CHAPTER THREE #2
“You arrived earlier than I expected. Give me ten minutes. I won’t be long.”
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TAKING TIFFANY UP on her offer, I wander around her Bel Air mansion, wondering what it feels like to live in such an enormous place and how she can stand the décor.
It looks like spring exploded within these very walls.
The sofa might be white, but the cushions are every shade of yellow, pink, and green.
I step into the kitchen, glance around, roll my eyes at the bright yellow Nespresso machine, and note the back door leads out to the spacious yard. I’d seen parts of it from floor to ceiling windows in the living room, including the swimming pool.
I step outside and start scoping it out.
Ryder sent me a floor plan before I left the BHS offices. “Pinged it to you,” he said, dropping his phone on his desk. “Any questions?”
“No, I think I understand. Check in each day. Notes in this section. Weekly meetings.” I tapped on the app and scrolled through the sections, then glanced up. “What if I need to escalate anything?”
“Do that directly with me,” Ryder advised.
“Got it.”
“She’s a Hollywood brat, so used to having people protect her. Watch that; they can get complacent,” Ryder added, tossing the apple that was on his desk up in the air and catching it. “Cops aren’t sure of the MO on this one yet, but—”
I coughed, interrupting him. “Stealing a million dollars’ worth of diamonds has them confused? Do I need to spell it out for them?”
I had been facetious.
I wander the length of the far wall of Tiffany’s property, then head back to the house, where I find her waiting for me in the kitchen.
She’s changed into a green sundress and put her hair up in a ponytail.
It changes nothing.
I’d still fuck her if I had the chance.
“Thanks for waiting.” Tiffany says and waves me back inside.
I control-alt-delete all the dirty thoughts in my head, fail to get rid of them, and walk past her. My chest brushes her arm, and a shot of desire blasts through me.
Goddamn.
When was the last time I was this attracted to a woman?
Tiffany clears her throat, and my eyes snap back to hers. She felt it, too.
“Um, let me do that tour.” She rushes past, and I follow her up the stairs. She stops at the top and glances left and right. “This way leads to my wing—my bedroom. Where they took my...items.”
Panties. And diamonds...and the toys you used to make yourself come.
Yup, I know the list.
“And this way,” she starts walking. “We have the guest rooms and family bathroom.”
I take note of the security, including the window locks and roof access points. Tiffany’s intruders used a glass cutter, which hints towards being professional, but anyone can get their hands on one.
If I were going to steal diamonds, I’d buy one, practice and get good at it. Thing is, who are they selling the diamonds to?
Not many people are in the market for a million dollars of stolen diamonds in America.
I stop trying to do the cops' work for them, and glance down at the other end of the hall.
“Let’s see your room. Was that the window they cut?”
“Yes,” she replies, and we head down to her bedroom.
Jesus Christ.
I’ll be honest, I was expecting it to look like spring threw up, but that’s not at all what greets me.
A crystal chandelier hangs from the middle of the ceiling, competing for attention with the wooden four post bed, which is draped in white linen.
It’s so calming and ethereal I want to kick off my boots and go lie down.
Everything is serene.
A white faux fur rug lies over the dark gray plush carpet, and there’s a white and silver dressing table with a crystal vase and flowers.
Not colorful flowers.
White roses.
Who sent them?
Irrelevant.
There’s a crystal jewelry box on the dresser and a tiny silver chain lying next to it. A hint of perfume hangs in the air, and I find myself pulling in a deep, slow breath.
It smells like her.
This is her personal and intimate space.
The light in her walk-in closet leads me in that direction.
“That’s where the safe is,” Tiffany tells me, “LAPD fingerprinted it and did all the things.”
I nod, blinking at the size, which is equivalent to my living room at home. The amount of clothing, shoes, bags, and jewelry in here is jaw-dropping. There’s no way she’d be able to wear all of this in three lifetimes.
“I’m not an expert, but these watches must be worth a bit,” I lean into the glass cabinet and count five timepieces.
When she doesn’t answer, I glance up.
Tiffany nods, crossing her arms.
“Any idea why they didn’t steal those?”
She shrugs. “I don’t even know why they stole the diamonds. Aside from the obvious.”
“Which is?”
I know what I think is the obvious answer, but I’m curious to understand what she thinks.
“Well, for money. People are hungry.”
I almost laugh. Apparently, Tiffany Stallone has a conscience, but in my opinion, she’s way off target with her theory. I can’t help digging a little deeper, and maybe it makes me an asshole.
“You think a poor person broke into your Bel Air mansion and your safe to get your diamonds to pay for their children’s food...and, let’s face it, probably fuel.”
She blushes.
But instead of arguing with me or defending her position, she looks me right in the eye and says, “I don’t know, Mr. Rogers.
I’m not a thief nor a psychologist, but I’ve met a lot of people over the years who judge or hate me because I was born into privilege, so feel free to do the same.
It makes little difference to changing the world or feeding the poor. ”
Ouch.
I straighten; my smile fading.
Her eyes follow mine.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t where I was headed with my comment,” I confess, somewhat surprised by the strength behind her words. This woman has more bite than I first gave her credit for.
“It’s fine. As I said, people assume a lot of things about rich people. We will get our insurance money, and while it was a gift from my daddy, I know what’s important in life.”
I want to ask what that is, but I stop myself.
“Do you think someone took them because they’re envious of your success?” I tilt my head.
She seems triggered by the topic, and if there is something going on that could be of interest to the police.
“I suppose. That would be silly of them. Anyway, envy achieves nothing. People should focus on their own lives, and if they want to be rich, then they should set it as a goal and go out to achieve it.”
“That easy?” I lift a brow, amused by her ignorance...or innocence. I’m not sure which it is yet.
“I didn’t say it was easy.” Her lips stretch into an unimpressed line.
“Yet you were born into it.”
“Yes, very rude of me.” Tiffany rolls her eyes. “I’ll make sure not to do that in my next life.”
Mic drop.
While her comments are triggering given my own personal situation, I can’t help being intrigued by her.
I follow her as she turns to leave.
I want to hear more.
I want a lot of things when it comes to Tiffany Stallone—none of which I have any right to. But a man can dream...or at least fantasize, and I see a lot of nights doing just that.
During the day, I’ll remain professional and make sure whoever did this doesn’t get near her again.
“This was the window they cut.” Tiffany points out and sits on the edge of a window seat. Her long legs stretch out, and I note she’s wearing a pair of classic white Converse.
Not Gucci.
Not whatever the most expensive shoe in Hollywood currently is. Good old Converse. It tells me a little more about her.
Opening the window, I lean out and take in what I can of the stretch of roof in the last of the day's light. Someone could climb up and walk along with ease once inside the section.
“Who knew you were going to that event the night they broke in?” I ask referring to the information she shared with the police.
Her lips stretch into a smile, then bigger as she starts laughing.
I lift a brow.
“Seriously?” she keeps laughing.
What am I missing? “Deadly.”
“Well, let me see,” Tiffany lifts her hand and starts counting on her fingers. “There was me, my assistant Sadie, Mom and Dad, oh, and twelve million people on my Instagram account.”
Jesus.
“Okay, you’re a jokester, I get it.”
She laughs some more and climbs to her feet. “Jayden, let’s—” Her hand lands on my arm, and our eyes lock, both in surprise. “Oh, sorry. Do you not like being touched?”
Like?
I want her hands on my cock, on my chest, running down over my abs. Jesus, yes, I like it. The heat of her palm touch burns like white fire through my black BHS shirt, creating a chemical reaction I feel right down my shaft. I want her glossy lips wrapped around it while she moans.
Sharing that out loud will see me meeting those HR people quick smart.
“Not really.”
Pulling her hand away, Tiffany smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I won’t touch you again.”
Words no man ever wants to hear from a woman who looks like her. I swallow my regret, knowing I’ll never taste her and shouldn’t even be thinking those thoughts.
“Show me where you work.”
She spins around and wiggles her fingers for me to follow.
Fuck me.
I do.
I have a feeling if this demoness asked me to follow her into the pits of hell, I would.