1
Zander
Nothing thrills me anymore. Nothing but this.
When I was young, conquering the business world was my only goal. I had laser focus. Like a gladiator, I rose to the top, leaving other men nothing more than charred corpses in my wake.
And then I got there. And what did I find?
Nothing.
The satisfaction of victory lasted less than a month. And then the emptiness set in.
But you can’t tell anyone that. Not when you’re rich. Not when you’re a billionaire. After all, how could life be empty when you can have whatever you want, right?
Wrong.
I’m Zander Duke, billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist. Oh, and my side hustle? I’m a professional art thief. I have many secrets, but none as important as this. No one knows—not even my most trusted advisers. It’s the only thing that gets my blood pumping anymore, and even that’s beginning to fade.
Money, cars, women. I’ve had it all, and I made sacrifices along the way.
No real friends outside of business and definitely no real relationships. Women want me for one of two things: money or fame. Sometimes both. The gold-diggers are easy to spot. The clout-chasers a little harder. I let myself get fooled one too many times, and then I closed my heart down—locked it up in an ice cold freezer inside my chest, never to be opened again.
The tabloids never stop speculating when I’ll settle down. I’ve told them the answer. I guess they just don’t want to print it.
The answer is never.
I glance at my watch. Three and a half minutes left. That’s when the alarm system comes back online, and if I’m not out of the museum by then, I won’t be leaving at all.
Tonight, I’m here for a Picasso. Picasso’s “PaBLOW” as some are calling it. His “BLEW” period to others. Yes, it’s a self-portrait painted by the master of him getting “orally serviced” by a young lady. Most people don’t think it’s very good, but it made headlines when it surfaced. And that’s why tonight, I’ve broken into the Met to steal it.
The latches on my briefcase snap open, and I slide the painting inside, frame and all. It fits like a glove, which it should, considering I had this made to the exact dimensions. The thrill is there in my chest, but it’s a shadow of what it used to be. Even this is starting to lose its potency.
I slap the case shut and head for my exit—a rope and pulley leading up to one of the skylights. Everything’s going according to plan.
There’s a flicker of motion in the corner of my eye. I stop and turn and feel something jump in my chest. There, standing at the end of the hallway with a mop and bucket, is a girl more beautiful than all the art in the museum.
She shouldn’t even be here tonight. I planned this job carefully. The cleaning staff are supposed to be on strike, and there’s a fifteen-minute window for security patrol on this wing.
I suck in my breath as the feeling hits me hard—harder than the thrill of my first job. I honestly can’t believe it.
Who is she?
She’s holding a mop and wearing a hideous pair of coveralls, but she’s also gorgeous. She could be an actress or a model, and she’s working at the Met after hours cleaning floors? What the hell is going on?
Her eyes fix me in place like she’s a cop pointing a gun at my head. But there’s something soft about her. Innocent. She’s more afraid of me than I am of her, that’s for sure. My heart skips a beat as she reaches for her walkie-talkie.
I cross the space between us in the blink of an eye. My speed shocks her, and her eyes widen. I slap the radio out of her hand, scattering it across the floor. She opens her mouth to cry out, but I slap my hand over her lips and shake my head.
“Don’t do that,” I tell her. “I would never hurt a woman, but don’t force my hand. Understand?”
The poor girl is too scared to react. The clock is ticking. Each second is crucial. I feel my escape window closing quickly, but I give her a few seconds to get her wits about her.
Christ, she’s gorgeous.
Who the hell is she and what is she doing here?
I’m fascinated. One of the reasons I’ve gotten to where I am today is being able to read people, but when I look into this beautiful girl’s eyes, I get nothing. She’s pure mystery and I’m instantly hooked. Infatuated. And it’s not just my mind, either. I feel a pulse between my legs but shut it down quickly. There’s no time for that now.
But later…
No, I can’t take her with me. That would be cruel. If I do, she’ll never be able to leave. She’ll know my identity then. She could blackmail me, rat me out to the police. The only way I could take her is if I made her mine forever. And that would destroy her life.
Leave her now.
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.