He cuts the ignition. “Are you sure? I can—”
“I’m sure. Wait here.” He’s been frustrated with me since we left Oxford because I have dodged every question he has asked.
A few minutes later I’m back in the car and give Ryan the room number. We park right in front of the door since I asked for a unit on the ground floor. While we could afford nicer accommodations, I prefer to be able to make a quick exit if the need arises.
We packed light so it doesn’t take long to get settled in.
“I’m hitting the shower,” Ryan says. “I’ll find us some food after I get out.”
As soon as I hear the water turn on, I pull out my phone and scroll Instagram until I find a comment giving me the meeting time for tomorrow. I comment on a different post letting Devon know I received his message.
When the bathroom door opens, Ryan exits in nothing but a towel.
I could look at him all day. His body is exactly my type—fit and trim but not overly muscular. Ryan must see the glint in my eye because instead of moving toward his bag, he crawls across the bed toward me. His mood has greatly improved.
And I give myself this moment. I push away the plans rolling around in my head. Hit pause on my timetable. Relish these few stolen moments where we can be normal.
I pull him close and his weight settles over me. My hands drift up to his hair, still damp from the shower.
“It’s been a helluva week,” he says, his lips only inches from mine.
“And it’s only Tuesday,” I answer. Then my expression turns serious. “Regretting coming on this road trip?”
“Not yet,” he says with a laugh.
Ryan kisses that spot on my neck that he knows I love, and I feel it down to my toes.
“What if I did it? What if I had something to do with Amy Holder’s death?” My whispered words hang in the air between us. This is self-sabotage at its finest.
He stills. Then his head lifts and his eyes meet mine. “That’s not a question I need the answer to.” Ryan leans closer, his lips landing softly on mine. It’s not long before we’re skin to skin, and I lose myself in this moment as his hands and mouth roam slowly down my body before working their way back up.
His hands grip me tighter, he holds me closer, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear, then he buries his face into that sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. Whispered words flow out of him, broken sentences that shouldn’t make sense but do.
I soak up every word as my nails dig into his back. Show him I feel the same way without having to say it.
Alias: Helen White—Four Years Ago
For this job, I’m Helen White and I’m the farthest west I’ve ever been: Fort Worth, Texas.
I’ve always wondered why every job I’m given is located in the South, but I guess Mr. Smith must have others who work for him in other parts of the country, so the South must be my territory.
It feels very corporate.
But Texas is new for me. Everything just feels different here. Bigger and louder for sure, but there’s something else to it. It’s almost culture shock.
On the surface, the Fort Worth job is supposed to be a simple retrieval. Some painting worth millions was stolen years ago and is believed to be hidden inside the sprawling home of oil tycoon Ralph Tate. Whoever hired us for this job has apparently tried to buy it from Ralph for years, but Ralph won’t sell, so we’re going to steal it from him instead.
But I’m not the only one trying.
Mr. Smith loves his games, and this job is the prime example of how twisted he can be. He told me I’m not the only one he’s sending after it, but he didn’t say exactly how many of us are throwing their hat in the ring. Because this is a contest, and the one who gets the painting out of the house first gets a bonus. A big one.
I find I want to win badly. Based on my last few jobs, I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to the top of that ladder, but walking away with that painting would confirm I’m the best he has.
After researching the art in question, I was a little disappointed it’s not one of the big ones, like that yellow poppy painting by Van Gogh that’s still in the wind. The one I’m after is worth about five million and it’s not even cute. I was given the details on this job thirty-six hours ago, and the more I dig into it, the more I’m convinced Mr. Smith wants the painting for himself, so he’s made a game of getting it.
It wouldn’t be the first job where there is no client.
The security system of the Tate house is a nightmare and doesn’t make any sense. At all. It looks more like an obstacle course. No matter how long I’m in this business, I’ll never understand rich people.