One
CHARITY
Not that I paid for them myself…or anything else, for that matter.
I’ve built a career on the generosity of others, only they had no idea of their charity until it was too late.
Maybe that was why I chose the name I did once I found myself knee-deep in the shadier side of the business world.
It was a little sadistic, but it gave me a good laugh to tell myself all those poor idiots gave to charity.
Some call me a con artist. I prefer personal liquidation specialist.
Maybe thief is more accurate.
I don’t care. The same people who judge me drag their asses out of bed every day and slave for some dickhead who pays them a fraction of their worth. They despise their lives and waste every breath being miserable.
What kind of life is that?
People look down their noses at me, but I wake up in the afternoon, dress in the finest designer clothes, and spend a few hours in a club drinking on someone else’s dime.
Call me immoral, but who’s the idiot here?
I smile to myself as I glance around Suede’s crowded bar.
Bright blue and magenta lights flicker across the packed Vegas-style Miami nightclub, highlighting the faces of the rich, famous, and completely oblivious.
Other than the usual wink from an admiring male, or scowl from his female companion, no one gives me a second glance.
As long as I play my role well enough, I fit in.
I’m accepted without question. They think I belong.
Dumbasses.
Located in the famed Fallon Hotel, Suede Nightclub is the most lavish hotspot in the city.
The door is hard to infiltrate, and the prices aren’t for the faint of heart.
Patrons stand elbow-to-elbow with A-list celebrities, casually carrying on conversations with rock stars and heiresses as if they’re waiting in line at the supermarket.
Table service can easily cost weekend party goers an entire paycheck, which is why I walk straight to the bar.
I came here to earn a paycheck, not blow one.
I straighten my spine, the thrill of a new chase coursing through my veins—then I see him.
My newest target.
He sits hunched over, his sensibly styled hair rumpled with the collar on his boring white shirt open a few buttons. After motioning to the bartender, he tugs on his crooked tie and knocks back his drink in one like it’s water.
I lick the inside of my bottom lip, my adrenaline kicking up a notch. This is too easy, and it saddens me a little. I prefer a challenge. Hopefully, they all aren’t this pathetic, or I’ll be bored into an early night.
Still, a rush is still a rush. I’ll take what I can get.
I run my fingers through my hair, giving the loose curls framing my chin a fluff. As expected, four sets of eyes turn my way.
So predictable.
Wearing my hair like this drives men crazy. My score is always bigger when I amp up the bleached blonde, Marilyn Monroe, sex-kitten vibe. Maybe it makes me look vulnerable and harmless. That’s why duping men like this guy almost makes me feel guilty.
Almost.
I run my red nails over the back of the barstool. “Is this seat taken?”
The moment our eyes meet, I know I have him. His double take almost gives him whiplash.
Sucker.
“Not anymore.” Pushing the chair out with the toe of his shoe, he runs one hand down the front of his wrinkled shirt, while offering me the other. “I’m Paul, by the way.”
I accept the invitation before he changes his mind. Slipping in beside him, I place my clutch on the bar and crank up the charm. “So what’s got you looking like Wall Street just crashed your party?”
I don’t give a shit what Paul’s day was like, but I need to establish a rapport. If I could figure out how to do my job without catering to overinflated egos, my life would be ten times easier.
I flash him a smile coated in electricity and sin. “I’ve got all night. Why don’t you buy me a drink and tell me about it?”
A spark lights in his dull eyes. “What’s your poison?”
“Chopin vodka martini, extra dirty, four olives.”
“You’re very specific.”
I offer a sultry wink. “I know what I want.”
It isn’t a lie. I know exactly what I want—his wallet and his watch, preferably without too much exertion on my part.
I may as well have shot a firecracker at his ass. Paul nearly falls off the barstool trying to flag down the bartender. Bored, I scan the rows of couches in an elevated seating area directly above me, when I see him.
Shit.
What in the hell is he doing here?
Immersed in the middle of what looks to be the private party of an A-list actress, sits the one man who could ruin my night.
The music’s hard bass matches my racing pulse as I watch him pull some busty woman into his lap.
I narrow my eyes as he throws his head back, laughing at something a blonde bimbo in boots whispers to him.
Yeah, I know. Hi, pot. I’m kettle.
But rationality has no place in my world at the moment. My rival’s presence in Suede throws a major kink in my plans, not to mention pisses me the hell off.
Taking in his fitted black slacks and the gray button-up shirt that hugs him in all the right places, I fist both hands and dig my nails into my palms.
He isn’t here for pleasure. The fucker is here on a mission.
This just got personal.
For as much as the dumb blonde routine works for me, the bad boy shtick is Spencer’s fail-safe persona. I find it a bit tired and unoriginal, but then again, I guess if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
And Spencer is most definitely not broken.
Inhaling, I slide another covert glance his way, glaring at the way his meticulously styled onyx hair crowns those infuriatingly stone-chiseled cheeks.
His stubbled chin sits sharply at one end of his face while espresso-colored eyes cap off the top.
If he wasn’t such a cocky dickhead, one could easily swoon.
The man wears a mask twenty-four-seven, keeping his opponent off-guard and unstable. I both respect and hate him for it. I can keep the charade up for only so long before my mark bores me to the point of breaking character. It’s why I work fast and get the hell out.
Speed yields a bigger payout for me. However, Spencer plays a well-orchestrated cat-and-mouse game like no other.
He can work a target for hours, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
I’d rather hit multiple marks, doubling my cash load and spending as little time as possible lying to people about how much I care about their lives.
I secretly admire him for it.
But I’d never tell him that. His ego is big enough.
I let out a low growl as Spencer runs his finger down the blonde’s face while she giggles and plays with her cheap hair extensions. I almost feel bad for her. She actually thinks he wants what she’s offering.
I saw the truth the minute he swiped his hand over her cheek.
I estimate the diamonds shining in her ears weigh in at about two carats. Another drink and one more swipe, and they’ll be in Spencer’s pocket.
If I wasn’t in the middle of my own score, I’d walk my ass over there and shit all over his parade.
At thirty years old, I’ve been doing this long enough to build a name for myself in our little blacklisted circle.
Business partners don’t exist in this line of work, and there isn’t room at the top for both of us.
High-roller clubs are my domain, and Spencer knows it.
He came here to be an asshole and to one-up me.
Tuning Paul out, I watch my adversary brush his thumb over his bottom lip, a move that elicits a shudder from the cheap blonde. As she leans into his touch, a wave of smugness curls his lip. Obviously thinking he has her where he wants her, he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
To the oblivious onlooker, they look like an impending hook-up.
But I know better. I follow Spencer’s hand as it trails from the outside of her ear, down her arm, and across the seat cushion to his lap.
The flashing lights from the dance floor catch the sparkle of the diamond moments before it disappears into his pocket.
“Motherfucker.”
I don’t mean to speak the word out loud, but there’s a disconnect between my brain and mouth.
I barely make it through the second syllable when Spencer lifts his head, and I collide with his smug brown eyes.
A challenge flickers across his face as he arches an eyebrow.
When I scowl in return, he grins and whispers something into the woman’s ear, causing her to giggle even harder.
Everything moves in slow motion. A blaze of red floods my vision, forcing me to close my eyes and count to ten. Once I’ve regained control, I reopen them, ready to do battle. Instead, I stare at the back of Spencer’s head, his seduction of the blonde amped up to fifty.
Caught off guard, I force my attention away from Spencer and back on the man sitting beside me with a bewildered look on his face.
Damn it.
I won’t let that man cost me a big payout.
I peel my lips back in a brilliant smile. “So, where’s your wife tonight, Paul?”
Always good to run a preemptive interference on a potential wallet-block.
He snorts and takes a healthy drink. “No wife. Not even a girlfriend.” In a similar move to what I just witnessed on the couch, my sweaty target runs his hand down the length of my arm. “So, do you have a name that goes along with that drink order?”
Game on, Spence.
“Charity,” I purr with an intentional slow blink. “Charity St. James.”