Page 52

Chapter 3

Raquel

W hile I’m glad I’m not dead, the raging headache makes me wish I was. The pounding pressure behind my eyes is so overwhelming that I’m nauseous. Gulping air, I summon all the strength I can muster and sit upright in bed. The blanket slips from my shoulders and bunches around my stomach. It’s then, and only then, that I realize I’m wearing nothing but a man’s oversized shirt. I don’t even have underwear or pants on.

Someone undressed me.

Heat floods my cheeks, my rabbit heart racing like it has a marathon to win. Embarrassment weighs heavily in my chest as questions race through my head.

Where am I? Where are my clothes? Who undressed me?

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

A man’s deep voice rumbles straight through me. I crane my neck to the side, startled to find a man seated casually in an armchair next to my bed. I have half a mind to scream, but then my memories rush back in with the force of a tidal wave.

The explosion. My getaway. Crashing through someone’s front yard because I drove straight through the night and could barely stay awake.

I instinctively clutch the blanket to my chest with a gasp.

The man simply chuckles. “Relax. I had to patch up your wounds and make sure you didn’t ruin the sheets.”

My tongue doesn’t work. No matter how hard I try to speak, I can’t bring myself to form sounds. This man is drop dead gorgeous. If I weren’t feeling like a splintered mass of bones, I’d already be on my way to steal him from a criminal’s private collection because — damn — is he a work of art!

He has cropped chestnut brown hair and green eyes. His strong jaw is accentuated by a seductive five o’clock shadow. There’s an air of severity to him, a stoicism and silence that is actually a bit uncomfortable to sit in for too long. I think it’s the concentration of his gaze and the way that he sits completely still, a statue of fine marble caught in a contemplative pose. He looks to be around Dad’s age, maybe in his early forties, though his rigid stature and seemingly permanent scowl makes it hard to tell.

The longer I stare at him, the hotter my skin burns. He smells delicious, like vanilla and sandalwood. A wet heat pools between my legs at the thought of being surrounded by his sheets in his bed. He said he patched up my wounds, so does this mean he was the one to take my clothes off?

I don’t know why the idea turns me on so much.

“Gabriel?” I whisper, unsure.

He nods. “Yes. Though I must ask that you call me Pierre while you’re here. The other members of the household don’t know me by that name.”

I momentarily get lost in the sound of his voice. His English is almost perfect, though he has a slight accent where any hard R’s are concerned. It’s the most seductive thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

“Uh, okay… How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

“ Three days ?” I echo, my stomach flipping uneasily. “Shit. Shit, did my phone—” I look around. “Where is it?”

He lifts the black flip phone from his pants pocket and tosses it gently onto the bed by my thigh. “No calls,” he assures.

I want to get out of bed, but I’m uncomfortable with the idea of standing half naked before him. I haven’t been given pants. I look down and inspect my hands. Gabriel’s taken great care to clean my cuts and wrap them in fresh bandages. While I’m grateful for his efforts, I’ve never been with a man before. The thought of Gabriel —a stranger— handling me in my sleep…

My pussy throbs with another pulse of wet heat.

I suddenly can’t stop thinking about his big, rough-looking hands.

I want them all over me.

Wait, what?

“W-where are my clothes?” I stammer.

“Tossed them.”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“There was no salvaging what you arrived in. I’ve sent my housekeeper out shopping for you. She’ll be back shortly.”

I stare at him. His intentions… seem to be honorable? I remember there being a lot of blood. Not mine, I don’t think, but that’s hardly a reassuring thought. Maybe he’s telling the truth about not wanting to ruin the sheets. It feels like Egyptian cotton. It’d be a shame to destroy them. Still, I’m not naive enough to take him totally at his word. He might not give off creeper vibes, but neither did Ted Bundy.

My hand flies to my neck. My necklace is gone. “Where—”

“Bedside table,” Gabriel informs me.

I sigh with relief. That necklace is all I have to remember my mother by. I’d be beside myself if I ever lost it. “Why did my father send me to you?” I ask him. “Who are you? What is this place? Why has he never mentioned you to me before?”

Gabriel clicks his tongue. “I’m not going to answer your questions until you answer a few of mine.”

I bristle at his response. As a thief, I’m not in the habit of giving out answers willy-nilly.

“Where is Chet?” he asks me. “How did you sustain your injuries? Why have you come here?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, debating how much information I should and shouldn’t give. “I don’t know where Dad is,” I admit. “There was an explosion, and I was caught up in the aftermath. I came here because Dad said you’d keep me safe.”

Gabriel frowns steeply, his brows knitting together. “An explosion?”

I don’t know a thing about Gabriel, but if Dad trusts him enough to send me to him, then I should trust him, too… right?

“We were in the middle of a heist,” I say slowly, carefully. I watch his face for any sort of reaction. He gives none. He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed, which tells me two things: he’s familiar with the fact that Dad is a thief and he’s comfortable associating with criminals.

The only questions now are how and why ?

“Chet’s still into that stupid modern-day Robin Hood schtick, huh?”

Something defensive sparks in my chest. “It’s not stupid,” I retort hotly. “It’s honorable. We only steal from—”

“Other criminals,” he finishes for me, waving one hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Who was the target this time?”

“Ronaldo Bianchi. He has a stolen Picasso in his private collection back in Paris.”

Gabriel whistles, a flicker of recognition behind his dark green eyes. “Bianchi? I didn’t know that the bastard made it out of Sicily after the whole Altegro fiasco…”

My mind reels. He really knows his stuff. Who the hell is this guy? At first, I think he has to be some sort of cop. Ronaldo Bianchi is the type of big bad whose name only circulates in the most secure of circles —those of his own people and those trying to catch him. But then I think better of it. Dad would never send me willingly to the home of a law enforcement officer.

Maybe he’s a fellow thief, then? Dad has no shortage of ‘business’ contacts, after all.

The more I think about it, the less that makes sense. He’s too… put together. Too normal , what with his big house and fancy suit and the general lack of any chaotic air about him. Most thieves I’ve met are all skittish creatures —myself included— eyes always darting around to locate the nearest exit while keeping running totals of all the luxury goods within arm’s reach. Our jittery quality may not manifest in overt physical movements, but our eyes are usually our biggest tell.

Alert, scheming. Surviving.

This guy? He’s staring right at me like I’m the only object in the room, unwavering.

“I answered your questions,” I state firmly. “Now answer mine.”

He cocks his head to the side, his gaze drifting over me steadily. “All you need to know is that this is a secure location,” he says, deep voice like distant thunder. “Chet’s called in a favor, and I think it’s to keep you safe until he can make contact.”

“But why? Who are you to him?”

Gabriel stands from his seat, his eyes still lingering on me. There’s something almost… hungry about the way he looks at me. It’s a blink and you miss it sort of thing, though, because the next moment he’s turning away to leave.

“Nobody important,” he answers.

I huff. “You do realize that only makes me more curious, right?”

“There are a few rules you need to follow while you’re here.”

Is he ignoring me?

“Like what?”

“You’re not permitted to go outside.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be getting very far without pants.”

He shoots me a glare. “You’re also not allowed to wander around the house. You’ll stay in this room. You’re permitted to use the attached bathroom just over there.”

I frown. “This is starting to sound less like a safehouse and more like a prison. How am I supposed to eat?”

“Meals will be delivered to you.”

“Yep. Definitely a prison.”

“You’ve clearly never seen the inside of a cell.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because this is the lap of luxury in comparison. If you’re really Chet’s daughter, then I’ll spare no expense in ensuring your comfort. I will, however, insist that you remain in this room and this room only.”

“Why?” I challenge. “Got something to hide?”

“You’re the one intruding on my life, Ms. McHale. I’m giving you the opportunity to lie low, no strings attached. All I ask in return is that you respect my privacy—”

The bedroom door creaks open. A little girl with big green eyes and chestnut brown hair pokes her nose into the room. She doesn’t say anything, but she peers at me with particularly starry-eyed interest.

“Oh, um…” I clutch the blanket close. “Hello, sweetie. Who might you be?”

Gabriel’s entire disposition shifts so quickly it almost gives me whiplash. One second, I’m talking to a tall, brooding hunk of a Frenchman, and the next he’s scooping the little girl up into his arms and speaking softly to her in rapid-fire French with a kind smile on his lips.

I can’t stop staring at the width of his back and the bulk of his shoulders. Something strange inside me stirs, though I can’t for the love of God figure out why. There’s just something about a big man holding little things that makes me burn inside.

Jesus, Rocky. Pull yourself together .

Gabriel carries her out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. All I can hear after that are his heavy footsteps quickly retreating down the hall.

When he returns a few minutes later, he looks well and truly annoyed.

“Was that your daughter?” I ask.

He ignores me completely. “Focus on rest. I will have a meal and fresh clothes sent up to you.” And with that, he’s gone like the wind.

I remain seated, taking in my surroundings. It’s a large room with minimal furniture. Everything about it is dark, from the wood flooring to the burgundy wallpaper. It doesn’t help that the curtains have been drawn shut, likely to keep any potential outsiders from knowing I’m here. There isn’t a lot in terms of decoration —no family photographs, no vacation memorabilia, no nothing. I feel like I’m in a hotel instead of a family home. Everything’s so… impersonal. There’s no character here, no evidence of the past, only the present.

The other members of the household don’t know me by that name.

I’ve never been more eager to know a person. Enthralled doesn’t even begin to describe my level of curiosity. I want to crack Gabriel Lacroix open like a safe. The more I learn about him, the more I want to know. I’m a parched woman stranded in the desert, anxious for every little drop of information I can get my hands on.

What is he hiding? Who is he really?

For now, though, I really should get some rest. There’s no telling if I’ll need to run again. It could all happen at the drop of the hat, and I’d rather not run for my life while in pure agony.

I reach for my mother’s necklace and slip it on before laying my head down on the pillow. Three days… Three days and not a word from Dad. We’ve had a couple of close calls in the past where we had to go into hiding after a heist until the heat let up, but never under circumstances like these.

Rolling over onto my side, I tuck my knees to my chest.

I hope everyone’s okay .

* * *

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