He strokes my fingers with the tips of his.Like we’re actually a couple!
“Friday night’s attempt appears less thought out than those previously. Greed often leads to arrogance. And arrogance commonly sequiturs carelessness. It was only a matter of time before they left a clue behind.”
“A c-clue?” I stammer. “What clue?”
“An eyewitness.” His chest swells with pride. “We’ve known all along there were three of them, and better yet, we had a rough description for each.”
“Muscular builds,” Bosmian inserts. “Ranging from five-feet-eleven to six-foot-three.”
I gulp.
“Dark hair,” Carter adds. “Kept short. But this time…” He leans a little closer, grinning conspiratorially. “They split up and ran in three different directions. I suppose they probably thought it was smart, scattering resources and thinning police presence, but all they really managed was to give us better insight into how each of them thinks. I was running through CCTV footage earlier today, following one of em along his escape route. He ducked into a games arcade; probably thought the noise and lights would make it easier to get lost in. Instead, he hand-delivered a 360-degree, high-definition view of his build.”
“D-did you get a clear image of his face?”
Less braggy now, Carter’s smile falls. “No. But on his way through, he ran into an arcade employee. She’s young, fifteen or so, and was shaky during her interview this afternoon. But she said they spoke?—”
“Her and the thief?” I gasp.Oh God. Oh no.
“Yep. I plopped a stack of suspect photos in front of her and asked if the man she spoke to was any of the men in the pictures.” He brings his glass up, smiling and sipping the bubbling liquid. “We got a hit. Xander Mathews.”
“Xander Mathews?”Do I know that name? Should I?“He’s known to the police?”
Carter scoffs. “Absolutely. He’s been in and out of lockup a dozen times in the last decade. Always petty stuff, armed robbery, intimidation, public lewdness.” He meets Bosmian’s eyes. “You remember that dumb underground boxing circuit we shut down the summer before last?”
Bosmian nods.
“Mathews was one of the guys who thought that crap up.”
“Oh my gosh! You’re Dean Warner, aren’t you?”
I twist and find a woman in a shimmering black gown beaming up at my?—
AtDean.
At his glittering, brown-eyed stare and pearly white smile.
“Hi.” He transfers a fresh champagne flute to his left hand and offers the right. “Have we met?”
“No.” She grabs on and inches closer, closer, so her toes almost tickle his. “But I’m ahugeStacked Deck fan, and I saw you in the finals last year.” She looks him up and down, practically already in love. “I could’ve sworn I saw your name on this year’s draw, but…” Her smiling eyes turn to a frown. “Wow. I guess not.”
“Please excuse me.” I unravel my arm from Carter’s grip and move the fifteen feet to where Dean babies his arm against his chest.
“I’m injured this year.” He clocks my approach, releasing the woman’s hand and taking mine instead. It’s like we’ve been doing it all our lives, like we’ve known each other forever. He tugs me in and tucks me under his good arm, but his friendliness remains with the other woman. “I registered to fight and was ready to dominate the finals again, but these things happen, ya know?”
The woman’s eyes, bright green and not entirely friendly, scour my face.
“How rude am I?” Chuckling, Dean presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m so sorry. This is my sister, Anna. And you’re…” He brings his gaze back to the woman. “I’m the worst. I didn’t even ask your name yet.”
“Kira.” She blushes, her eyes flickering from mildly murderous to reasonably tolerant now that she knows I’monlyDean’s sister. “I’ve been around fighters my whole life,” she chatters gleefully. “So, naturally, I noticed you. It’s impossible not to pay attention when a fighter clearly possesses talent.”
“Aw shucks.” Dean drapes his arm over my shoulders, hischampagne flute settled not so far from my chin. “You’re too kind. I train hard and give it my all each year.” His brows shoot high on his forehead. “You don’t compete?”
“Me?” Kira squeaks. “Oh my gosh, no.”
“But you train.” He peeks down at her well-defined biceps. “It’s easy to tell when you know what you’re looking for.”
“No.” She drops her gaze, playing up her shy act. “I train because that’s what we do in our family, but I don’t compete. I have no use for a gaudy belt, and I have a career outside of fighting I enjoy immensely.” She peeks up at him from beneath long, mascaraed lashes. “I’d rather watch.”
