Stealing a Billionaire Blind

CHAPTER ONE

CASH

It’s not what people see that impacts them most. It’s what they don’t.

We could take that in a bunch of philosophical directions, but Mardi Gras isn’t really the setting for it, and I’m rarely a philosopher. So, I’ll keep this short and snappy.

Some would have you believe that speed is the key to success. Finish first. Be more efficient. Get it now. But speed kills most high-stakes ventures, at least in the realm of escape routes, card tricks, and orgasms—my personal specialties.

If you want to be the victor, you notice what others don’t and deal with the vacancy.

Fluidity. Precision. Patience. Dedication.

And a charming grin never hurts.

Of course, if we widen the lens on the current debauchery, none of that appears to apply. Aside from the guy who just got hit with a sausage thrown from a glowing parade float. He’d attest to the impact of keen observation. Or the lack thereof.

It’s that kind of night.

“Go find your friends, sweetheart.” I nudge a clingy brunette off my lap.

She whines, standing but trailing her fingernail along my jaw and flaunting her cleavage in my face. “You want to go somewhere else?”

“Not tonight.” I leave it at that because too many words will encourage her to continue the conversation or strip. Not that I’m opposed to the latter, but so little time.

She gets the idea and slinks off to find someone else to fulfill her evening plans, and I stand to join my family against the wall.

“You’re losing your edge.” My brother Maddox elbows me in the ribs and flicks his chin to a twenty-something blonde, who has a sparkly handkerchief covering her breasts and is taunting my younger brother, Jax, with the proposition of a body shot, right as the brunette who just left me drapes his backside.

We’re at a bar that has a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street, where we happen to be occupying that coveted space.

Full drinks, impeccable service, sultry jazz music, and buckets full of beads to bestow on the crowd below.

Those who aren’t already topless flash us if they catch them, which garners eye rolls from Maddox’s wife, Tessa.

Reason enough to do it. Her snark is always amusing.

Jax shakes his pale blue hair from his eyes and flourishes his lazy smirk for the blonde and her friends.

His appeal is marked by his introspective charisma and his aloofness.

Women clamor to be the one who will light a fire in him, though he’s stingy about who he permits to stoke those embers.

I’d generally be beside him, offering the attentive warmth he denies and the sparks they can’t ignore. One smile usually closes the deal.

But I’m preoccupied tonight.

It’s Fat Tuesday, and though my five siblings and I own La Lune Noire—a Prohibition-inspired resort in New Orleans that caters to the corrupt—we’re not in the thirteen-block radius that delves into these festivities, so our establishment provides transportation to our guests, and we partake in the chaotic party alongside them.

Being royalty in the Big Easy has its pros and cons.

We blend in better during these touristy nights than we usually do in the city.

Even with masks on, it’s not quite anonymity, but it’s as close as we tend to get.

As much as I enjoy our life in the spotlight, I appreciate being able to slip into the background.

The location of our prime real estate must have leaked though. A few more girls beeline toward Jax, ogling both Maddox and me. Tessa’s claws are out, so they won’t come any closer. But their statement is loud and clear either way.

Drunk, disorderly, half naked, and up for anything.

Tempting.

“I think he’s got it handled.” Swigging my scotch, I shift my focus from Jax and peer at the spectacle around me.

A chorus of whoops resounds, hoopla for a provocative dancer on the street corner, fawned over by the shoulder-to-shoulder, costume-clad audience, drowning in a sea of purple, gold, and green.

And the neon lights, capering off the Creole architecture and garish perversion, only heighten the jubilant glow.

But none of that holds my attention—not the body-shot blonde, or the boisterous parade, or the rumbling drums and seductive saxophone, or even my delightfully disgruntled sister-in-law.

My scrutiny rests two streets over on a museum rooftop. Or rather, a silhouette that I noticed on that rooftop. One that disappeared less than two minutes ago. One that is likely to reappear sometime soon.

That earlier rant about dealing with the unseen was due to this zoomed-in focal point.

“I gotta go check on something.” I finish my drink and pat Maddox’s chest, slanting my head toward Jax. “You got him?”

“Of course.” He tucks his wife into his side and studies me over the rim of his cup, his eyes a far grayer blue than mine. “Spot someone better than our groupies?”

Every shape and size of gorgeous surrounds Jax now, vying for his adoration. But if there’s one thing that undoes me more than beauty, it’s a masterful con, and I think I spy one.

“Something more enticing,” is all I offer, but since the night is still young, I tack on, “For now.”

“Check in.” He sets his cup aside and slips his hand into his pocket in search of a wad of bills.

Street vendors only take cash, so like the good brother he is, he’s planning to give it to me.

I fish the roll out of my own front pocket, producing it between my index and middle finger with a caustic grin on my face. “This what you’re looking for?”

“Always a jackass.” He huffs, but it’s in jest because this comes as no surprise.

We all have our talents. Sleight of hand is mine.

“Give him a break.” Tessa rises to my defense with her on-brand sarcasm. “If he’s not going to take the party girls, you can’t expect him to leave empty-handed.”

“Right.” I arch a brow for one last brotherly jab before I’m on my way. “Count your wins. I took your money but left you your wife.”

He squints in warning with a menacing smirk that only amplifies my amusement, but time is of the essence.

“Tab is on my card, so we’ll call it even.

I’ll text you later if I don’t come back to steal the groupies.

” I plant a kiss on Tessa’s temple and hustle down the spiral staircase, weaving through the throng of people and passing at least fifty policemen on foot and horseback.

I finally make my way to a back alley behind the museum, just as the silhouette I was watching jumps off a fire-escape ladder and nonchalantly breezes back to the packed street.

Based on the petite height and build, I’m guessing the con man in question is a woman.

She vanishes among taller people and elaborate decor, but I manage to catch up to her.

She’s dressed in all black with a pretty mask on her face.

As she leisurely strolls, she lets her thick, dark brown hair down, then unbuttons and ties her black shirt in a knot below her ribs to expose a purple tank top and a sliver of tan skin above her sleek black jeans.

But as riveting as she is, I’m equally captivated by her backpack, which I swiftly peruse.

Enlightening.

“You look like you need to get off your feet, beautiful.” I run my fingers through my hair to restore its intentionally mussed style after adjusting the prize I lifted from her backpack. “There’s a little place up here where we can grab a cocktail.”

She laughs—it’s raspy and dismissive in the sexiest way—but she doesn’t spare me a glance.

“Smooth, bud. Don’t waste your time on me when there are countless women who are halfway to falling at your feet.

” Her gaze flies to a man in his sixties, surrounded by three topless girls who are less than half that and barely standing. “No matter who you are.”

I keep pace a half step behind her. “I prefer to devote my time to someone who can start the night upright.”

“By taking them for a cocktail so their upright minutes are numbered,” she counters, following that with a deadpanned, “Swoon.”

A chuckle bubbles in my throat. “Sounds like you have a drinking problem. That’s not on me.”

A laugh that lands more like a scoff accompanies her faster stride, and she still refuses to look at me. “I’m sure nothing ever is.”

Icy. I’m guessing she has more baggage than her pillaging backpack.

“We must be getting off on the wrong foot, but I can see you’re a woman who takes what she wants, and I tend to do the same, so let’s start over.”

She doesn’t miss the stress I put on the word take, so she finally snaps her focus to me. And we both halt.

She stops because she stole a vintage, gold-plated Mardi Gras mask, designed by a Venetian artist and gifted to New Orleans a hundred fifty years ago to be kept on display in our heritage museum. And now I’m wearing it beneath the mask I had on at the bar.

But me? I freeze because she’s fucking stunning. Smooth, golden-tan complexion. High cheekbones and soft features. Plump, rosy lips. And beneath her ornate, winged mask, thick lashes frame the most mesmerizing amber eyes, which are glaring at me.

She crosses her arms, enhancing the swell of her cleavage and her brimming ire. “You’ve got nothing better to do tonight?”

Smart. She’s calling me out without saying anything self-incriminating or obvious to any passersby. And she’s not panicking; she’s coolly assessing.

“I could ask you the same. Seems a bit risky to be wandering these streets for a payoff that couldn’t be more than a hundred. Reckless.”

A hundred thousand is what I’d guess this mask is worth, but there’s no sense in shouting that. The furious set of her jaw confirms it anyway.

She rakes her gaze over my gray sports coat, black T-shirt, and jeans and back to my face. “Says the man who has moral compass: failure to load inscribed on his forehead.”

Fuck, she’s a spitfire.