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He offers a tight smile, a murmured pleasantry, as he ushers a middle-aged couple through the door behind him. I study the pair at a glance—white, mid-forties, medium height and build, decked in finery that would take me about five seconds to steal ’cause they ain’t payin’ a lick of attention—then turn back to the doorman.

Poor broski’s probably bored as hell, or just tired of playing butler to people who have more money than his entire family will earn in all their combined lifetimes. And I’m either gonna make his night better or worse, but at least a bit more interesting.

“Evening, sir!” I slide up into the couple’s vacated place at the door, tilt my head—downward, slightly, because I’m taller—to offer him an easy, charming smile. Not that a smile’s much use without an invitation, which I don’t have sans Rachel, but again, making this night interesting.

“Invitation?” he asks, extending a hand halfway between us. White gloves snug his fingers a little too tight, probably uncomfortable, definitely sweaty; tiny beads of condensation dot his receding hairline.

“Dammit. Um. I’d forget my own head, you know.” I widen my smile, revealing that soft smudge of dimple in my left cheek, as I extract a wallet from my rear pocket, then shove it back when it proves not to be the aforementioned invitation. “The other day, I drove off without shoes.”

To anyone watching, I’m a blundering, unprepared, blathering fool. The idiot arm candy I always play when I’m with Rachel.

“If you don’t have an invitation, you’ll have to step aside.” The doorman’s eyes drift past me. “People are waiting.”

I follow his gaze, still patting my pockets like that might make something appear out of the ether, as three women—white, Hispanic, Black, mid-thirties, dresses so slinky they leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, and a lotta stealable bling—amble to the door. Creamy tan invites in hand.

Time for Jax to play ball. And to throw Ricky a few extra bucks for getting me an invite list.

“Amelia!” I turn toward them, don an expression of tangled recognition and relief. “Thank God. Can you believe I forgot my invitation? Could you tell this fine gentleman—you’re doing a great job, by the way, I wouldn’t let me in either—that I’m not a party crasher?”

The Hispanic woman’s face creases into bold, angled lines of confusion. But I got the name right at least; she doesn’t correct me.

“Aw, c’mon.” I grin, give her the dimple. “You remember me. From Lily’s shindig last month? Jax?”

She still don’t know me from Adam—’course not, since we’ve never met—but the way I’m looking at her, all smiling and cheerful and cute as fuck, practically oozing charm and innocence . . . I’m like a goddamned puppy.

Everybody knows you don’t say no to a puppy. Her mouth relaxes into an uncertain smile as she tries to connect the dots.

I smile wider.

“Oh, Jax! Right. Yes.” Her gaze slips past me to the doorman. “He’s okay. He’s with me.”

The doorman nods, steps aside, and I’m in. Just like that.

Easy peasy.

“Jax!” Rachel hurtles toward me, bypassing my three new lady friends, her gold-yellow dress billowing behind her.

I grin at her. “Rachel. Nice of you to show up.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she huffs, weaving one arm through my elbow. The other waves an invitation. “I said no Jax shit.”

“You know I like to do things the hard way.” I lean down to tuck a kiss against her temple. Together, we stride through the entry, officially in now.

“The fun way, right?"

“Exactly. The fun way.”

That little exhibition at the door, that was just a preview. Fuckery. Some easy entertainment.

Now? Now, the real show begins. I got work to do.

Rogue style.

four

Watcher

People really went all out for this shit. We’re talking ball gowns to make the Oscars green with envy, to put Beverly Hills proms to shame. The entire first floor is an ocean of sparkly colors, sleek silks, and accessories—necklaces, earrings, and cufflinks—worth more than a halfway decent thief’s career.