too conflicting. I’m losing him. I’m gaining him. I’m lying to him.
He flipped her back around and wiped the tear that had escaped. He spread the saltiness on her lips. “I think you need one here, too.”
She nodded, too terrified to speak and break this spell.
His breath faltered as he neared, the swell of his chest expanding into hers. He slipped a hand into the hair at her nape and swiftly claimed her, lips on lips, tongue against tongue. A sweet kiss that turned disrespectful quickly. She hadn’t expected his aggressive taking or how his hands and body moved as though controlled by their lips. He rocked into her, his hands everywhere, kneading and groping, then coasting up to her neck, anything he could grasp. She was no less demanding. She dug her fingers into the meaty muscles of his back, practically tearing at his soft T-shirt.
Kissing Jack was a new kind of adrenaline rush, better than the thrill of cutting an alarm or slipping past security or nabbing a Picasso or Rembrandt or Jackson Pollock.
He wedged his thigh between hers, lifting her slightly, an anchor of lust pinning her to the wall. Pin me. Take me. Keep me.
Another surprising tear slipped out.
He slowed then, lowered his thigh and hands. He gave her one more luxurious kiss, then stepped back. “I got carried away.”
Judging by the sharp angle behind his fly, he was as overworked as her. “I wanted you to get carried away.” She dried her cheeks, embarrassed by the wetness. “I’m not one of those girls, by the way. I never get all emotional and cry.”
He tipped his head to the side. “With the right person, it feels good to let go.”
It felt better than good, especially since he always knew the right thing to say. “That wasn’t a non-date kiss.” Her lips would tingle all night.
“No, it wasn’t.”
He didn’t offer more, and she didn’t initiate. How could she when she’d been tailing him and reporting his actions to Lucien, intent on stealing from his family? A fact she needed to rethink. Supporting poverty-stricken orphans and charities no longer felt like it excused her illicit activity. Everything once certain now felt very uncertain. Jack seemed hesitant, too. This festival performance was obviously a big deal to him. Performing on stage, stutter free, must be a yearly milestone. That left them thoroughly kissed and turned on, no release in sight.
The daunting task of explaining her wavering to Lucien—that she might not be able to complete this job—curbed her desire further.
“I should get home,” she said. “Back to my motel.”
Jack didn’t move, only licked his lips. “I don’t run on Saturdays, but I do on Sundays. Later, at ten.”
She already knew this. She’d studied the ins and outs of his weekly schedule. The knowledge was another hefty blow. “You still want my company?” Say no. Please say no.
“More than I should.”
Exactly her predicament. “I’ll try to meet you.”
She straightened her shirt and walked toward her car, unease hurrying her steps. Sunday morning was in a day and a half. Not long to figure out her next move. Unravel her confusion, because this distraction was a harsh reminder of how south a job could go. Last time she’d been this conflicted over a heist, it had gotten a man killed, and she had nearly died.
11
Five years ago Clementine had come to a proverbial fork in the road. The criminality of her work had weighed on her, the isolation of her life turning her into Mrs. Grinch. On her worst day, she wandered through Central Park as families lounged and couples walked, envy a fierce tug on her heart. It was like the world was only inhabited by pairs and sums. Answers to equations. One plus one equals happy.
She was supposed to scout her mark that day, implementing Lucien’s plan for a local heist—the incognito sort where she’d wear a prosthetic nose, makeup, and a wig. She’d been tasked with charming Eddie Cohen and acquiring his stunning Monet. Instead of insinuating herself into the wealthy prosecutor’s life, she’d been perfecting her Grinch scowl.
Lucien, always attuned to her behavior, invited her for dinner. “I’m making lasagna and garlic bread.”
She never said no to lasagna.
His apartment was small but nice. Sinatra played on the stereo as he poured her wine and dished out food. He asked about her Charger’s rebuild, the way he used to grill her on math and history, but he wore reading glasses when looking at pictures on her phone. His