Raw and Dirty(71)

“Dash!” she screams, loud enough that I wouldn't be surprised if one of the security guards came traipsing in here. “Oh God, yes.” Her voice breaks like a wave cresting on a rock, crashing around me as she squeezes tight, holding my body captive for one, perfect moment. One fucking perfect moment where I don't have to be anyone or anything except myself. Sex is like a drug, isn't it? And I can't seem to stop myself from leaping between highs. “Wow,” Laura says as I pull away and drop my used condom in the stainless steel trash can. I fix my jeans as I watch her turn around and gather herself together, smoothing strands of blonde back into place, adjusting her suit jacket and skirt, pulling up her panties. “That was amazing. Please tell me you'll be coming into the office more often?”

I shrug and reach into my back pocket for a smoke.

“I'm going on tour this summer with the boys,” I tell her and pretend not to notice when her face crumples. Laura's nice and all, but she's got this attention to detail that drives me nuts. Everything with her is so perfect, so put-together. I like messy girls, girls with frizzy hair, makeup on one eye but not the other, a bedroom floor strewn with books and T-shirts and high heels still in the box. I don't have to ask myself why or get introspective about it – I know why I like chaos. The answer's pretty simple: my father made me this way. “I'll see you when I get back?” I light my cigarette and watch as Linda's eyes crinkle at the corners. Last time I saw her, she gave me a packet of brochures on the dangers of lung cancer.

“Sure thing, Dash,” she says and then points a red-nailed finger at me, “just don't tell your dad we did it again.”





Thirty minutes ago, my stepbrother pulled off one of the biggest jewelry heists in history - and I helped him do it.

Now we're on the run, and I don't know what to think.

He says he'll protect me no matter what, but I'm not sure if I should believe him.

After all, we tried that once and it did not turn out well for either of us.

Besides, his father raised us both after my mother passed away.

Gill can be lots of things to me, but he can't be my lover.

Not again.

When I turned twenty-one, he disappeared. Just disappeared without a word.

Over a decade later, and now he's back and more ruthless than ever.

He says the right things, does the right things, but the truth is ...

I'm afraid of him.

I'm afraid for him.





CHAPTER ONE



Diamonds.

They're supposed to be a girl's best friend, aren't they? So why, right now, do they look like the enemy, staring back at me from a tumbled heap inside the black duffel bag parked between my bare feet?

Sweat pours down the sides of my face, sticks my orange dress shirt to the skin on my lower back. I can't stop panting, my ragged breathing tearing from my chest as I wiggle my toes and try to convince myself that I did the right thing, that everything will work out in the end. If I believed that though, really and truly believed that, I don't think my heart would be pounding quite so hard.

“Ten minutes,” Gill whispers hoarsely, his own breath even, his hands loose on the steering wheel. “Ten minutes and we'll be in the air.” I sit up, forcing my stiff fingers to drop the edges of the bag and glance over at him. Something about my stepbrother's expression, the set of his shoulders, the lack of sweat on his forehead, it bothers me.

Relaxed.

That's what he is. Relaxed. My life as I once knew it is over, everything changed in an instant, snatched up and twisted in the tornado that is Gill Marchal, and there he sits like he's on the way to the airport for a goddamned tropical vacation, some pleasure cruise that'll end in sand and surf and a ticket back home waiting for afterwards. This? This is nothing like that.

I have to say goodbye to Paris, for now, maybe forever.

Gone.

A split second decision made by a stuttering heart and it's all gone.

I sneer at him. It's a nasty expression, one that Gill's father used to call mon visage laid, my ugly face, but in this moment, it's beyond my control. Emotions are running too high, adrenaline is pumping too fast. Most days, I try to be pleasant. Today, it's not an option.

“Can you at least look like you give a crap?” I ask, but Gill isn't listening. His blue eyes are focused on the road ahead, his brow furrowed just so, just enough that I can tell he's buried deep in thought. Knowing him, he's probably going over the plan for the thousandth time in that thick skull of his, running through each possible scenario until he's picked it apart and prepared for virtually anything. It's one of the reasons I agreed to be a part of this, to take a chance on something that could easily end with me locked up in prison for life—or dead. It's also one of the reasons I fell in love with him—and then out of love with him.