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Personal.

Double dangerous.

So, I give him the truth again, but at least this time, it’s simple enough. “I want to know ’cause I’m a fucking busybody. Aren’t you curious what kind of treasures there are, bigger than the one in my pocket?”

That delicately arched brow lifts higher. “Is this another dick joke?”

“Shit. Yes.” I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my throat. “Damn, I didn’t even try to make that happen. I guess you just bring out the best in me.”

“Focus.”

Shit. He’s turning into my inner voice now, keeping me on track like that. My brain-clock chimes in again too. Tick-tick-tick. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Dicks distract me. Anyway. Aren’t you curious? I’d say the most valuable loot is in that office there—”

“—the one you just came from—”

“—and he’s not in it.”

“So, you want to know where he is.” No inflection in that voice, no emotion. “Because you’re curious.”

I tilt my head against the wall. “Basically dying of it, yeah. You in?”

“What’s it entail?”

I lean in, catch that scent, like before, and I think it’s familiar, that I’ve smelled it before, but not like he pulled it off any old Macy’s sales rack. Doubt this guy even wears cologne, if I’m being honest. Which means that he—like the other guy I never think about—

But nah.

That’s a no-think zone for a reason.

“Jack?” he says, and the sound of my almost-name, my fucking goddamn name on his tongue, is like . . . like ambrosia. Like something I want to hear again. Chase. A drug. “Jack!”

Tickticktick.

Shit.

With almost physical effort, I claw my way back to Earth, to reality, to the present moment. How the hell’d I get so far away mid-heist? That’s so unlike me. Normally this is my hyper-fixate mode.

“He’s on the third floor,” I say, just like that. Words tumbling on out. Truth, truth, truth, like an invitation. Like bait—but he doesn’t take it.

“And yet here you are on the second.”

“Yeah. I had some things to take care of. That’s as specific as I’ll be.” I shoot him a wink. “I told you about the Silverback. Not my fault you can’t follow a clue.”

“And I’m supposed to just let you go? After you admitted—”

“Admitted?” My brows lift in an arch of disbelief. “Ah, good sir. I’ve made several jokes. Told a few lies. Some truths. But I am certain I’ve admitted nothing. Wouldn’t you say?”

His jaw flexes, and he steps in closer. Closer. So that I’m forced back a step.

My shoulder blades press the wall behind me. He doesn’t touch me, leaves a breath of space between us, and yet . . . And yet it’s like I feel him, the heat of his body. The soft feathered press of that scent. The hardness of his very existence, like his goddamn aura bears weight.

I have to force myself to keep breathing, even as I tip my head back. Grey eyes. Just visible through the hard cut of that mask, the one that obscures everything else. If I saw him on the street, no mask, no hat, would I recognize him? No, I think. I wouldn’t.

“So,” I murmur, and I wonder if he feels my breath on his cheek. If he realizes how much my brain’s struggling to find words that make sense. “You gonna pat me down or not, Blondie? It could be fun for both of us, I promise.”

He blanches, and his gaze drops to my mouth—my suddenly very dry mouth. Without warning, I’m all too aware of the air hissing from between my parted lips, of the faint caress of his own faded breaths. Fuck, I bet he’s a good lay.

I lift my chin the barest inch, aligning my lips with his. A suggestion, not a touch. Not enough to close the space between us. But my God, if I don’t feel that minute separation in every fucking nerve in my body, in my bones, down to my very shadowed soul.