Chapter One: Laurent
(**Keep in mind, there is a prologue, but you get to dive straight in from where we left off...)

 

Twenty-Four Hours Ago…

 

The job came in like any other. A discreet phone call from a private collector who decided he wanted to get his hands on something valuable. I was about to open a bottle of fine French wine and enjoy the ocean view from my patio at the renowned Hotel del Coronado here in San Diego, but then decided why the hell not?

The truth is, I was just thinking about how bored I’ve been lately.

With a long-suffering sigh, I set the bottle aside and push up off the white outdoor furniture. When I visit the Hotel del Coronado, I don’t stay in the main part of the famed, historical hotel. I much prefer their adjacent Beach Village. It’s private, luxurious, exclusive. If I can have my own spacious beachfront villa with personalized concierge service, why on earth would I want to share walls and deal with tourists and their screaming, sticky-fingered kids?

C'est mort. 

I’ll stick with my fellow snobs and enjoy the private pools and quiet cafés reserved just for us. No chance I’ll have to deal with little Emmy or Timmy peeing in the pool or—horror of all horrors—a lone floating turd, most likely fallout from a baby’s sagging diaper. 

I gag a little. Disney Resorts can keep that literal shit, because I am absolutely not interested.

I’ve come a long way from that little boy who lost his mother far too early. Growing up in Paris with few real friends, other than some fellow orphans and pickpockets, I learned to live by my wits and silver tongue. I ingratiated myself with shopkeepers who kept me fed and clothed when I first arrived. Later, I worked my way into a few lonely hearts and received gifts I could use or pawn. Needless to say, my charms have served me well.

There isn’t a lot of time to prepare or research for this job, but that’s okay. I love a good challenge, and sometimes it’s fun to wing it. To be honest, I’ve grown a little complacent lately, more than satisfied with the numbers in my numerous bank accounts scattered around the world. It pains me to say it, but the thrill is gone. I no longer get excited about a big score… Merde. When did jobs become, well, work? 

Ever since I can remember, I promised myself I wouldn’t end up like my mother. Bless her soul, she worked her fingers to the bone for minimal pay, and look what it got her—a heart attack. And she wasn’t even forty years old yet.

That will not be me. I’ve repeated those words so many times now, they should be carved into my tombstone. That, along with “The Infamous Frenchman, Laurent. Too dashing for this world.”

The weather is perfect this evening, but I expect nothing less from SoCal than blue skies all day and a balmy seventy once the sun sets. Exchanging my casual look for something better appropriate for a heist, I slip on a pair of tailored trousers and a light-weight linen button-down. Leather loafers, no socks. A subtle belt and an expensive watch complete the look. My vibe is Cary Grant meets Remington Steele. I’m vintage like that. An old soul with a flare for things of yesteryear. Except when it comes to modern technology. Without GPS and the apps on my smartphone, I’d literally be lost, wandering aimlessly in my Italian loafers.

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that very wealthy men dress in “quiet luxury.” They don’t have to telegraph their fortunes—they are their own emblem. Loud, trendy designs and blatant brands make me cringe. Understated, logo-free garments made of premium fabrics is a sign of good taste. Impeccable tailoring is key. Neutral color palettes make me happy. After all, the great Karl Lagerfeld once said, “Trendy is the last stage before tacky.”

And I couldn’t agree more.

Normally, I’d have my private concierge take me wherever I need to go, but tonight it’s all about being subtle. Time to go back to my roots and do things on my own. Even if it means getting down and dirty.

Ha! Who am I kidding? Nowadays, the only dirty I like comes in a glass with two olives. Unless, of course, we’re referring to hair color. Inwardly, I groan. My weakness will always be a gorgeous woman with long dirty blonde hair. I don’t know what it is exactly, but all those marvelous colors… I want to tangle my fingers through the multi-colored strands and marvel at how some are platinum, others chestnut. So many shades of loveliness.

I leave my villa, walk through Beach Village, and sneak out a side exit that leads to a back road. An Uber picks me up exactly three minutes later and drops me off within a mile of my target. As I saunter down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, hands in my pockets, I look like anyone else in this upperclass neighborhood out for a late evening stroll.

The large brick house comes into view, and I slink off into the shadows. Intel provided by my employer says the family is out of town, spending their summer cruising the French Riviera—my only concern is the security system. But I’ve yet to meet an alarm I couldn’t deactivate.

My client wants a book. Specifically, he wants the 1866 true published first edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Technically, there’s another edition that was published a year earlier, but it was swiftly suppressed by Lewis Carroll because of poor printing quality. Only about twenty-three copies from 1865 survived, and they’re locked up tighter than a nun’s knickers. Hence, the 1866 edition is the gold standard for most serious collectors.

Depending on condition and binding, it can command up to fifty thousand dollars at auction. Not too shabby. Copies in their unrestored, original publisher’s red cloth—like the one I’m after tonight— are exceptionally rare. Back then, they were just books. Another afternoon diversion or bedtime tale. And those books, being frequently read by children, were subsequently rebound or repaired over the decades as they were passed from generation to generation. Yeah, those damn sticky fingers do a lot of damage.

Weaving through some shrubbery, I pause and lift my phone. Still concealed in the bushes, I open an app that will allow me to tap into the house’s security system and, hopefully, deactivate it. My brows arch. Huh. It looks like someone’s already beat me to it. Interesting.

With a frown, I notice movement in the south corner of the house. Squinting through the darkness, I can see a flashlight beam moving in what should be the library. Amateur.

I knew this could go a few different ways—a nosy neighbor, a random dog poking around the property, a more complicated security system than anticipated—and I thought I was prepared for any and all of them. But this is a curveball. Because what should be an easy in-and-out job became way more complicated the moment I discovered I’m not the only thief on the premises. 

Bordel de merde. The last thing I want to do in my Italian loafers is wade into a shitstorm. Or, God forbid, actually have to run.

Ah, well. Tis the life of a thief.

Stepping out of my hiding spot, my toe barely grazes the immaculately cut lawn when the sprinkler system turns on. Seriously? I’m beginning to think this job is cursed. Gritting out an annoyed sound, I race forward, my loafers sinking in the soggy grass. Yeah, my fee just went up by twenty percent.

Staying low, I dash over to the window where I saw the flashlight and take a quick peek inside. A dark shadow faces a wall safe, working the dials. Propping my shoulder against the ledge, I casually cross my arms and let him do all the work. I’m very good at letting others do the heavy lifting, and then I swoop in and steal the goods. A smile curves my mouth as he cracks it open. The chances he’s after the book is relatively low. Jewelry and cash always seem to be priority number one for the majority of thieves.

So when I see him remove the red cloth copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, my night goes from seriously annoying to downright obnoxious. I didn’t come here to fight anyone. I’m much more suited to using my silver tongue and sneaky ways to get exactly what I’m after. A physical confrontation is the last thing I want.

That’s why I carry a weapon—to avoid any kind of hand-to-hand combat. Currently, the pistol is tucked in my messenger bag, and that’s where it’ll stay unless absolutely necessary. I prefer using my brains to outsmart an adversary over gunfire every time.

Darting along the back of the house, I hurry around the corner. After a quick examination of the house’s layout earlier, I know any thief worth his salt would’ve broken in through the side garage door, the weakest point. The alarm isn’t connected to that particular door, and I’m guessing the lock is flimsy at best.

My assumption about the lock is correct, because when I reach the door, I see it’s been jimmied open. Quite easily. Thinking fast, I step inside, grab a neatly-coiled extension cord hanging on the wall, and rig it like a tripwire. Moving around the edge of a Mercedes SUV, I hunker down, using the vehicle for cover, and I wait.

In less than a minute, the thief appears, moving fast as he retraces his steps out. He’s definitely not expecting to go ass over tea kettle from my little booby trap, and it works like a charm. One second he’s upright, and the next, he stumbles forward, landing on his hands and knees with a curse. The book goes flying, and I hurry forward, scoop it up and shove it into my messenger bag. Then I toss him an arrogant salute before disappearing out the side door.

Now it’s time to run like hell. In my fucking loafers.

I’ve always been fast, but tonight I guess I’m not fast enough. One second I’m running through the damn sprinklers again, and the next I’m face-planting and eating a mouthful of wet grass. My entire body jerks backward as he tries to yank the messenger bag off my body. And then I realize he’s cutting through the strap.

Twisting around as it breaks, I make a mad grab for my bag, and we momentarily struggle in a wild tug of war.

His face is covered, so I can’t see his features, but dark eyes glare at me through the mask’s holes. He looks extremely pissed off, too. And while I may be taller by quite a few inches, his stockiness works to his advantage. He manages to wrench the bag out of my hands, but I’m not one to give up easily. Launching myself through the air, I tackle him to the ground just as the sprinkler tick-tick-ticks back over, soaking us further.

Rolling across the wet lawn, I’ve got a good grip on the bag when a sudden stinging sensation tears down my side. I immediately let go of the torn strap and exhale a sharp gasp. Flat on my back, clutching right below my ribs, I helplessly watch as the man jumps up, wielding my bag in his right hand and a bloody knife in his left.

Putain de merde! The asshole stabbed me! 

Before I can utter a word, he’s gone, disappearing into the night—with the goddamn prize. 

The sensation in my side goes from stinging to flat-out burning like hell. Slightly in shock, I look up at the bright moon hanging high above in the black velvet sky. Then I lift my hand and stare at the blood smeared across my fingers. This can’t be good.

With a grunt, I reach into my pants pocket and pull out my cell phone. This is where my life feels really sad, because I don’t have anyone I can call for help. The only person I can think of who might be able to assist in some way—even though she’s several states away—is Addison Mills. 

I’ve always admired her pluck and dogged determination to get shit done. In addition, the woman is gorgeous with a lovely head of dirty blonde waves, and I’ve harbored an unrequited crush on her for the last few years. I never tried to actually woo her, though. Women are nothing but trouble. 

Of course, if I had made the effort, I have no doubts she’d be mine now. Instead, she’s engaged to former Detective Cole Vaughn, but I still have fun flirting with her whenever we run into each other. And it’s always fun pissing off Vaughn when I do it. He’s far too easy to rile up, and it amuses me to no end.

I hesitate for the briefest moment before calling, then I remember she owes me. I helped save her friend Lincoln Decker’s life not too long ago, and then I handed over a ruby and diamond necklace she’d wanted. She’s lucky she always seems to catch me when I’m feeling charitable.

I just hope she returns the favor.

As the sprinkler sprays me again, I pull her number up in my phone. She has no idea, but I snuck her cell off her one night and programmed my number in there as a joke. Trickster me has never been more grateful for that behavior, because Addie might be my only hope.

The line begins to ring, and I hope to God she answers. I don’t think I’m being too dramatic when I say I think I can feel my life draining out of me.

 “Hello, Laurent.”

Oh, thank God.

Addie lets out a weary sigh, not sounding at all pleased to hear from me. “This better be good because I’m busy.”

A hot sizzle of pain flashes up my side, and I groan. Trying to move out of the sprinkler’s line of fire, I let out a low grunt.

“Laurent? Hello?”

“Hey…Tootsie Pop,” I manage to say. “I’m in…a bit of trouble.”

“And you called me?”

What am I supposed to say? I have no one else to call?

“You owe me. Remember?” I don’t know if it’s my imagination or if this fucking wound is starting to hurt even more. 

“What do you need, Laurent?” a deep voice asks. She must have me on speaker because now it’s Cole talking to me. Oh, great. “We’re not in the mood for games, so just tell us.”

Cole Vaughn has always been a pain in my ass, and I have no idea what Addie sees in him. Trying to sound like my usual nonchalant self, I chuckle, but it turns into a pained gasp. Clutching my side, I cough and mutter a low curse. “Well, for starters, it appears I’ve been slightly injured.”

“What happened? Where are you?” Addie asks.

“Coronado Island,” I grunt, propping my back against a tree.

“We’re over a thousand miles away. What can we possibly do?” Cole’s tone is as dry as his boring personality.

“I need a place to lay low. Just for a bit.”

“My brother’s in San Diego,” Addie murmurs. “Here, talk to him.”

Delight of all delights, it’s Cole again. “Do I have to?” he asks flatly, and I wish I could punch his stupid face. That’s saying a lot since I’m not a man normally prone to physical violence. “Hang on, Laurent, Addie is calling her brother.”

“No rush,” I respond, looking down at the red blossoming across my linen shirt. It feels like my side is on fucking fire. “I’m just probably dying.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Cole sighs. “So, are you going to tell us what happened or what?”

No, connard, I’m not.

I can hear Addie talking to someone in the background, but I’d rather say nothing than make small talk with her jealous fiancé. 

“Laurent?” It’s Addie again.

“I’m here.”

“There’s a little restaurant just off Main Street called Charlie’s Place.”

I struggle to make the connection. How the hell is that going to help me? “Not much in the mood for a dinner date,” I mutter, hoping to piss off Vaughn.

“My brother’s sister-in-law will be closing up,” Addie continues. “Laurent, go to Charlie’s Place and ask for Savannah, okay?”

“I’m not sure I can make it,” I tell her, but all I hear is silence…followed by more silence. With a frown, I look down at my phone and see the battery is dead. 

Putain de merde. I lost the damn book, ruined my Italian loafers and got stabbed. Not to mention, I’m muddy, soaked and smell like wet grass. Oh, and I need to find out where the hell this Charlie’s Place is and hope some sister-in-law is there before I bleed out.

Could this night get any worse?