Page 10 of Forever a Thief

Following closely on her heels, making sure to cover her smaller frame with my larger body, I dare a quick look over my shoulder. No sign of our pursuer. Not yet, anyway, but I know he isn’t far behind.

We hurry through the kitchen, skirt around a massive island and several sinks, pass a large commercial stove and a walk-in freezer, and then rush out the back door. The cool night air hits my face as I follow Savannah over to a purple Honda Civic that looks older than the first Nokia phone, but with less battery life. Merde. We need this baby to get us out of here, and serious doubts begin flooding my head as she reaches over to manually unlock my door. I climb in and the engine sputters to life as Trigger Happy comes barreling out the rear door.

Savannah hits the gas, turning the wheel hard, which, at this point, makes me question if there’s even power steering, and she heads straight for the parking lot’s exit. Meanwhile, I keep my eyes on Trigger Happy, who abruptly turns around and runs back into the restaurant.

“Shit! He’s going back to his car. Drive faster!”

We squeal out of the lot, past what I thought was my Uber ride, and hurtle down the deserted Main Street—well, as much as this dinosaur can hurtle, anyway. It’s certainly not a sports car, and I’m really wishing we were behind the wheel of my Ferrari 488 GTB. Not only is she the sexiest car in the world, she’s fast as fuck. And, of course, she’s red. More specifically, Rosso Corsa—or Racing Red. Because, hey, it’s me. I like flash.

“If you haven’t noticed, this is a thirty-year-old Civic,” she fires back. “And where the hell am I going?”

I guess I should be thankful it started up.

“The Beach Village at the Del.” I frown when she coasts to a stop at a red light. “Are you serious right now?”

“What? It’s a red light.”

Behind us, there’s a squeal of tires and an engine guns through the quiet night. Turning in my seat, I see Trigger Happy coming at us like a bat out of hell.

“Run it!” I yell.

“Okay!” she hollers back, hitting the accelerator. She’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, and I mentally slap my forehead. My adorable getaway driver has probably never been in a car chase before.

“You’ve got this, Savannah,” I encourage her, reaching over to touch her elbow. “We just need to shake this guy before we go back to the Del.”

“I don’t know how!” she cries, starting to panic.

“You can do it,” I assure her again, squeezing her arm as I brace my opposite hand against the dashboard. “See that street coming up? Take a right, and then you’re going to take an immediate left and gun it.”

She gives a sharp nod, focused on the street coming up fast. The Honda takes the right much smoother than I expected.

“Now, hard left!” She jerks the wheel and we skid around the corner. I point out another street. “Turn there.”

After circling around a few blocks and making some fast turns, I look out the back window, and there’s no sign of Trigger Happy.

“I think we lost him. Excellent job, chérie.” My compliment makes her sit up a little straighter, and she sends me a dazzling smile. Hmm, I wonder if she has a bit of a praise kink.

“Good girl,” I murmur, just for fun. And because I’m devious like that. I swear, her cheeks flush. “Now take that left and keep going straight. We’ll hit the hotel.”

Chapter Four: Savannah

He called me a good girl. And the way he said it, so deep and a little husky, has a certain part of my body reacting in ways it hasn’t in a very long time. Which is so unusual for me. It’s not like men don’t flirt with me, but I’ve been far too independent and jaded to care. But something about the way Laurent says those words, the way he looks at me with those smoldering green eyes, hits very different.

I drive up to the gated community and swipe Laurent’s card to grant us access to Beach Village. Sure, I’ve walked through the Hotel del Coronado and visited the shops and eateries that run along its beach, but I’ve never been in this part of the hotel’s property. It’s super swanky and oh-so-private. Well out of my price range and definitely not a part of the grounds I ever expected to see.

Laurent directs me past picture-perfect beachfront cottages and villas so exclusive, the general public isn’t allowed to see them, much less hang out in and around them. No, this section is a special place reserved for the very wealthy.

“That one,” he says, and I pull up in front of a gorgeous villa. Turning the car off, I try not to gawk. A few luxury vehicles are parked in front of the other villas, and my little Civic hardly fits in. Compared to the other cars, she’s just a bit, ah, vintage. But she belonged to my mom, so I refuse to be embarrassed.

“What do you do?” I ask under my breath.

“It’s probably better if you don’t know,” he murmurs, getting out.

What does that mean? I wonder if he’s a former assassin like Ryland. But that doesn’t seem right. He doesn’t look or act like Ryland and his friends. They’re always wearing cargo pants with a million pockets and carrying a gun or some other weapon. Plus, they have muscles for days, and they’re always so intense. None of them would ever trade their boots for leather loafers with no socks. Laurent is…

I let my gaze roam over his body. Laurent is different. He has a richness to him—his personality, his presence, his clothing. Even the way he speaks. His accent reeks of someone who belongs in the upper echelon of society. Refined and blue-blooded. I adjust the Dooney & Bourke bag on my shoulder. The one I found in a sales bin at Macy’s and have been proudly toting around for over five years. I doubt Laurent ever bought anything off the rack much less on sale. Because even though his torn clothes are covered with a mixture of dried mud, grass and blood, I can tell they’re expensive. He doesn’t possess former military vibes; he possesses old money vibes. And that accent? It’s sexy as hell.

As we walk into the elegant villa, I don’t think I’ve ever been more curious about a man before. There are so many questions I want to ask him. Like where he’s from, how long he’s been in California, does he have a girlfriend? But, instead, I look around at the beautifully-decorated space and tell myself it’s none of my concern if he has a significant other.