Chapter Two
Sadie
L ifting Kinston Sinclair’s wallet was stupid.
But fun.
He’s a billionaire. He could destroy me a thousand times over. If he chooses to.
Still, it was definitely fun and he didn’t notice.
Call it practice, making sure my skills are still honed. Or whatever you want.
I took it and he didn’t notice. I half expected he would.
He comes across as that sort of man.
But he’s clearly not.
I slide into the cold darkness, a street away, leaning back against the recessed building, my spot given extra shadow from the stoop and where a street light is out. I’m still, silent, and not one of the scant handful of passersby even flickers a look my way.
Satisfied I’m not noticed, I pull the wallet from my coat, the leather smooth and supple that comes from age and quality. I flip the black envelope open and go through the wallet’s contents.
Part of me expected a gold or silver money clip. These days most people have all their payment systems on their phones, but it’s nice to see a wallet that’s not just for show. Something that’s used.
Old fashioned? Or someone who’s pragmatic and ready for all situations? I’m not sure, but I’d like to find out.
There’s fifty dollars in two twenties and a ten, a shit load of cards including a black AmEx I itch to take, a driver’s license proclaiming him to be Kingston Jeramiah Sinclair. It’s his birthday in a month. Thirty-six. He’s got blue eyes and black hair and he’s six foot three.
The photo is of a serious man with great bones and features and doesn’t do him justice.
In person, even in a dark dive, he’s devastating. There’s something hard and darkly dangerous about him that doesn’t say real estate mogul or soft billionaire. And he’s far too arresting to be anything as boring as handsome.
He’s art.
Beyond that…?
Kingston Jeramiah Sinclair won’t notice his wallet is gone and when he does, he’ll call my number, which he thinks is an office, and he’ll threaten and whine and shout.
It’s what these rich fucks do.
He’ll—
I stop. Something hot passes through me and I shiver. Awareness coils around me, holding me, drawing my attention back in the direction the bar lies.
A man. Tall. Lean. Eyes on me.
Kingston stands there on the empty, dark sidewalk, hands in his pocket, looking at me like I’m under a spotlight.
It makes me a little off-center, that. I can make myself seen, I can make myself invisible, and right now, I’m meant to be invisible. Yet he’s seen me.
Slowly, deliberately he comes up to me and I drop my hand with his soft leather wallet to my side.
He stops, right there, inches from me, hedging me in.
“Sadie, I believe you left with something of mine.”
Then he reaches out and trails his fingers along my left arm, down to my wrist and circles it, drawing my hand and his wallet up.
He plucks it free with his other hand and tucks it away, not bothering to open it. Not letting me go.
We look at each other and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold goes through me.
No one is around, even though we’re in New York at three-thirty in the morning. I’m still surprised he agreed to meet me at such a late hour. Not that I think his kind don’t pull all nighters. But here? Where there’s no glitter and comforts?
No.
But Kingston looks like he fits. And it isn’t his outfit. It’s him. Like he doesn’t give a fuck for anything except what he wants.
And he’s looking at me like what he wants is me.
My mouth turns dust dry for a second. What would his lips feel like? They look hard, but I’ve a feeling they can soften at the right moment. I’ve a feeling this man knows how to kiss, how to arouse.
“You’re faster than most,” I say with a cool touch in my words.
His thumb caresses that soft, sensitive spot on the inside of my wrist and his mouth turns in a cynical half smile, the shadows of the night broken by a car passing, and the beam of the headlights catch him, throwing his high cheekbones into a masterpiece of shadow and light. “Don’t play games with me.”
“How about we call it a test?”
“Or call you a common criminal.”
Now I lift my head, letting it touch the brick behind me and look at him like I’m wanting something hidden inside.
It’s probably backbone.
That sarcastic thought dies a quick death. He might be richer than half the born into it one percent, but he’s got chromium in his bones. A ruthless edge I can taste on the air between us that goes beyond boardroom sandpits.
“There’s nothing common about me.”
Now he shows teeth. “Criminal?”
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
His scent is one of money, power, expensive leather-bound old books that hold secrets. A spice and musk with dark smoke and a hint of deceptive sweetness and it’s a calling to the physical inside.
“You’re Midnight Raven. There’s no one else.” He slides his other hand along my throat, resting his fingers against my jugular and the throb and beat of it echoes in my blood and ears.
I touch him, lay my hand on his chest. The heat of him beneath the open coat, the heat that radiates through the soft merino and silk sweater, belies hot, hard flesh and the air is alive with an intangible need that flares between us.
That need is want. Hot sex.
I ignore it, and will myself cool, my features a mask as I continue to watch Kingston.
“That isn’t any kind of question, Mr. Sinclair.”
“No, Ms. Hess. It isn’t. And you are the coveted cat burglar.”
“The media and the authorities handed out the name Midnight Raven, all because of a feather that ended up as a calling card. It’s the smoke and mirrors of notoriety. Oz behind the screen.” I smile and curl my fingers, deliberately moving down along his chest, stopping shy of his belt.
His poker face is almost perfect.
But that little sharp breath is physiological, something he can’t help.
It feeds power in me.
Good to know the heat and awareness flows both ways.
I can use it if I need to. Manipulate it if I want.
“I use the reputation and the moniker Black Raven for my services. And people have put two and two together and come up with their own answers. I never correct anyone. And it serves me well.”
He leans in, his mouth almost brushing mine, but he moves up to my ear. “So, you’re telling me you’re not that good?”
“I’m the best there is. As to whether I stole from those people…it’s up to you.”
“Thievery is still thievery.”
“Sometimes it’s art.”
“And when is that?”
“When rich fucks like you are the object of victimless crimes. All the things taken were worth more via insurance claims. And every single person could buy those things or others like them ten times over and not scratch their bank accounts.”
This is my fuck you speech.
It also happens to be true. When I did my work, back in the day—not nearly to the level of crimes that have been cast at my feet—I only took from those who could afford it. I never took pieces that I knew were loved for actual sentimentality.
This wasn’t because I’m a saint. But because those pieces often weren’t worth the price tag assigned to them, and when they were, they weren’t worth the trouble. People came after those hardcore.
I was in it for the thrill once I had enough to live on. And I got out once I’d done enough. Transitioned, is the word. I transitioned from the dark to the shadows on the right side of the law and found I could make real money by tracking down stolen pieces and helping build bespoke security for clients.
“Us rich fucks,” he says, voice devoid of rancor, “still don’t like to be stolen from.”
“Pity because you sure like taking from the great unwashed.”
He laughs against my ear. “I don’t care if you’ve stolen from the entire world or no one. If you’re as good as people say, as good as my research tells me you are, then I want to hire you.”
“To find a tiara?”
“The Sinclair tiara.”
And fuck him, my fingers start to tingle at the thought of touching one of the infamous Sinclair jewels. These things have been shrouded in mystery so long and coveted by people that the chance to track down the shining star is almost too much to resist.
Not that I was ever planning on resisting.
“I can find it.” If it’s out there, even hidden in a secret room of treasures like some serious black market collectors have, I can do that. “I have connections. It’s going to cost you a lot of money and it’s going to take time.”
He lifts his head, his fingers absently stroking my wrist and my throat and it makes me throb inside. I hook my finger into his belt. Hunger flares in his dark blue eyes that, even in the low light of the street, are utterly arresting with their striations of gold and copper.
“Something tells me you’re going to have a month.”
“And why’s that?”
“Let’s just say there will be strings. And those are things I’ll deal with. Just the time frame is your problem.”
I narrow my eyes as I slide my finger against the heat and strength of him. I’m low on his waist, not down enough to be indecent, but enough to tease him, see what he says, but he doesn’t, just moves in, his body bumping mine.
A deliberate touch, and he’s got an impressive semi there. I meet his gaze and his eyes are molten now, and they contain all levels of dare that shoot straight down to my clit.
“These things don’t happen on your preordained schedule.”
“Make them,” he says softly. “And I’ll pay you double.”
“I haven’t named my final price.”
“I know. I’ll pay. Half now, the rest when you’re done.”
His mouth is close, and I want it.
I don’t think. Not beyond the erotic curiosity that’s bubbling inside, not beyond the need that pushes.
So I don’t think, I simply do. I close the gap and I brush his mouth with mine.
Kingston doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t do anything but wait.
And so, I do it again. Somehow it morphs. His mouth opens and mine does, too. And our tongues meet.
It’s an explosion of pleasure and heat. Like the best parts of hell’s inner chambers licking at me, urging me on.
His hand slides about my waist and he’s hard now, the erection big and pressing into me and it makes the flames leap higher, makes bones melt and twist into pure pulsating need.
I wind my fingers in his hair and break the kiss.
This is stupid, this is courting trouble.
Then he kisses me.
And everything changes.