Stealing Rose

by Monica Murphy

  “My grandma is a very determined woman.” She smiles, her teeth white against the deep red of her lips. “No one messes with Dahlia.”

  I have the distinct feeling no one messes with Rose either, but I keep my mouth shut. Instead, I let my gaze drop to her throat, the necklace that hangs from her neck and rests against her chest. Her skin is impossibly smooth, her bare shoulders, the hint of cleavage the neckline of her dress offers me …

  Hell. She’s unbelievably gorgeous. Prettier than Lily. Prettier than any other woman I’ve ever seen. She has the face of an angel. Innocent and sweet, yet with a body that makes me think of all the sinful things we can do together …

  It’s a sexy contradiction. One I can’t even consider.

  I’d like to consider taking the necklace, but how the hell can I get my hands on it without her noticing?

  “Does anyone mess with you?”

  She smiles blithely. “Only sleazy Europeans who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves.”

  A chuckle escapes me and I shake my head. I shouldn’t react to what this woman is saying to me. I need to get away from her.

  Tilting her head back, she polishes her Champagne off in a couple of swallows, her eyes sliding closed as she drinks. I watch her, fascinated with the slim column of her neck, the light golden-brown hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. I wonder what she might look like with her hair down. Wavy and falling about her bare shoulders, a sultry gleam in her eye as she approaches me …

  “Let’s get out of here,” she says, her throaty invitation sending a shot of longing coursing through my body.

  Say no. “Where would you like to go?”

  She inclines her head toward a set of double doors not far from where we’re standing. “Outside. I hear there’s a pool out there.” Without another word she walks away from me, her skirt billowing around her legs, the scandalous dress causing enough of a stir that others watch her. I don’t follow her, turning to the side so I face the wall, my back to the curious onlookers, and when I glance in her direction, I find that she’s stopped. Waving her hand at me to follow her like an impatient mother dealing with a bratty child.

  I hold up my still full Champagne glass, indicating I want to finish it first, and she rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she turns away to push through the doors, the black night sky appearing for a fleeting moment before the doors swing shut, swallowing Rose whole.

  She’s gone. I should be relieved. I sip my Champagne, the alcohol crisp and cool as it slides down my throat, yet all I can feel is the crashing disappointment that she left me.

  Ridiculous.

  Downing the rest of my Champagne, I set the glass on a nearby table and descend into the crowd, staying close to the woman with the flashy bracelet. She’s oblivious to my presence. She’s also the perfect mark.

  Absolutely perfect.

  My gaze tracks her movements, the careless way she moves her arms about as she talks animatedly to the person standing next to her. She’s loud, speaking fast and furious French I can barely understand—and I took three years of French in high school. Of course, all I can remember are the most basic sentences and the occasional curse word.

  Lot of good that will do me.

  The bracelet loosens around her wrist and she clamps her other hand over it, laughing as she says something about the clasp being old.

  My heart rate kicks up. Here’s my chance. She fixes the clasp with a quick flick of her fingers and continues talking, her movements more subdued, but I know that’s temporary. She’ll revert to her old habits quick.

  And she doesn’t disappoint.

  I adjust my position so my back is mostly to her and I engage in conversation with a beautiful woman standing a little off to the side of the circle that has formed around my mark. She’s older; there’s a wedding ring around her finger and I wonder how long she’s been married. Clearly her husband neglects her, because she is fully attuned to my flirtatious attempts at conversation. Her body language screams interest as she turns more fully toward me and I turn just a hair toward my mark.

  The woman is gesturing wildly again, speaking of Dahlia Fowler—interesting. Her wrists are flying this way and that and I swear I can hear the jangle of the bracelet’s clasp the moment it comes undone. She doesn’t falter in her conversation, as her complaints against Dahlia are long and numerous and there is much nodding in agreement from her audience.

  Even more interesting.

  I turn my head as discreetly as possible, catching out of the corner of my eye her wrist and the bracelet I covet. It’s so close.

  It’s so loose.

  I plan the moment of attack. On three, it’ll happen.

  One …

  I laugh at something the woman I’m flirting with says, throwing back my head and putting every bit of acting skill I have into the movement, as if I’m overcome.

  Two …

  Stepping backward, my entire body grazes my gesturing mark, and I bump into her. She gasps, as does the other woman, and they both lean forward, reaching for me at the exact same time.

  Three …

  I reach for the bracelet and slip it off the woman’s wrist.

  I slice my other hand into the air, knocking the glass of wine from my companion’s hand, creating the distraction I need. The glass falls to the ground with a tinkling crash, the glass scattering everywhere, remnants of alcohol spattering across our feet. I step back, the bracelet going into my coat pocket with a flick of my wrist, and the woman with the now missing bracelet reaches toward the other one as I step back, the both of them gasping over the spilled liquor and their ruined shoes.

  “Chéri, did you …” The film financer’s mistress makes a motion across the top of her hand. “… cut yourself? Oui?” She nods toward my left hand.

  I hold my hand out to inspect it. There’s a small slice across the tip of my index finger, which probably happened when I made contact with my companion’s drink. “I did. I’ll go look for a first aid kit.”

  I duck out and leave them chattering among themselves, my heart racing like a kettledrum inside my chest the entire time. I don’t look back, keeping my strides even, my gaze directed straight ahead. I push open the very double doors Rose Fowler just made her escape through, the humid night air clasping me in its sticky embrace, and I make my way across the terrace, then down the stairs, before I head toward the lit rectangular pool. The water glimmers a bright turquoise and the fountain in the center flows with a gentle rhythm, the sound soothing in the otherwise quiet of the night.

  In a few minutes, the woman will notice her bracelet is gone, if she hasn’t already. Just beyond the pool is the beach, and I’ll walk among the shadows close to the line of palm trees before I cut through one of the hotels down the way, where I can make my escape. Hopefully no one will notice me.

  But I barely make it past the pool when I hear a familiar voice.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t my savior.”

  Slowing my pace, I turn to find Rose sitting on the edge of a lounge chair near the pool, her shoulders hunched and those long, sexy-as-fuck legs spread wide so they’re both bare, the long slits in her skirt revealing them. An empty glass dangles from one hand and a bottle of Champagne hangs from the other.

  She offers a smirk of a smile, her delicate brows rising in some sort of challenge. Someone already looks a little drunk. We haven’t been apart longer than fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops.

  Slowly I approach her, telling myself I’m an idiot for even stopping. “Drinking alone?”

  The smile grows and it lights up her entire face. “Something I rarely do, but yes. I am. Unless you’d care to join me.”

  I don’t. I do. I’m torn.

  “And if you don’t, I understand.” She waves me away, then brings the bottle to her lips and takes a swig. She sets the bottle on the ground beside her and then reaches forward, slipping her strappy little sandals off one foot, then the other. “They were killing me,” she mutters, rub
bing the bottom of her foot.

  I watch in fascination as she bends over her feet, offering me a spectacular view of her cleavage. Her breasts are full and if the front of her dress slips down any farther, I’ll catch a glimpse of nipple. “Maybe you should slow down …” I start to say, but she pops up to her feet, throwing her arms above her head as she starts to spin in a circle, her frothy skirt flowing around her.

  “I don’t want to slow down. I always slow down and that’s so incredibly boring.” She drops her arms and looks up at me, her eyes sparkling, an almost manic expression on her face. “I think I want to swim.”

  Without another word she walks over to the pool and stares at the water, her bare toes curling around the edge of the pavers that surround the pool. A warm breeze washes over us and she tilts her head back, her eyes sliding closed as she throws her arms out to her sides and holds them palms up.

  “Have you ever done something reckless?” she asks, her voice soft.

  All the fucking time. “Have you?”

  She opens her eyes and looks over at me. “I asked first,” she says before she resumes her position.

  “Yeah. Haven’t we all?”

  “No. Not me, not really. I may act all tough, like I take no crap, but that’s all it is. An act. I prefer things to be safe. I don’t like to take risks. And I am definitely not reckless.” She drops her arms to her sides for the briefest moment before she’s reaching under her arm and unzipping the dress. The top gaps, revealing nothing but bare skin and that she’s not wearing a bra.

  Christ.

  As the dress falls away from her body and lands in a heap at her feet, I realize she’s not wearing any panties, either. She’s standing in front of me completely naked—the Poppy Necklace like a glittering, expensive collar around her neck—and my mouth goes dry as I drink her in. My entire body stirs, including my cock, and I lick my lips, fighting the hunger that threatens to take over.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman. Longer still since I felt so attracted to one. And I am definitely, without a fucking doubt, attracted to Rose Fowler.

  A tiny, sly smile curls her lush lips as I stare at her, as if she can read my thoughts and approves of their direction. And then without a word, she dives into the pool, hardly making a splash.

  I watch in fascination when moments later she pops her head up, treading water. “You should join me.”

  The absolute last thing I can do. “I don’t think so.”

  “Aw, why not?” She mock pouts. “Scared of the water?”

  “No.”

  “Scared of me?” She laughs.

  “Not at all.”

  “Then join me.” She smiles and swims closer to the edge, standing in the water where it reaches her waist. Her skin is covered with little droplets of water; her pale pink nipples are hard, and my cock is, too.

  Rubbing a hand over my face, I grit my teeth together and slip my other hand in the pocket of my suit jacket, fingering the cool stones stashed away inside. “I can’t.”

  Her expression turns solemn and she lifts her arms, smoothing back her hair. The movement lifts her breasts, showing off the dip in her waist, the sleekness of her belly. Jesus, her body will be the fucking death of me. “Are you gay or what?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “No.”

  She drops her arms so they splash in the water, frustration written all over her features. “Then why won’t you join me?”

  A burst of sound comes from the building behind us and I turn to see a group of partygoers spill out onto the terrace, led by the woman whose bracelet is currently resting in my pocket. Shit. “Come here,” I urge her, reaching out for her hands with both of mine.

  Rose frowns. “You can’t lift me out of the pool.”

  “Watch me.” I wave my fingers at her, then scan the area, my gaze returning to the terrace. The group of people is still there, milling about, though they haven’t come down the stairs yet. But it’s only a matter of time before they’ll be looking for me, and I swear I can hear the woman commanding everyone about in her very loud, very shrill French. “Come on.” I return my attention to Rose, who’s still contemplating me as if I’ve lost my mind, which I probably have. “Hurry.”

  She takes my hands and I pull her out of the pool since she doesn’t weigh a damn thing, setting her on her feet directly in front of me. She’s dripping wet and I let my gaze roam all over her perfect body, memorizing her every feature so I can commit her to memory and pull this moment out for later. “What are you doing?”

  Before I can overthink it I grab her, my arm clamping tight around her slender waist, my hand sprawled across one perfect ass cheek. Her skin is damp and soft and chilled from the water and I give her plump flesh a firm squeeze, savoring the gasp that escapes her when I touch her like that.

  “Kiss me for luck,” I whisper as my head descends toward hers. She’s frowning, her gaze landing on my lips, watching as I make my descent until her lids flutter closed and I press my mouth to hers in a lingering, chaste kiss.

  She steps closer and rests her hands on my chest and I break the kiss first. Opening my eyes to drink in this naked, wet nymph pressed against me, her skin pale and gleaming in the moonlight. I touch the necklace, tracing the stones, wishing like crazy I could snatch it from her neck. The necklace is perfection. It’s a rare piece, expensive and exquisitely made, and it’s killing me to have it so close and knowing I can’t have it.

  Yet.

  Her chest lifts on a deep inhale, making my gaze drop to her breasts, and my finger falls as if I have no control, circling around her left pink nipple once. Only once. It’s the single indulgence I’ll allow myself and it’s fucking torture, touching her like this, feeling the little nub of flesh tighten, hearing her sharp inhale, scenting her arousal. I’d much rather take it further and draw that perfect little nipple into my mouth and suck. Hard. Run my hands and lips and tongue all over her body until she’s begging me to fuck her.

  But I don’t do any of that. Instead, I tell her solemnly, “Thank you,” and I kiss her again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding against hers for the briefest, most mind-numbing moment before I pull away, releasing my hold on her. I start to back away, regret taking hold and making me feel like an asshole.

  I am an asshole. There’s no denying that fact.

  “Thank you for what?” she asks when she opens her eyes. She brings her arms up, covering her breasts, looking incredibly vulnerable standing by the edge of the glowing turquoise pool, naked and wet and trembling. The lights from the city are bright as they surround us; I can hear the sounds of the sea, the clank of the boats that are docked nearby.

  All the while, the necklace sparkles around her neck like a beacon, mocking me. Driving me to distraction. I stare at it. Stare at her. That’s what I want. Her. And the necklace. But I can’t have either.

  I can’t have both.

  “For giving me a night I’ll never forget,” I tell her before I turn.

  And leave her behind. Never once looking back.

  No matter how much it kills me.

  Chapter Three

  Rose

  “And then he just … left me.” I throw my hands up into the air, my mind circling back to the craziness of last night yet again. How I got a little drunk and swam in a pool naked before my sexy stranger pulled me out of the water and kissed me. Groped my butt. Touched my nipple. And then sauntered away without a care in the world.

  Never to return. Leaving me a shaky, aroused mess.

  I threw my dress on over my wet body and made my way back to the hotel, alone. Stupid, but I was in this weird, mind-numbing daze. At one point I even wondered if it had really happened, my encounter with the man by the pool.

  Violet squints at me, frowning. “Are you serious?”

  I nod and don’t say anything else, just letting my story sink in for a while. We’re in London; I’m here for the next few days at Fleur’s UK headquarters before I head back home and face Daddy.
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  He’s so upset and I don’t want to deal with his anger. He’s already mad at me about the dress and that I ditched everyone at the after-party. Like they missed me. I tried to return the necklace to Grandma earlier this morning before we checked out of the hotel but she wouldn’t hear of it, demanding that I keep it, that I’m the rightful owner now. I didn’t want the responsibility of traveling with the necklace, especially after I heard about that one woman’s piece of jewelry being lost or stolen at the after-party.

  So I wore the necklace on the plane, tucked under my sweater, feeling stupid but knowing it was the only way I could ensure the jewelry was safe. I’m wearing it now—still under the sweater because I just know Violet would give me grief if she knew I had it on.

  “So he left you? After he kissed you? And you don’t know who he is.” Violet shakes her head. “That’s just odd.”

  “I know. I never did catch his name.” I tap the edge of my pen against my pursed lips, hating that I know nothing about this man beyond what he tastes like … what it feels like to be touched by him. His hands, his finger seared my skin, he imprinted himself on me with the slightest touch, and just thinking about him and what he made me feel leaves me heady with desire.

  So ridiculous.

  “Hmm. Have you ever considered that maybe he’s the one who stole that bracelet from the woman at the party?” Violet asks, her expression one of genuine concern.

  I adore my sister. I really do. She was more like a mother to me since I never knew ours, and Lily couldn’t be bothered with me. But too often, Violet is like an overprotective nanny who won’t let me play on the swing set at the playground. I can’t even appreciate it anymore. It feels too cloying.

  I hate it.

  “Why would he spend time with me like that if he’d just stolen a valuable piece of jewelry?” I roll my eyes and drop my pen on top of Violet’s desk so that it rolls back toward me. I snatch it up, tapping it against the edge of her desk so that she sends me an annoyed glare. “Come on, you’re reaching.”