The operator is calm. Almost bored-sounding as she reels off a list of standard questions, including whether I have a roommate or a girlfriend or neighbors with thin walls. Basically, she’s asking:am I sure I’m not a dumbass?
But this is the penthouse apartment. The only thing that ever knocks on my walls is the rough winds, storming high above the city. Still, I answer her questions in a hushed voice, straining for more sounds beyond my bedroom door.
There’s nothing. For a horrible moment I think maybe I dreamed it, and I’ll have to explain to a bunch of grumpy cops that I’m scared of things that go bump in the night. But then a sharp noise shatters the quiet: the unmistakable clatter of a fork dropped in my kitchen sink, and my muscles all tense rock hard again.
The burglar iseating?What the fuck?
“The police will be with you in eight minutes, Mr Arnoult,” the operator says, with no hint that she recognizes my name. Good. That’s one less thing for my lawyer to worry about. I thank her and hang up, even as she invites me to stay on the line, and toss my phone to the mattress.
Eight minutes.
Eight long minutes.
A lot could happen in eight minutes.
* * *
I fully expect the burglar to ransack my apartment. To tear the valuable paintings off the walls and go through my electronics; maybe steal my laptop or copy my hard drive. Idefinitelyexpect them to go hunting for that damn sapphire I couldn’t resist, but I still yelp in shock when they burst into my bedroom.
It’s stupid, really. According to my schedule and everyone who knows my movements, I shouldn’t be here tonight. The burglar clearly thinks they’re alone since they ate my damn food, so why wouldn’t they charge around like they own the place?
But there’s nothing in my bedroom exceptme,my eyes wide and my hair rumpled and my hands raised in the universal signal of surrender. My burglar sucks in a shocked breath, slamming to a halt in the doorway, then tilts her head to the side.
Herhead. Yeah. Because there’s no mistaking that slender silhouette, framed by the light from my living room.
My burglar is a woman.
“Uh,” I say, scanning her toned body for weapons, her lithe limbs dressed all in black. There’s no gun, no glint of a blade, and apparently relief makes me even dumber than before, because I blurt, “Can I help you?”
She puffs out a laugh. She sounds winded, too, like this is too awful to believe. Well, fuck that. She’s the one who broke in here, and my voice is harsh when I grind out, “The police are on their way.”
Still no movement. No rush for the door.
Slowly, trying not to spook her, I switch on my bedside lamp–and it’s my turn to lose all my air.
Because she’s beautiful. Even in that ugly black beanie, she’s so pretty she’s hard to look at. With her creamy skin and pink mouth and the tiny black mole on her upper lip, it’s like staring directly into the sun. And when she sighs and tugs the hat off, caramel waves tumbling around her shoulders, I forget how to swallow.
My shoulder blades press against the headboard. I tug the bed covers over my lap.
“I was thinking about teaching yoga in prison earlier,” my burglar tells me, casually wandering into my bedroom like we really are roommates. “I jinxed it. Such a rookie error.” She wanders to the window, pulling back the dark drapes to stare at the streets below, and she doesn’t seem stressed. Just lost in her own thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, though fuck knows why I’m commiserating with her. “I do that sometimes with important meetings. I picture myself screwing it all up, and then I play it out exactly the same way. Like I wrote myself a script.”
She smiles at me, clearly charmed, and lets the curtain drop. “Not many powerful men would admit that, Spencer Arnoult.”
I shrug one shoulder, not sure what to say. I don’t like many powerful men, even though theoretically they’re my peers. They’re too concerned with hurting people to prove they can–like little boys frying ants under a magnifying glass. I’ve been that ant. Iwon’tbe that man. “How do you–”
I cut myself off with an irritated grunt.How do you know my name?That’s what I was about to ask, like she’s a girl I bumped into at a party or a bar like a normal person. But of course she knows my fucking name. She’s here to burgle me. She probably knows every single thing about me–everything worth stealing, anyway.
“Aren’t you going to run?” I ask her instead, and my beautiful thief shakes her head, her golden hair shifting against those shoulders.
Thoseshoulders. Those arms, those legs, Jesus Christ. I didn’t know I liked sculpted muscles on women until I met my burglar, and now I’m mentally subscribing to Sports Illustrated even as I can’t tear my eyes away from her. She looks like she wandered off the Olympics gymnastics team.
“There’s no point. I didn’t plan for a quick escape, you know? I thought I’d have hours to get around your security system and work my way down to the lobby. The fact is, Spencer,” she flops onto the edge of my bed, kicking out her legs and crossing her ankles, “I’ve screwed up. I’ll go down with dignity.”
I stare at her feet. “You’re not wearing any shoes.”
She wiggles her toes in those black socks. “Nope. Wouldn’t have been comfy in the suitcase.”