes twinkle and dance. "Thanks, but it's a rental."

It's not.

In fact, even in the dim lighting of the garden, I can see that it's a custom, tailored job, cut from fine Italian wool and priced twenty times higher than his sad, government-issued suit. Like the watch, the incongruity of it piques my interest, but I let it go. For now.

"Either way, not bad," I tell him, easing back to give us both some space.

He flashes me a row of pearly teeth. "Glad to know you approve."

Chuckling, I shake my head, then wave a haphazard hand at the teeming crowd. "So, how'd you even get in here tonight?"

That grin turns languid and sly, feline almost. It's a bizarrely attractive look, too. "You don't think I could pull my own invite?"

I arch a brow, and my reply is as flat and dry as they come. "No, not really."

"Fair enough," he says, throwing his palms up in mock surrender before shoving them back into his pockets. "But… believe it or not, I was invited."

"Interesting. By whom?"

"Alistair introduced me at his party…" He pauses and subtly angles left toward a loud, boisterous group of partygoers. Wedged in the center, the fae queen herself holds court. "Mrs. Retzos insisted, and who was I to say no to something like this?"

I won't lie. It's been a while since I've laughed this hard.

"What?" Cullen asks, vaguely amused.

"Just… just be careful with that one," I tell him as I gently dab my eyes to avoid turning into a raccoon. "Tanya can be a bit… predatory when she discovers something – or I guess I should say, someone – she wants."

"That's not part of the equation," he says a little too quickly. "Plus, she's married."

"That she is." I give him a pointed, knowing look and shrug. "You act like that's an impediment. It's certainly not for her… Or Alex."

Cullen stiffens. A slightly shocked, maybe even scandalized, expression flashes across his face, and when the lights change again, I catch a faint dusting of pink climbing his cheeks. It's almost… cute, disarming me in an altogether different way.

I'll give him credit, though. He recovers almost instantly, and that indolent smirk reappears as he motions toward the milling, sequined crowd. "So, you want to tell me who's who around here?"

"Why would I do that?" I ask as I simultaneously acknowledge a pair of businessmen across the reflecting pool.

Broad, straight shoulders rise and fall beneath his jacket. "Maybe because you seem to know everyone."

I scoff, even though he's not exactly wrong, then close some of the distance. "Are we on the record or off?"

Cullen smiles, saying nothing, and I roll my eyes.

"Fine," I say, lips mashing in feigned irritation. Scanning the crowd, I land on a statuesque blonde decked out in skintight crimson. "The blonde standing by the Mattisse is Rosalie Hale." When Cullen shoots me an inscrutable look, I roll my eyes again and add, "She's probably one of the best art restorers on the planet right now."

She's also a master forger, who I've employed more than once, but… he doesn't need to know that.

Shifting left, I motion to the fifty-something I'd been watching when Cullen interrupted. "I assume you recognized John Caius."

He nods. "You know him?"

"Not yet." One corner of my mouth pulls up. "But I will before I leave here tonight."

A low rumble of laughter answers me. "I don't doubt that at all."

I point out a dozen others – artists, businessmen, socialites, and politicians – before reluctantly gesturing to a tall man with dark, neatly gelled hair and a jawline that looks like it's been carved from a rich, russet granite. Flanking him is his usual pack of acolytes and lookalike sycophants.

"Jacob Black, Wolf Capital." I scowl and flick a dismissive hand. "Douchebag extraordinaire."

Cullen's head slowly swivels toward me. "I take it there's some history there."

My nose scrunches. "Unfortunately."

"I see." He makes a humming sound, and there's a subtle shift in his expression as he takes Jake's measure. "Should I arrest him?"

My lips give an involuntary twitch. "Is that a promise?"

One hand slips behind me, propping against the table. Cullen's close enough that the fine wool of his tuxedo jacket brushes against my dress, catching on the jeweled bodice. When he leans down, I inhale and I sense more than feel his lips graze the shell of my ear. "It is if you'd like it to be."

"You have no idea how tempting that is," I tell him, and this time, a true smile of delight creases my cheeks. "But… probably not tonight. Tanya wouldn't forgive me if we ruined her party with that kind of scandal. Can I get a rain check?"

"Maybe," Cullen says, drawing my attention to the far corner where a tall, dark, objectively handsome man in a bespoke black suit emerges from the building. "What about that one?"

Like usual, Aro Taglieri moves with efficiency and purpose, and as he crosses the concrete, the crowd parts for him like he owns the place. A pair of leggy models – maybe eighteen, definitely no older than twenty – in up-to-there designer labels trail after him, just waiting for the right moment to make their move. Somber, contemplative, and far less flashy, Aro's brother-in-law Marcus brings up the rear.

As Aro claps another suited partygoer on the back, I lean into Cullen's side, "I think we've already had this discussion."

Cullen's eyes cut to me, and his features sharpen. For a second, he hesitates as if internally debating. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to introduce me."

Something in his voice makes my stomach flip and churn. I look at him for a long moment. "So, that's why you're here tonight. You're working."

"Maybe," he says, and his irises glitter with a predator's intent. Before I know what's happening, his hand appears in my periphery, and he plucks a fallen ribbon of hair off my shoulder, gently tucking it behind my ear. "But I also thought I might run into you."

.

.

.

Notes:

MoMa refers to the Museum of Modern Art on W 53rd St in Manhattan

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