To Tempt a Thief 1 (The Billionaire and the Thief) Page 2

  The exact opposite of her reality.

  She took another sip, savoring the sweet bite of gin on her tongue, and catalogued her surroundings. The twentieth floor penthouse was enormous by New York standards—a prewar stunner even larger than her father’s place, with breathtaking views of Central Park and the glittering buildings that surrounded it—but its grand scale was nothing she couldn’t handle.

  Word on the street was that this family was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, liquidating their valuables at auction before expatriating to Greece. Given the sparse decor in the main rooms, Ari didn’t expect to find much in the private rooms, either.

  But Davidson had given her the assignment. She had no choice.

  Ari had already memorized the floor plan from Davidson’s files, and now she closed her eyes, imprinting new details in her mind:

  About sixty guests, plus the host and hostess. Four people working the bar and serving hors d'oeuvres. Doorman in the foyer by the elevator, and another downstairs. One security guard making the rounds, beefy but unarmed. Private hallway roped off with theater stanchions. No visible security cameras or alarm system.

  Ari had just visualized entering the first of the penthouse’s four bedrooms when a deep, silky voice shattered her thoughts.

  “Pardon the interruption, but may I join you?”

  Ari opened her eyes. It was a rare man that rattled her, but the impeccably dressed Englishman nodding toward the adjacent barstool caught her by surprise. She covered by taking another sip of her drink, shrugging coolly to let him know he could join her if he liked; made no difference to her.

  No difference. Nope, not at all. Ari sucked an ice cube between her lips, trying not to smile. Rich, sinfully hot Brit? This fantasy is even better than the bartender version.

  “Thank you,” the man said, taking a seat. Tall and broad-shouldered, he took up all the space between them, his arm brushing against hers as he settled in. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. You seem to be having quite a good think.”

  She swallowed the ice cube, imagining what it would feel like to let him run it over her lips, between her breasts, down to her—

  “I was,” she said hoarsely. “Thinking about things, I mean.”

  He leaned close, his warm breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck. “Wicked things, I hope.”

  Damn him. She held back a shiver. That deep voice and sexy British accent were enough to drive any woman wild, but his gorgeous honey-brown eyes, tousled black hair, and the confident, masculine way he carried himself sealed the deal. Even joking with her at the bar, he projected the kind of energy that could command a room.

  Or a bedroom…

  Ari’s thighs clenched in a weak attempt to staunch her throbbing desire while her brain—the only body part still focused on the job—shouted firm warnings.

  Stop it, Arianne! Dragging this man into the powder room for a quickie might seem like a lovely idea, but it would definitely get you noticed.

  Without asking her opinion, the man ordered another drink for Ari and a scotch for himself. She considered refusing—one drink was usually her on-the-clock max; anything more could lead to carelessness—but she sensed he wasn’t the kind of guy who took no for an answer.

  Besides, she was feeling a little rebellious tonight. Davidson had her working auctions and charity events nearly every night this month, each one demanding a new identity—private collector, curator, estate lawyer, art student. The whole arrangement was giving her whiplash. She needed to loosen up, even if it was just for a few minutes.

  “Wicked thoughts,” she whispered, returning her attention to her new companion, “are the only thoughts that make these events bearable.”

  The Brit laughed, loosening his tie and releasing a button at the top of his white dress shirt. His smile was dazzling—equally rakish and warm, the kind of smile that warned of dangerous, delicious things to come.

  “Answer this for me,” he said, his face still glowing from that killer smile, “if it’s not terribly intrusive. Do you have children?”

  Ari shook her head.

  “Thank God.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, leaving it in disarray, just begging for her to run her hands through it. “If I never hear another word about the cutthroat admissions process for Manhattan preschools, it will be too soon.”

  “Ah. First time at one of these events?” Ari asked.

  “First time on my own, anyway. Present company excluded, I feel like a magnet for self-involved dullards.”

  “Give it time.” She placed her hand on his forearm, surprised at how firm the muscle was, how thick and taut. “It gets… well, I won’t say better. But you learn to sense when the conversation is turning toward competitive preschools, the dearth of trilingual nannies, and spa vacations for pets. Then you make your graceful exit.”

  “I just bloody well told them I needed a drink,” he said. “I’m not even sure they noticed.”

  “You?” Ari raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure they noticed.”

  He didn’t respond, just pinned her with his mischievous gaze until the arrival of their drinks finally broke the heated connection.

  He passed Ari her glass, and then raised his own. “To bearable company.”

  “Mine or yours?” she teased.

  His smile was warm and genuine as he leaned in close, his breath once again tickling her flesh. “That, love, remains to be seen.”

  They clinked glasses and drank, their eyes locked in an unspoken dare.

  Now here’s a man who can dish it out and take it, too. Yum.

  Another dim warning rang in Ari’s head, but she shut it down fast. It was just drinks, a few laughs. He’d probably used the same lines on women all the time; there was no reason Ari would stand out in his memory later.

  Besides, she deserved to indulge in a bit of harmless fun with a smart, sexy guy once in a while. It’s not like Davidson and the other guys were here watching. They’d never even know about it.

  The man held out his hand for a proper introduction. “I’m—”

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, gently pushing his hand away. “You’ll ruin my fantasy about a torrid affair with a mysterious stranger.”

  “Torrid affair?” He cleared his throat, further loosening his tie. “Our relationship is progressing rather urgently, don’t you think?”

  Ari tapped her temple. “Wicked thoughts, remember?”

  “Just how many of these auctions have you been to?”

  “Enough to know how to thoroughly entertain myself.” And enough to know not to give out her name, fake or otherwise. Her carefully chosen identity served two purposes—getting in the door, and making fake bids on the art. Nowhere on the list was making new friends.

  Even extremely sexy British friends with the kind of body built for pinning her down on the bed.

  “So you’re a regular,” he said, eyeing her up. “Let’s see. A curator, collector, or just another member of the idle rich?”

  Ari laughed. “Depends on your definition of collector.”

  “How do you mean?” he asked.

  Ari gestured behind them, where the beautiful elite sipped Champagne and laughed agreeably at one another’s polite conversation. Serious collectors occasionally attended, but private auctions were more often populated by eccentric billionaires who treated rare art acquisition like an African hunting safari, and pill-popping socialites looking to one-up the neighbors. She figured her mystery man fell into the former camp. As a little girl on her father’s arm, Ari had attended these same events, watching in awe as he worked the room. Not much had changed since.

  “Out of the dozens of people here,” she said, “how many know a damn thing about the pieces they’re bidding on?”

  “Perhaps they just know what they want when they see it.” He held her gaze, those eyes entrancing her as he inched closer. Heat radiated between them where their thighs touched. “Some things are quite pleasurable in their own right, aren’t they.”


  He wasn’t asking her. He was telling her.

  A thrill raced down her spine.

  Ari looked away, unable to take the intensity building between them. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, or if the alcohol had lowered her guard, or if her fantasies were finally overtaking the last bit of logical resistance in her head, but everything about this man—his words, his sultry voice, his commanding presence—was making her wet.

  She shifted on the barstool, still not meeting his eyes. “Just because something looks pretty doesn’t mean it’s art.”

  “What is art, if not beauty?” he asked. “Art stirs our deepest passions, regardless of its origins. Is knowledge of its history a prerequisite to our pleasure?”

  “Of course not,” she said, “but that definition is too broad. Bordain’s Garden of the Divine is art, but then, so are the flowers that inspired it. Is a building art? A sunset? A child’s painting?”

  “The curve of a lover’s mouth?” he asked.

  She sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on the glass. “Depends on the lover, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed it does.”

  Ari finally met his gaze, electricity crackling between them.

  “We’re talking about what makes a serious collector,” she continued. “Collectors know the history, the creator, because they care enough to find out.” Now Ari turned to face him fully, her bare knees brushing against his thigh. “How much more pleasurable is a painting, or a song, or book for that matter when you know what inspired it? What kind of… I don’t know… struggles or pain served as the artist’s muse?”

  “Pain as a muse?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “And here I thought you were the rainbows-and-sunshine type.”

  Ari touched his knee, her manicured hand resting lightly against the cool fabric of his suit pants. “Precisely what happens when you judge without truly knowing what lies beneath.”

  She kept her hand there, unable—or maybe just unwilling—to remove it. It was a dangerous tease, one she couldn’t indulge in too much longer.

  But damn, it was fun.

  “To pain, then.” He touched his glass to hers again. “And beauty.”

  “And the wisdom to know the difference,” she added.

  He frowned in mock disappointment.

  “Too far?” she asked.

  “Sorry, love. Now you sound like a motivational speaker. A bad one, at that.”

  “Shall I tell you about the summer I was a trilingual nanny for a wait-listed Ivy League preschooler instead?”

  “Oh, you wicked little beast!” He nudged her lightly in the shoulder, his eyes wide in amused horror. “Dreadful. Utterly dreadful.”

  Ari laughed, relishing the way he’d called her “love,” in the smile her laughter brought to his face in return. By the time he called for another round of drinks, she was feeling so good, so carefree, she almost forgot she was on the clock.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JARED BLACKWELL HAD come to the auction to acquire one new possession—the Hans Whitfield painting.

  Now he wanted a second.

  The hosts had just called for everyone to take a seat in the auction room, and Jared held out his arm for the woman, happy to escort her. Things had gone unexpectedly well at the bar; he was hoping they might spend the later part of the evening in each other’s company.

  And out of their clothing.

  She reached for him, but then hesitated, a silent war waging in her pretty hazel eyes.

  “It’s all right, love,” he said. “I don’t bite. At least not until the second date.”

  Whatever her reservations, they vanished in an instant. She flashed him a look so fierce and carnal, it left no doubt about their common interests.

  “In that case,” she said, “I’m counting drinks at the bar as our first date.” She wrapped her hand around his arm and leaned in close, not bothering to play coy. “Which means that this is our second. Let’s hope you’re a man of your word.”

  With her firm breasts pressed against his arm, it was all Jared could do to keep his dick in check.

  If I didn’t want that painting so badly, I might just drag this woman into the nearest coat closet, tie her up and—

  “Ready?” she asked, nodding toward the auction room.

  In her captivating presence, Jared was powerless to resist—a state that agitated him greatly. He didn’t like the tables being turned. The last time he allowed a woman to get the upper hand, she’d damn near ruined his business, not to mention his heart.

  Still. There was something about her, a physical magnetism Jared couldn’t ignore. She’d intrigued him from the moment she stepped into the foyer. She’d arrived with a group, yet didn’t linger, didn’t greet the hosts as the others had. Instead she’d gone straight to the auction room to look over the artwork, and then settled in at the bar alone, looking determined as hell.

  He wondered what piece she was after today.

  Hopefully not the Whitfield.

  If Jared was going to do battle with her, he’d much rather have it unfold in the privacy of his bedroom.

  As they settled into adjacent seats, the woman let her hand rest on his thigh, so casually and comfortably it was as though they were already lovers. Taking her cue, Jared put his arm around the back of her chair.

  Perhaps that bedroom battle might be arranged after all…

  With everyone finally seated, the auctioneer got down to business, starting with a small but richly colored painting of a Parisian sidewalk scene—A Moment’s Pause, the last known work of Johan Saccari. Jared didn’t recognize it.

  “What do you think it’s worth?” he whispered to his companion. “Fifty thousand?”

  “Hardly.” The woman leaned in close, a conspiratorial grin lighting her face. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “After Saccari’s death, his apprentice sold a dozen of his own paintings under his master’s name. When he was finally caught, he admitted that A Moment’s Pause was Saccari’s final painting, and its value skyrocketed. It was stolen from the Louvre in the thirties, and then again in the fifties. After they recovered it the second time, it was sold to a private collector for three million dollars.”

  “No kidding?” Jared was impressed by her knowledge. The bidding had already gone up to $80,000 since he’d first mentioned it, and it was climbing steadily. “Think it’ll go for six figures tonight, then?”

  “Probably,” the woman said. “But here’s the real secret: it’s worthless.”

  “You just said it was Saccari’s last—”

  “It’s a fake. You can tell by the flat texture, among other things. Saccari was known for mixing foreign matter into his paints—sand, glass, stones, even hair. And besides…” She gestured to the women in front of them—the ones who’d nearly cornered Jared earlier—and lowered her voice. “Anyone worth her trust fund should know that the real A Moment’s Pause is hanging over a fireplace in Spain, still with the family who purchased it from the Louvre.”

  “Sold!” the auctioneer said. “Four hundred thousand dollars from bidder seven. Thank you.”

  “Wow,” Jared said. “Poor bloke.”

  “Well, you know what they say about suckers,” the woman whispered.

  Jared smiled. “Bet bidder seven wishes he was sitting next to you.”

  “Bidder seven wouldn’t stand a chance with me. He probably doesn’t bite until the fourth date.”

  Heat flared in her eyes, sending another bolt of desire to his dick. But with a frightening realization, Jared’s blood went suddenly cold.

  “The Whitfield painting,” he said. “Do you know it?”

  “Of course. Are you interested?”

  “I am if it’s really the Whitfield.”

  “Oh, that one’s totally authentic. I was relieved to see it, actually. For years it’s been… unaccounted for.” Her face clouded, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her brows. It looked as though she had more to say on
the matter, but when Jared pressed, she waved it off.

  “Now that is an interesting piece,” she said, eyeing an ancient alabaster bust that just went up for bid. “Also authentic. It’s King Darius the first, carved in the late period Egyptian style. Egypt was part of the Achaemenid Empire by then. The piece was probably commissioned by one of the king’s local wives.”

  The auctioneer opened the bidding at $8,000. “Eight, to the gentleman in front. Do I hear eight five?”

  “Nine,” his woman called out. She was all business now, the playfulness gone from her voice.

  Jared watched curiously as she and the first bidder vied for the bust. He hadn’t pegged her as an antiquities collector, but then, they hadn’t yet gotten into the finer points of their various passions.

  A third and fourth bidder entered the game, his woman keeping pace through a volley of bids. The price climbed to $55,000 before she finally dropped out. In the end, it sold for $72,000.

  With his arm still resting on the back of her chair, Jared caressed her bare shoulder, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on her skin. She was so smooth, so inviting, he could only imagine what the rest of her body felt like, what it looked like under that dress…

  “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”

  “Nah.” She leaned into his touch, goose bumps raising on her arm. “It’s a great piece, but not a stellar example of late period Egyptian art by any means. Certainly not worth more than the fifty-five I was willing to pay.”

  “Someone disagrees with you.”

  “What did I tell you about suckers?”

  “After all your talk of pretense,” Jared said, nudging her knee with his, “could it be that you’re an art snob?”

  She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m a bit of an art snob, too.”

  “You don’t say?” She fingered the edge of his suit jacket, stroking the fine material. “Here I thought you were the type to have a trophy room full of dead animal heads.”

  “Guilty,” he said. “To be fair, the live ones are a bit harder to mount.”