Page 19 of Stealing Blinds

The car I ordered drops me off inside the walled estate in San Antonio, so I stroll up the walkway to the party in a mansion owned by an international oil tycoon. I studied the layout and every damn picture I could get my hands on, but nothing could compare to the extravagance here. It’s like a freaking castle—carved stone the color of sand, a barrel-tile clay roof, a peaked wooden double door, and architecture with arches and columns that are both imposing and inviting. They’ve literally rolled out the red carpet for their Cinco de Mayo festivities. It travels down the center of the magnificent staircase.

The property spans nearly thirty acres, yet even cushioned within the lush landscaping, the manor appears to sprawl across it.

I’m in a passion-red satin corset gown, paired with opera gloves that reach just past my elbows. The dress is strapless with a lace-trimmed sweetheart neckline and a train that flares around me. I have everything I need to complete my job and to blend in. Except for a date. That’s only glaringly obvious now as I approach the grand steps alongside several couples. Once I get inside, I can use my solo status to my advantage.

My burner buzzes in my small crossbody purse, so I stall at the bottom of the steps and quickly answer. “I’m here.”

There is no sense in exchanging greetings when that’s why he’s calling.

“I never doubt you. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything.” There is a thread of truth woven in there, but he’s much more invested in the job than he is in my well-being, no matter how we spin our history.

“I’m good, but I should go. I’m on my way inside.”

The night is balmy, though no storm seems to be on the horizon. Even with the slight breeze, I’m eager for air-conditioning. A blanket of stars adds to the entire ambience, as if our host transported the freckled night for just such an occasion. And aside from the music filtering through the surround sound system on the porch, the faint splish-splosh of water from the fountain on the circular driveway wars with the phone call.

“Very well.” He hesitates for a beat, but the pause is rife with warning. “You can’t blow this.”

Frustration simmers beneath my skin. “I won’t.”

“Update me when you have successfully left.”

“I always do, E.”

His breath breezes into the phone, marking his irritation, and I immediately regret my clipped tone, but he doesn’t call me on it. He simply hangs up, so I tuck my phone away and move on with my night, sauntering up the red-carpet staircase. I can’t let the pall of gloom he brings cloud my evening. I’ll be the one who pays.

“Beautiful dress,” a forty-something woman says as she passes me.

Dipping my chin, I notice her elegant emerald gown and smile. “You as well.”

Her date ushers her ahead. I’m familiar with him, much like I am most of the guests in attendance tonight. They all have some role in technology, real estate, oil, or stocks—something that led to obscene wealth. You must have at least a piece of that pie to get an invite tonight. He’s not married, so I’m not sure who she is. As for me? I’m someone’s ex, and the host was intrigued by that development.

The butler, who has likely been instructed to memorize all the guests’ faces, nods in recognition when I reach him. “Sylvie Palmer. Mr. Fairfax will be pleased to know you’ve arrived. I don’t have a plus-one name written down for you. Is that correct?”

It’s evident that yes is the only acceptable answer, which unsettles my stomach. But I’ll be out of here before it’s an issue.

“Yes. I’m alone tonight.” As the last syllable leaves my lips, a hand slides over my lower back.

“Sorry I’m late, Sly.” The inconvenient stalker pecks my cheek and turns to the butler. “Cash Noire. I was held up, but nothing would have prevented me from escorting this radiant beauty tonight. Oh, and”—he hands him the invitation I had in my purse—“she forgot this.”

Fucking sleight of hand.

The butler’s brows arch briefly. “No proof of invite needed, Mr. Noire. It’s a pleasure.”

I’m fuming, but Cash belongs at this party more than I do. If I call him out, it will only bring me into question.

Deciding to go with it, I proffer my best doe-eyed adoration. “Perfect timing.”

We’re waved inside, and every clip-clop-clip of my heels on the onyx flooring has me internally chanting, Kill-him-now, kill-him-now. The rhythmic lullaby of ending him soothes my fury a smidgen, but still, I snatch a glass of champagne from the waiter as we move past the crowded reception area and down it.

Cash chuckles, but he holds his tongue, his hand never leaving the small of my back.

We continue to the entertainment wing, passing a movie room, an arcade, a gymnasium, and an indoor pool. Every area is over the top. Once we’re in the open space of a half-filled ballroom with a twenty-five-foot ceiling absorbing the band playing Coldplay’s “Viva la Vida,” I get a whiff of his cologne, and it pisses me off. Citrus and suede and haughty seduction.

Twisting toward him, I study his tall, muscular form in his tux, and, good God, who the hell looks that attractive in real life? He beams at me with that panty-dropping smile that conveys how much he’s aware of his godlike appearance. And that’s when it occurs to me that he’s said nothing.

“Why the hell aren’t you speaking?”

He shrugs one shoulder, his eyes crinkling deliciously at the corners. “I was letting you take the reins on this one. You have a cute little knot between your brows that seemed to demand a moment of silence. But if we’ve reached the chatting portion of our evening, let me start by saying …” He pauses, his chest rising and falling as he undresses me with those cerulean blues. “You own this entire party, state, country, and the goddamn universe in that dress. I’ve never seen anyone so gorgeous.”