Stepbrother Thief(127)

“Wait for me to come around and open your door,” Gill says, his voice strained and angry. Honestly, I'm surprised I even made it this far. I half-expected him to drop me off at Leilani's on the way, handcuff me to her fence or something. But then he'd have to know that I'd never forgive him. Getting over him leaving, that's going to take time. I can't take a single lie or betrayal right now.

Gilleon climbs out, a sight to see in his dark wash jeans, suit jacket and white button-down. He's washed the dried blood off his temple, but I can see a bruise forming next to his right eye. We're both lucky those are the only injuries he suffered tonight. Eight people. Jesus, my stepbrother really is a fucking badass.

As instructed, I wait for Gill to walk over—as slow and casual as could be—and let me out. He takes my hand and closes the door behind me, fingers tight around mine.

“Karl knows that starting shit with Max tonight is a really bad idea, so if you do what he says, you'll be alright. Don't try to be a hero.” I open my mouth to protest, but Gill squeezes my hand harder. “Don't say a word, not even to answer a question. Not to anyone.” Gill pulls me forward, linking our arms as a woman with short dark hair and a shy smile opens the door for us. Her eyes flick to where Gill's guns are hanging beneath his suit jacket, like she can tell they're there without even seeing them. Surprisingly, she doesn't say anything. I wonder if she's a part of all this or some innocent bystander? Somebody's got to take care of all Max's houses when she's not around, right?

“Gilly!” A voice calls as soon as we step inside. There's a sitting room to our right, filled with austere white and silver furniture, a terrible complement to the polished concrete floors beneath us. I try to follow Gill's lead and smile, but … this is all too weird for words. Aren't we supposed to have some tight-laced confrontation in an abandoned warehouse? This place—as ugly as the décor is—looks like somebody's home. There are white pillar candles burning on the mantle, a fire blazing behind the ornate silver and glass screen, and soft music trickling from some hidden speakers. Is that … Alizée playing in the background? Did not expect to hear French pop music when I walked inside. “How are you?” Maxine asks, standing up from the couch with a smile curving her red lips. “Champagne? Karl and I are already on our second glasses.”

I study the woman in her wide leg pants, the color of newly bloomed poppies. She's got to be around Cliff's age, at least, based on the graying color of her copper hair, but she carries herself with a timeless grace that's magnetic. I can practically feel her gravity pulling me into orbit. I blink back the urge and focus instead on the strapless beaded top she's wearing, exposing a line of perfectly flat belly beneath it. Over her shoulders, she's got on a shawl-collar vest that hangs nearly to the floor. Chic et moderne, non?

When I try to look past her clothes, searching for some resemblance to Aveline, all I get is the red hair and the green eyes. The man on the opposite couch on the other hand …

“Gilleon,” Karl Rousseau says, rising to his feet with a smile to match his ex-wife's. You'd think we were at a dinner party or something. I prop my right hand on my hip, trying to mimic casual the way I've seen Gilleon do. I probably look ridiculous, but at least now I get why he does it. Gives him something to do with his hands in a tense situation. “How nice of you to join us.”

Karl looks right at me, his face the perfect match to Aveline's—sharp, smart, tinged with mischief. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was an alright guy. He certainly looks the part. His hair is dark, no sign of gray anywhere to be seen, but his face is lined and worn, and his suit probably costs more than my apartment in Paris.

This … is the guy we have to kill?

My head is spinning.

I'd so much rather be at Leilani's house watching Supernatural and eating organic soybean paste. Ugh.

“It's good to see you both,” Gill begins, looking between them and smiling as if it was the most natural expression in the world for him. “And so nice to see you in the same room.” Before I can protest, Gill's pulling his guns from the holsters at his side and tossing them onto the coffee table. His knives go next—one from the small of his back, one inside his boot, one on the underside of the other boot. He turns to me next and holds out a hand. Without even having to ask, I know what he wants. Holy crap. What was the point of getting all dressed up like this if he wants me to hand it all over?

I do it anyway, trusting that Gill knows best. I start with the knife, reluctant to lift up my dress and pull the revolver out in front of these people.