I couldn’t help but press my hips up into her center, drawn by her returned heat to my groin. I grinned and chuckled through the pain.
She leaned close, lips teasing mine.“Gray,” she whispered.“Why did you leave?”
Exerting every ounce of remaining strength, I captured her mouth in answer. Battling anguish, I knew this was the last opportunity I had to be with her. I consumed as much as she’d allow, committing her taste, feel, and smell to memory—something to last a lifetime.
She rolled her hips over the stiff ridge in my pants. I didn’t care that we weren’t alone. I groaned into her mouth before she leaned away from me. Duct tape replaced her kiss; her delicate fingers sealing it over my mouth with a sweet pat.
I inwardly cursed myself. I’d never get the chance to tell her the truth.
My gaze fixed on hers. I conveyed all I could, asking, begging her to listen and see. Maybe with time I’d find my way back to her; maybe there was a way.
I squeezed my eyes shut in agony. No one escaped the mafia. No one.But I was hell-bent on changing that. I swore here and now I’d find a way.
There was nothing to do but watch as the small blonde and Nash packed up the stolen artwork. Bee hoisted a sledgehammer that I’d propped near the door. She swung it and broke the handle with a hefty clap of sound. It was a bit unnecessary, but it appeared she had steam to blow off—she also looked sexy as hell doing it.
The door swung open, exposing the room to the rainy night.
Nash hoisted the small artworks over his shoulder.“If I see you again, I’ll kill you, dickhead,” he warned with a final glare.
I thought it was cute that he thought that. Nash wasn’t a killer. Neither was I. That was the problem.
Bee winked with a grin, the last to leave. She halted in the doorway. The night silhouetted her hourglass frame, her hand on the doorjamb and fingers tapping. Her grin fell slowly as the moment lingered, becoming something serious and deep.
That expression seemed to convey something, but I couldn’t grasp what. Maybe it felt like hope, or an invitation? This wasn’t the end. Perhaps it was her response to my silent plea; her promise to wait for me, and my promise to return.
Despite my need to leave her behind, I now understood how impossible that would be.
Chapter 2
Betty
5 Months Later
Forlorn, I sat on the front stoop of my West Village townhouse. With a harrumph, my chin flopped into my upturned palms, fingers drumming against my cheeks.
It was late March in New York. Plants were blooming, trees coming back to life with bright pink and white flowers. Little petals floated through the air, making a mess of the sidewalks. It’s hard to believe there was snow just a week ago. The weather was very wishy-washy this time of year, much like me and my allergies.
Sybil, my soon-to-be sister-in-law, was puttering about her townhouse across the street. I could see her and Nash—my brother—moving boxes, repositioning furniture, and nesting into their newly remodeled environment.
Last fall, we’d almost lost little Sybil in a fire that claimed the townhome she stood in now. It was terrifying, but ultimately proved to be a fresh start for the little max-introvert and secret artist.
It was Sybil’s hidden art studio that was to blame for the fire, which also led to our discovery of her very cool secret identity as one of New York’s most sought-after mystery artists. She was an enigmatic, unknown, colorblind artist who went by the name of PERL. She was New York’s masked gem of the art world, the most famous mystery yet to be solved alongside Banksy—and we’d solved it. Our reward was gaining a new family member, and I couldn’t be happier. That mystery had changed our world, but a secret we were now bound to help her keep.
If you haven’t already surmised, my brother and I live a double life. We may work legitimate jobs at Beaumont Antiquities & Auction House, our family’s business, but we also recover lost artwork and antiquities on the side as thieves, dancing through the gray area of the heist world.
Let me explain.
Ever since Nash and I were young, we loved a mystery. We’d pretend to be detectives on a major case, hunting for the lost jewels of the arc, or something similar. When we grew up, this turned into a reality. We loved art history thanks to our father and relished acting like little detectives hunting down ancient artifacts. I think we fancied ourselves a couple of Indiana Jones fanatics.
Now as adults, we’ve turned our fun and games into a side business. In our free time, we hunt down lost artifacts on commission, stealing back already stolen art or jewels for reward money.
This is how I met Grayson.
Gray helped me steal a large Rembrandt landscape piece from the mafia, a task not easily done, but well worth it. No Rembrandt deserved to fall into the hands of villains; Especially one as rare as a Rembrandt landscape.
Not on my watch.
I enjoyed my dual life. After nights spent roving the world’s greatest cities in the dark or hunting for light of hand villains on the web, I could spend quiet days tediously restoring my rescued art and readying them for their return to the real world. It was a simple life of cleaning and refurbishing pieces to their original glory. There was nothing more satisfying.
