Code Name: Heist

by Sawyer Bennett

  “Love,” he whispered as he unbuttoned his pants.

  “Love?” My voice was raspy, the word feeling foreign as it came out.

  “You love passionately,” he explained. With one smooth motion, he pushed his pants and boxers to the floor. He was beautifully naked, his cock hanging low and heavy.

  I couldn’t help but appreciate that one piece of him that owned me completely. “What do I love passionately?”

  Taking himself in hand, he started to stroke. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, eyes wide as he lengthened… swelled… became what I needed.

  Saint didn’t answer my question, though. Instead, he approached the bed and snatched the covers off me. He climbed in and covered me, settling the length of his body against mine. Automatically spreading my legs, I cradled him there.

  Pushing his elbows into the mattress at my sides, Saint leaned down and kissed me gently. It was so soft—a mere brush of lips—at odds with the hardness of his cock pressed against me.

  Lifting his head, he looked down, allowing his eyes to roam. His lips curled up, and he shook his head slightly. One hand moved to my hair, a fingertip curling around one of my locks.

  “I love your fucking hair,” he murmured as he took me in. “When it’s spread out on the pillow like this, it looks like a damn halo around you. You’re a fucking angel, Sin.”

  I laughed, knocking his hand away because he was embarrassing me. I should be used to it by now—Saint’s ability to lay compliments at my feet like sweet poetry. He did it all the time, and I had a hard time accepting it.

  “My anti-halo, you mean,” I returned jokingly.

  Saint chuckled, then gave me a hard kiss. “You’re cute when you can’t take a compliment.”

  Then his eyes warmed… turned profoundly serious. “But now, I think I very much want to fuck you.”

  “Of all the things you’ve said to me tonight,” I said with a sly smile. “That’s my favorite.”

  “Hmmm,” he murmured, and I could hear the doubt in his voice. He knew my favorite thing was that I loved passionately, but I wouldn’t admit it.

  He knew me so damn well, this thief of mine.

  Saint’s mouth came back to mine, and we kissed. It was always a perfect mating of lips and tongue. So damned perfect all the time.

  I did love the way he kissed me with a passion.

  His hands on my breasts, he whispered how much he loved my skin.

  Cafe au lait was what he called it. I once tried to joke—Just say coffee and cream. He’d given me a chastising look and told me to stop diminishing his feelings. It had put me in my place, and I passionately loved his desire for me.

  Then Saint was inside of me… filling me to my depths. It always felt like too much, but I wouldn’t want a single inch less. I shifted and formed around him, melding around his perfectness as he fucked me.

  And I definitely loved his cock with a passion.

  Saint drove me higher, always breaking through the ceiling he’d set before. Always better and better and better.

  Thrusting until I’m mindless, he played his fingers on my body like a musician. I exploded with a scream he swallowed down, taking it inside himself for safekeeping. Saint pushed deep, moved his face to the crook of my neck, and growled out his release, the vibrations echoing through me.

  When his arms tightened around me, I embraced him back.

  Squeezed hard.

  “You love me passionately, don’t you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Within his tone was a dare for me to disagree.

  There was no hesitation when I responded.

  “Yes. I do.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sin

  James Dennison pulls his Aston Martin up to the front of his 18th-century apartment building located in Ile Saint-Louis on Quai d’Orleans. It’s one of the most prestigious addresses in Paris. Six-thousand square feet, four bedrooms—all en suite—two kitchens, and private parking with personal valet service. All his for six and a half million euros.

  Of course, he didn’t tell me this. I learned it from William’s research.

  No, Lord James Dennison doesn’t throw his wealth around. I’m glad of it, too, as I didn’t want to come off tonight as a brash young gold digger. The best way to get an invitation to the man’s apartment tonight had been to act genuinely interested in him as a person, because William’s research was meticulous.

  Lord Dennison’s loneliness from his wife dying a few years ago is a shroud around him. He wants to find love again, even if he’s looking for it in all the wrong places and with all the wrong women. His move to Paris was in hopes the city of love would inspire a way to quell that loneliness.

  We met tonight at a wine tasting. I joined a small group of people, sidled in beside him, and made a poignant comment that caught his attention.

  I kept his attention by discussing politics while twirling my necklace that hovered above the deep cleavage I’m displaying in a fire-engine-red dress. Poor man tried to stick with the conversation, but his eyes kept dropping to my breasts.

  When James brings his car to a stop, the valet opens my door first, offering a hand to help me out. By the time I’m on the sidewalk, James is handing the keys and fifty euro to the valet.

  “Thank you, my lord,” the valet says in a lilting French accent, surprising me a bit by referencing James’ English title. James returns a forced smile, telling me he doesn’t care about such things. It endears me to the man a little bit because I’ve found him charming and down to earth, despite the English title and incredible wealth.

  I push that away, though. In my line of business, it doesn’t pay to think that way. Especially since I will be hurting this man before too long.

  James tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow, and we walk into the glass-and-marble lobby. An armed security guard sits behind an elegant, yet oddly contemporary desk given the history of this building. He nods at James.

  “Good evening, Monsieur,” he says, eschewing the usual old-fashioned greeting. I expect that comes from knowing Lord Dennison doesn’t care about that stuff, which says this guard knows him well.

  James leads me to the bank of elevators, then chooses the one on the end. It slides open immediately, and we step inside. There are no buttons to push, only a numerical panel with an LED screen. James pushes in a multi-digit number I couldn’t care less about. I even make a showing of searching for something inside my clutch while he does so.

  The elevator whooshes up to the eleventh floor, which is the penthouse. When it opens, we step right into a large open sitting room done in a contemporary style, which is also at odds with the historical style of the building. Sleek lacquered furniture, austere Italian-tiled floors, and lots of chrome and glass. It doesn’t fit with the man I’ve come to know in the last few hours as we talked and sipped at wine. He’s down to earth and traditional. It’s like he’s trying to be something he’s not.

  I catch my reflection in a mirrored wall that separates the living area from the dining room. My dress looks amazing, my jewelry demure. I left my hair loose and wild tonight, which was a bit of a risk. It would have been a safer bet to tame it into a sleek chignon, but I left the riot of tiny ringlets that frame my head—according to Saint, like a halo—because that’s inherently who I am. I’ve given up way too much of myself working for Mercier this past year. If a hairstyle choice screws up our plan tonight, then so be it.

  Luckily, Lord Dennison seems entranced with me—the full package—which makes my job easier.

  While William’s research was thorough, the first thing I do upon entry into James’ apartment is scan for security alarms and cameras. I see none, which says that despite James having a lot of expensive stuff in his home, he feels safe in this secured building with an armed guard and a coded elevator between him and any supposed thieves.

  Shouldn’t have invited me in, James.

  “Would you care for a glass of wine?” James asks as he releases my hand. He doesn�
��t wait for an answer. Instead, he moves over to a butler’s pantry, which is replete with wineglasses of all shapes with a small wine rack built into the wall.

  “I would love that,” I say, casually strolling down the length of one wall that holds various vases and small sculptures. The purple-and-blue Chihuly glass sculpture is an eye-catcher, and I can’t help but be enamored of it. Of course, William knows he has this among his collectibles, but the beauty is off-putting for a moment.

  “This is beautiful,” I say, playing slightly coy. “What is it?”

  “That’s a Chihuly,” he says with a smile as he twists a corkscrew into a bottle of wine he’d chosen. “He’s an American glassblower. If you ever get a chance to see one of his exhibits, I highly recommend it.”

  Smiling, I move close to him. He pours two glasses, picks one up, and hands it to me. Before he can pick up his own, I ask, “How about some music?”

  His eyes flare with surprise.

  “Something slow,” I purr.

  James’ face turns slightly red, but he bobs his head. “Of course, of course. I have something that will set the mood.”

  As he turns from the butler’s pantry to a cabinet right behind us—presumably that holds the sound system—I deftly move my hand over the top of his wineglass, dropping the tiny pill I’d been pinching between my middle and forefinger since I’d retrieved it from my clutch in the elevator.

  I don’t even look that way, knowing it will sink and easily dissolve within seconds, leaving no taste behind.

  James chooses some John Mayall, and I smile approvingly. When he moves back to me, I make him reach for his own wineglass. I don’t want him to see me anywhere near it.

  He holds it up. “Here’s to a lovely evening with a beautiful woman.”

  I clink my glass to his, smiling demurely, and we both take a sip of the red liquid. It’s good. I have a small pang of guilt for not only ruining his wine, but also for ruining his entire night.

  Lowering his glass, James glances around a bit hesitantly before his gaze returns to me. “I have to say… I’m a little nervous.”

  I purse my lips sympathetically, putting my free hand on his chest. He’s about two inches shorter, so I try to come off as unassuming as I can. “Don’t be, James. We’re enjoying some wine and music. And I like you. I think we’re going to have a fabulous time together.”

  He must take my mention of a “fabulous time” as code for sex, because he flushes and brings his wineglass to his mouth, taking two long gulps for fortification. I internally wince, knowing that’s not going to feel good soon. William told me one sip would work its magic, and it would happen quickly.

  Because of that, I take James’ hand and suggest, “How about we retire to your room? We’d be more comfortable there, I’m sure.”

  “Oh… okay,” he mumbles, his cheeks going even more red. His palm turns clammy as he leads me down a hall to the master suite.

  I see the Renoir on the wall as soon as we enter, but I quickly avert my gaze when he gives a nervous sweep of his arm. “A bit overdone, right?”

  It’s definitely ostentatious. He left the cold, contemporary design of the rest of the house behind. In here, it’s all heavy, ornate woods and thick velvet curtains with gold tassels. But the Renoir fits in this room. It’s a small painting of a young girl sitting on a riverbank, no more than ten-by-ten inches total. However, the gilded gold frame is at least five inches wider, and there’s special up-lighting below the artwork to enhance the colors and brush strokes of such a masterpiece.

  “You know I’m far too old for you,” James blurts out, then drops his eyes to the floor.

  I feel sorry for him and his loneliness. In this moment, I hate myself. I step close to him, which causes his head to lift. Once I take the wineglass from his hand, I set both down on a side table against the wall.

  “You’re not too old for me, James,” I assure him softly. I take his hands, making him physically wrap them around my waist. Leaning in, I brush my lips against his. “And I like mature men.”

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes going to my mouth. “And sweet.”

  No, I’m not, James. Don’t you get my name is Sin for a reason?

  He rises to give me a deeper kiss, and I brace for it. I hate this part, not only for leading him on, but also because he’s the last person in the world I want to kiss.

  An image of Saint pops into my brain, and I try to banish it. He has no business here, but ever since my dream last night, it’s been hard to not think about him.

  Just before James’ lips touch mine, he gives a tiny groan, his hands falling away from my waist.

  “James?” I inquire, knitting my eyebrows in concern. “Are you okay?”

  Sweat pops out on his forehead. “I’m not sure. I feel a little funny.”

  “Your face is pale,” I say with an almost motherly tone, putting my hand to his clammy cheek. “Can I get you—”

  James doubles over at the waist. He clutches his stomach, a loud moan of pain emanating from him.

  “James,” I exclaim loudly, squatting so I can get a good look at him. “Talk to me.”

  “I’m going to be sick,” he groans, then runs for his bathroom. He doesn’t even make it to the toilet. Instead, he bends over his sink and starts retching. Red wine and the nibbles we had at the party come up.

  I’m not disgusted in the slightest. In full work mode right now, I watch dispassionately while he heaves, all while rubbing his back.

  When it seems to have passed, he straightens and apologetically meets my eyes in the mirror. “I’m so sorry, Melanie.”

  That was the fake name I’d given. For a moment, I’d forgotten. “It’s fine. Maybe it was the shrimp you had. I didn’t have any of that as I’m allergic, but—”

  James groans again. He bends over, retching and heaving, but nothing comes up. His arms wrap around his stomach. It’s clear he’s in pain. William said there would be discomfort, but it was necessary to the plan.

  Several seconds pass before James stops hurling. I take a washcloth from the vanity, run it under cold water, and place it on the nape of his neck. He sighs in relief, moving a hand there to hold it.

  “Think you can make it to your bed?” I ask. “I’ll move a rubbish bin there for you.”

  “Yes, thank you,” he whispers, his expression sheepish with apology. “I just—”

  Once again, he bends over and moans, tears leaking out of his eyes. “Oh, bloody hell… something is seriously wrong.”

  “That’s it,” I say with quick efficiency, my take-charge attitude lost on him as he’s in so much agony right now. He clutches onto the edge of the sink, staring into the mirror. “I’m calling 1-1-2.”

  “Yes, that’s probably best,” he mutters as he shuts himself behind the bathroom door. Once I hear him throwing up again, I pull my dress up and snag the thin burner phone from the garter belt around my thigh.

  I dial the number as I head into the bedroom. James is still loudly vomiting.

  Moving around the bed, I approach the Renoir just as Saint answers. “You’re on,” I say before disconnecting.

  I quickly scan the room, peeking behind curtains and picking up some of the knickknacks on various shelves, making sure there are no hidden cameras and using the extra time to be vigilant.

  “Melanie,” James calls from the bathroom.

  I hurry over there. The bathroom door is still closed.

  “Are you okay, James?” I ask.

  His response is weak and slightly muffled. “Not really. My stomach is hurting. Maybe it’s my appendix.”

  “Well, I’ve called an ambulance,” I say. “Should I go down to meet them?”

  “No,” he replies, then I hear more dry heaving. “If you don’t mind staying close by just in case.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I assure him. “You’re safe with me.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Saint

  We pull up to the front of Dennison’s bu
ilding with the lights on, but the siren is silent. Still, it’s enough to bring the armed security guard from inside the lobby out to greet us.

  “We’ve had a call from James Dennison’s apartment,” I inform the guard in my best fake French accent as soon as I hop out of the passenger side. I’ve used one on and off over the years while working heists in Europe, so I’ve gotten adept at it.

  I move to the rear to meet Neal. We pull out the gurney, which is stacked with two black equipment bags.

  William had to have been planning this heist for a while since he had a fully functioning ambulance stocked with legitimate equipment we’ll never use. I’m impressed, to say the least.

  The doorman opens the door as we wheel the gurney in and the security guard jogs toward the elevator, motioning with this arm. “Right this way.”

  I’m sure this is the most exciting thing to have happened here in a long time.

  He enters the code to the private elevator entrance. When the doors open, I play dumb as we move inside. “Do you need to come up with us to let us in?”

  The guard shakes his head. “This elevator opens right into his apartment, and I have to stay down here. But if you need anything, call. There’s a service phone right beside the elevator door when you get upstairs.”

  “Merci,” I say with a nod before the door closes.

  I pull out my phone to text Sin. “On our way up.”

  She meets us at the elevator and I have to say I’m struck a bit dumb at the sight of her in that sexy red dress. It fits her body like a glove, the neckline plunging between her breasts. The skirt portion comes to mid-shin, but there’s a slit up to mid-thigh that shows her long expanse of smooth legs when she walks.

  “He’s in the master bath,” she murmurs, voice pitched low so it doesn’t carry. Turning, she guides us that way. I grab one of the bags, and Neal grabs the other. We leave the gurney by the elevator entrance since we won’t need it.