Page 3 of Stealing Blinds

She couldn’t have gathered that from my casual attire. In order to blend in tonight, I abandoned my usual black suit or even a button-up and dress pants that would point to my traditional dealings. And I don’t think she knows who I am. So, she either notes the innate duplicity in my eyes or she’s reaching.

A group of ten guys who are trying to stay together bump into her back, which has her stumbling toward me.

I wrap my arm around her waist to hold her steady and address the college-aged kid who jostled her. “Watch it, man.”

He raises surrendering palms to me, so I return to my little thief. And little she is. She has to be at least a foot shorter than my six-three stature. Maybe more. And she smells sweet, like vanilla—even over the stench of piss and beer from the carnival days.

“Let’s get back to that moral compass slam.” I wink at her because she’s clearly livid that I stole her loot, but I’m intent on weaving that transgression with my irresistible charm until she views it as the best pickup of all time. “Since I fail at morality, I also fail to grasp why you’d settle on such a meager prize.”

We’re boxed in on all sides now, and I think she’s into it. She doesn’t like me. Yet. But I’m not taking that personally. Thieves tend to be irritated when they’ve been out-thieved. But she can’t deny the electricity zipping between us. My fingers itch with the urge to pull her closer. And the way her chest heaves suggests I stole more than the NOLA heirloom from her. I think I caught her breath.

Her glossy lips tilt into a flirty smile as she thwarts my hold on her hip and maneuvers around human obstacles toward an overfilled bar, calling over her shoulder, “Greed equals ruin.”

Interesting perspective for a cat burglar.

She doesn’t slow down. And the unwavering confidence that I’ll follow her when I’m in possession of her pilfered treasure is intoxicating, but I wait until we’re past a roaring band and dancing jesters to express that.

“I’m intrigued.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Both are common issues on Fat Tuesday.” I grab her hand—damn, her skin is soft—and drag her down the sidewalk to a pop-up bar cart since every other place is at capacity. Releasing her to pull the money out of my front pocket, I flash it at the old man taking orders, never faltering on our conversation. “Lucky for you, I know some great escapes.”

“Very astute.” She beams, like she’s in on a secret. “If you return my belonging and take one of those escapes, I will be less annoyed.”

“You’ll also be unsatisfied. And sated always trumps annoyance. It’s really a no-brainer as to whether you should come with me.”

Her eyes narrow. “Really?”

So fucking pretty. And … familiar. Maybe?

“Again”—I shake my head in feigned disappointment—“that’s on you. I’m referring to a good meal and crowd control.”

With that pronouncement, the guy waits on us despite the long line because he knows who I am, but she doesn’t bat an eye at that. She agrees to a Jell-O shot and refuses a soft pretzel, which pretty much sums up our options since it’s slim pickings after ten p.m.

“See? I was just trying to feed you, and you had to make it sexual.” I hand her a shot before doing mine. “I gotta say, it’s really forward when we just met. You haven’t even given me your name and number yet.”

“You’re right.” She throws back the spiked Jell-O and leers at me. “My apologies. I will never think about you and sex in the same … lifetime. In fact, I will never think of my Mardi Gras clinger again.”

“All that forgetting talk makes it obvious that you won’t be able to. But we’ll address your obsession on our next date.”

“Our next date?” Her eyes gleam with wild resolve. “Great idea. I have the perfect spot.”

I wasn’t expecting that, and I’m not exactly buying it. But it’s rare that I can’t charm a woman—practically unheard of actually—so I stay in step with the tiny bandit, accepting her change of lust.

The noise level is overpowering, and despite her height disadvantage, she’s quick, so we don’t chat en route to this date spot. After a minute, it’s evident that she’s headed back toward the museum.

“You’re returning to the scene of the crime?”

She peers over her shoulder with an expression that hovers between vexation and flirtation. “Not my scene. Not my crime.”

She’s up to something, but I’m in too deep, and she’s so goddamn cute. I can’t imagine not trailing her, so I play along.

“That argument will hold up well in the court of law.”

“Probably not,” she sings. “Better work on an alibi, Cash Noire.”

For a beat, I assume she recognizes me, but if she had, she’d have mentioned it sooner.