CHAPTER SIX
CASH
Sylvie’s shoulders tense ever so slightly.
It’s doubtful that anyone else caught it.
She’s a pro at masking herself, as any good con is.
But I can’t help but study every goddamn exquisite inch of her.
She’s a dream in that red dress, subtle curves flaunted and shimmery skin on display.
And her amber eyes are warm and piercing tonight. Hypnotic.
She flung me into the friend zone, and I may have agreed to it—or even been oddly touched by it for fuck knows what reason. But all that means is that we’re delaying the inevitable. And no one will be touching her in the interim. Which brings us back to the current matter at hand.
Peter Fairfax is one of my members. He’s not a bad guy.
Women tend to view him as a catch—wealthy, six-foot-two-ish, and well-built with thick salt-and-pepper hair.
I’m grateful Sylvie is here to rob him instead of …
anything else. I’d love to know what the hell she wants from him, but I intentionally didn’t ask.
She has trust issues, so I want her to see I’ll show up for her regardless.
Why? I don’t fucking know. Other than the fact that I can’t stop thinking about this girl, and I’m starting to realize fucking her would only make that worse.
A first.
She’s unhappy with me, but that’s because she believes that by challenging Peter, I’m being possessive.
I am. But there are also expectations that need to be met in order for things not to seem off, and someone—anyone—attempting to move in on a Noire’s date should anticipate a dose of wrath thrown back at him.
If I’d tempered my reaction, my presence would’ve been in question.
My protectiveness makes it clear my only reason for being here is Sylvie.
Peter might not like it, but it makes sense.
Which explains why he breaks into a boisterous laugh.
“Respectfully,” he mocks before glancing at Sylvie. “I thought you’d remained unattached since Danny.”
Danny Gordon is Sylvie’s ex-fiancé, one of my members, and from what I’ve found, he’s an absolute asshole.
I don’t know him well since dealing with members isn’t really my domain, but I’ve researched the fuck out of him since Sylvie back-handspringed into my life—or since I remembered why she was familiar.
I have a hunch his most horrible offenses involve her, but that’s all conjecture at this point.
Peter is a huge hockey fan. Betting on games is his guilty pleasure. He’s a third-generation oil tycoon, but he leveled up and took their business internationally, which thrust him into billionaire status. I’m guessing Danny gets him the inside scoop on games for a healthy payoff.
At the sound of her ex’s name, Sylvie flutters her lashes in irritation for a fraction of a second, but she covers well. “This is new.”
A muscle tics in Peter’s jaw. “So, it is something. Not just a date in case Danny showed tonight?”
She laughs and avoids the topic of her ex altogether. “Cash was eager to catch up with you when I mentioned the party, Peter, so this worked out well.”
A waiter delivers a drink to our host, briefly interrupting us before he scurries on his way.
Peter sips his cocktail and scrutinizes me over the rim. “I’ve invited Axel out here countless times. I was told Noires hold parties, but rarely attend ones that aren’t theirs.”
Tugging Sylvie closer, I shove my other hand in my pocket and hitch a shoulder. “There is plenty of truth in that statement, especially for Axe. You were inviting the wrong Noire.”
That’s partly bullshit. Axel would be the last to attend, but the rest of us generally don’t frequent parties on a member’s turf either. There is an inherent risk in not having the home-base advantage. Our whole business model thrives on making people come to us, not the other way around.
His forehead crinkles, announcing his intent to probe seconds before his words confirm it. “Heard he got married recently.”
“He did.” I boast a genuine smile because I suspect where he’s headed and the thought of Axel finally happy with Zara does bring me immense joy. “About six months ago.”
He lifts his drink in acknowledgment to a couple passing by, scans the room, and returns to me. “You planning to be next?”
Whether I saw that coming or not, I applaud the tactic. He knows my reputation and that Sylvie was engaged before, meaning she’s likely the type to only attach herself to someone who promises a future. That translates to no great way for me to answer this.
My eyes never break from his so he reads my dominance, even if my reply expresses a lack of firm commitment. “Jax and I are the last Noires unattached, so you never know.”
Deciding not to venture further into that, he says, “Well, enjoy the party.”
As he starts to walk away, Sylvie’s shoulders tense, so I squeeze her hip, and after a second of my fingers branding her through her dress, he turns back toward us.
“I’ll be having drinks with a small group in about a half hour. Join us.”
I dip my chin. “We’d be honored.”
“Absolutely. Thank you, Peter,” Sylvie sings.
He holds her gaze for a beat longer than he should, but I choose not to lay him out for it in the middle of his party. Only because Sylvie has something riding on this and he knows she’s off-limits tonight.
Once he swaggers away to mingle with his other guests, I usher Sylvie toward the French doors we were standing at before, snatching us each a glass of champagne on the way to keep up appearances.
When I lead her outside, she doesn’t protest. This will be the best place for us to speak freely.
There aren’t many other people out here, only about a half-dozen couples scattered throughout the gardens.
The fragrance of chlorine and fresh-cut grass blends with the floral aroma of night-blooming jasmine and eucalyptus, which is likely from a scent machine.
And the blanket of stars instantly renders the space more private.
We stroll around the lavish grounds, the grotto providing enough white noise that our low voices should be indiscernible to anyone else.
She sips her drink, admiring the landscaping while I admire her. “That was lucky.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. He wouldn’t dare have me here and not invite me to a private gathering.
It would tarnish his reputation with us, and no one wants that.
” I wish that were the only reason for the invite, but I reluctantly add the rest. “He also wasn’t going to pass up a chance to get more time with you.
But it had to be issued as an afterthought. ”
She peers up at me, her lips scrunched with genuine curiosity. “Why?”
Guiding us to the lit pathway that follows the curved outline of one of the pools, I glide my hand over her lower back to be sure she watches the slight change in elevation as I explain, “Because he’s letting me know he’ll respect that you’re my date. Tonight. He isn’t happy about it.”
“Testosterone.” Her chest rises with a deep breath, enhancing the swell of her perky breasts above the corset bodice of her dress, but she doesn’t expand on her barb, not until we turn to take in an isolated area of the meticulous estate.
“I’m not going to dwell on how much more complicated everything feels. At least we got the invite.”
“Tell me your plan.”
“No,” she asserts, evidently dwelling on my meddling more than she claimed she would. “I’m a solo artist.”
“Not tonight you aren’t.” I stop, so she halts her steps and grants me her full attention. “We’re in this together now. And I can’t cover appropriately if I don’t know what you’re engaged in. You said you needed to get into his office. What about security cameras?”
She hesitates, but she eventually relents.
“I’m already in his security system. I got in this morning.
When I’m ready, I’ll start a loop. His guards will see me go into the hallway bathroom and come out of it when I’m finished with the job.
The hall will appear empty in between, but that makes sense since everyone will be in his lounge and that area is otherwise off-limits. ”
That’s thorough. Home jobs are often simple because owners generally rely on their security system without considering all the ways it could be tampered with.
“How long do you expect to be?”
A sigh falls from her plump red lips. “Less than ten minutes, but hopefully closer to five.”
With my hand on her hip, I lead us to resume our backyard jaunt, waiting to delve deeper until we amble by another couple, offering customary generic greetings, and find a stretch of solitude again. “Why the discrepancy?”
“Unknowns.”
That surprises me. She holds herself with such unwavering confidence. I wouldn’t have expected her to have any unknowns. Although I suppose in most tricks there are variables you can’t predict with certainty.
“So, talk them through with me.”
“This isn’t how I do things.” There is a thread of nervousness woven through that despite how resolved she sounds to shut me out.
That isn’t an uncommon stance for thieves. No one wants to share their jackpot, but I’m not asking for a cut, and I think Sylvie is worried about losing something other than the score she’s after.
Still, as we loop around another pathway that rounds the grotto and leads back toward the mansion, I poke to see what her fears are.
“I got you into that room without you having to promise him anything. All I’m asking is that you give me enough information so I can understand what steps you’re taking and what hang-ups you might encounter.
Helping people in a pinch is what my business is built on.
And I haven’t asked what you’re lifting. ”
“No, you haven’t.” She shakes her head, and something like despondency echoes through her response. “But last-minute changes are reckless.”
I’d guess she’d experienced a job gone wrong due to that. I’m sure trusting anyone would be challenging if she’d been double-crossed.