Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Well… is there?”
He considers like it’s a reasonable question to ask. “Not really.”
“What about the books?”
“Fakes, actually. Stage props.” He grabs one from a nearby shelf. “It looks nice and old, but the pages are all blank.” He fans through and tosses it aside.
I’m struck by the flippant way he makes a mess like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “You should pick that up.”
“Why?” He strolls over to an end table. “Now this lamp, it’s real Tiffany. Worth a decent amount of money. But can you tell me why I’m not taking it?”
“Uh, well—“ I plant my hands on my hips. “How would you get a lamp out of here?”
“Exactly.” He points at me, his gaze sliding down to my chest. “Your top’s still open.”
“Shit.” I grab the edges of my blouse and pull it tight over my breasts. I had forgotten in the shock of seeing him here and this bizarre conversation, and the breeze still feels incredible. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s sweltering in here. What kind of monsters keep the heat on in August? Don’t cover up on my account.”
“You’d like that.”
“A beautiful woman exposing herself? God, please have mercy, what a nightmare.”
I snort an ugly, undignified laugh. Annie always says I sound like a goat when I do that. I quickly cover my mouth, even more embarrassed, but Brenden doesn’t seem to mind. He walks to another shelf and picks up a small gold lighter.
“Now this is interesting. 18 karats and do you see this mark here?” He comes closer, holding it out. There’s a strange checkerboard-like pattern in the front and a scripted name across the top.
“S.T. Dupont, Paris. What’s that?”
“High end luxury lighter brand. This particular one is likely from the early 1940s. Any idea what something like this would cost?” He offers it for me to inspect. Without thinking, I release my blouse and take it. One half falls open.
“No clue,” I admit, hefting the lighter in my hand. “It’s surprisingly heavy.” I flip the top and flick a circular column on the side. The flame springs out with a distinct cling.
“My bet is anywhere from three to ten thousand, depending on the actual date of manufacture.”
I flick the lid shut and kill the flame, laughing in surprise. “Who has a ten thousand dollar lighter lying around their house?”
“Rich old people who love burning oil in August for no god damn reason.”
I hold it out but he pushes my hand away. “Keep it.”
“What? Are you crazy? Put it back, they’ll notice it’s gone.”
“No, they really won’t. Have you seen this place? The Davis’s are rich as sin and collect luxury bullshit like birds gather twigs for a nest. They won’t miss a lighter.”
I narrow my gaze, a strange thrill running into my core. Could I actually take it? I mean, he’s probably right. This office has a bunch of stuff lying around on the shelves, from a fancy model train to an obscene crystal inkwell. The clock is Cartier and there’s a silver plate covered in diamond-stuffed cufflinks. Plus, there are at least a half dozen other lighters scattered all over. Brenden’s got a point.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t steal from old people.” I try to put the lighter down, but Brenden gently takes my wrist. I’m very aware of his proximity now, the way he towers over me, the distracting slope of his handsome nose and the lean muscle under his clothes.
“Do you know how the Davis family made its money?”
“I’m guessing they didn’t volunteer to raise puppies.”
“Guns. Lots and lots of guns. They have one of the largest ammunition manufacturing businesses in the world.”
“Everyone’s got to make a living.”
“It’s blood money. Why should they keep it?”
“Why should I?”
“Because the gold looks nice against your skin.” His hungry eyes slip to my mouth and down to my neck. “And because you still haven’t buttoned up your blouse.”
A shiver rolls down to my toes. He’s right, my top’s still hanging partway open, exposing more of my chest than is appropriate.
“I don’t need the money.” I pull my wrist away. He releases me, but doesn’t step back. “And I don’t steal.”
“I don’t need the money, but I definitely steal. Sometimes it’s not about what the score costs, but more about the way the score feels.” He takes the lighter from my fingers and raises it up to press it to my cheek.
The gold is soft and strangely cool. God, it feels good in this horribly hot place. He moves it down and I tremble, a swell of desire rushing through me. This man’s attractive, absurdly good looking, and I know how wrong this is, having this charged moment with a complete stranger. I’ve never done anything like this before, except he’s confident, in charge, and shockingly charming. My mouth opens to tell him to stop, except nothing comes out, as he moves the lighter down my skin.