It’s the only way. If I don’t leave now, the only place I’ll be going is a prison cell. I’ll come back tomorrow as me and make her mine.
“I’m going to leave now,” I growl. “Don’t scream. Remember what I said about not wanting to hurt you?”
This time she nods.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I let go of her and turn away. But as I do, for some reason I can’t comprehend, she reaches out and snatches the ski mask off my head.
Time seems to slow down as her eyes go wide. I pray with everything I have that she somehow won’t recognize me, but my stomach sinks as I watch her expression change.
Busted.
“Zander Du—”
I clap my hand over her lips, snatch my mask from the ground, and pull her down the hallway. She’s kicking and screaming the whole way, but she’s no match for me. I glance down at my watch. Less than thirty seconds left.
This is going to be close.
My rope’s right where I left it—hanging from the skylight where I came in. The pulley is rated to support my weight. I don’t know about the both of us. But she’s given me no choice. She’s coming with me now no matter what, and it’s all her fault.
“I don’t know if you’re religious,” I say as I clip onto the rope. “But right now you’d better pray that this holds and we don’t become two red splatters on the floor.”
I tug the rope to engage the spring on the roof. In an instant, we’re lifted into the air, one arm around her delicate waist, the other hand
holding the Picasso. I can’t help but think that the painting may have been my objective tonight, but I may have just found my real prize.
“Let go of me!” she screams as we rise. “Get off!”
No chance. Forget the Picasso. I’d leave it here if it meant I get to take her home with me. But tonight I get to have both.
I’m grinning like a skull beneath my mask as we hurtle toward the skylight. But this girl is no slouch; she’s squirming like she was on the varsity wrestling team, and just as we’re about to reach the roof, I hear the pulley give way.
2
Amory
My breath leaves my lungs as I feel gravity snatch us from the air.
My eyes go wide as I look up at the night sky as we begin to fall. Way to go, Amory. You should have just let the Herculean burglar kidnap you. Now you’re going to wind up a big red abstract-paint splatter on the floor of the Met.
The thief’s arm tightens around my waist, and suddenly I feel a snap of tension through my body. My heart leaps, and I look up to see him holding on to the frame of the skylight with one hand, holding me in the other. Far below, I hear the clatter of his briefcase, with whatever painting he stole tonight, clatter to the floor.
“You trying to get us killed!?” he snaps, his voice strained. “Climb up me.”
“I—”
“Don’t argue. Do it now before my grip gives out!”
His voice is strong, Spartan—like a king commanding his servants. I have no choice but to obey. It may defy the laws of physics, but I try to make myself as light as possible as I scale him like a cat climbing a tree. I reach out and grab the frame and try to pull myself up onto the roof.
Then I remember that I can’t even do a pull-up.
Why oh why can’t girls have more upper body strength?
I feel a strong hand on my right butt cheek and I’m suddenly thrust over the edge and onto the roof. Out of pure instinct, I turn around to help the mysterious man up, but he hoists himself through the skylight with ease and is instantly on his feet looking down at me.
“You know, if you weren’t so goddamn gorgeous I’d be furious,” he says, his voice firm and in control. He’s not even fazed about the near-death situation we just survived. “That was a Picasso you made me lose.”
As the cool evening breeze blows, I look up at his undeniably gorgeous face and feel a flicker of recognition. His eyes, piercing and dominant, the strong chin and high cheekbones. The way he’s standing, like a man who is used to being obeyed. And then it clicks.