Stepbrother Thief(43)

“You can call your family, give them the story we originally agreed on.” I nod, trying to remember all the details. Knowing Gill, he's got some dossier somewhere that outlines it all. “You can even call your friends in Paris if you want.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, I can almost swear they've darkened a shade or two. “But you might want to wait a while longer. I'll let you make that decision when you hear the rest of the story.” I nod and wet my suddenly dry lips. On the positive side, Gill's being respectful enough to include me in the current goings-on. On the other hand … if that's his positive news, then what's the bad? “As far as the authorities,” he continues without changing his wary expression, “you can leave that concern at the door. We're in the clear.”

“Oh my God.” I put a hand to my chest, feeling a huge weight lift off my shoulders. No authorities? How? How does someone just get away with a haul worth over a hundred million dollars? “Are you serious, Gill?” I swing my feet to the floor and lean forward, a thrill of excitement shooting through me. Guess all of the sacrifices were worth it—leaving everything behind, vanishing without a word, letting Aveline wipe us from the system.

Gill smiles softly at me, but his fingers are curled around the arms of the chair, the tattoos on his index and middle finger blue-black in the glow from the table lamp. I'd been reading when he came in, some terribly depressing literary fiction that Cliff had recommended. Spoiler: everyone dies at the end. I'm not even entirely certain how that happens since the whole thing is about a group of ladies who own a yarn shop …

“There can't be any bad news with all of that good,” I tell him, still smiling broadly. “Now I can stop waking up to the neighbor's shouting. When she really gets going, I start having dreams about the CIA breaking into my room and finding me in my underwear.”

Gill laughs and runs his fingers through his hair, watching me carefully, studying my face.

“Do you accept my apology?” he asks, changing the subject. I pause for a moment and look down at the phone again. It's a sappy, stupid apology, but it feels sincere. Anyway, I'm not one for holding grudges.

“While I still feel what you did was inappropriate,” I decide to clarify here because, honestly, that kiss was half me, “taking me out and questioning me like that, making the accusation that you did, I do forgive you, Gill. Let's just forget it, okay?” I set the phone on the coffee table and lean back into the pillows.

Maybe I should tell him about Solène? Maybe that's what a truly mature person would do, someone who's completely and utterly moved on?

But I can't.

I know Gill, how perceptive he is, how smart. And I know he knows me, even if it's been a while since we last saw each other. He should be able to figure it out. I just want to see him put the effort in.

Why?

My subconscious asks a question that my conscious can't seem to answer.

“Thank you, Regi. Really. I didn't mean for things to go the way they did yesterday.” He pauses for a moment, thoughts flickering over an unusually expressive face. When his jaw sets firm, I have to brace myself for what's going to come next. “But I did mean what I said about … about being jealous. And about you being my constant.”

I take a breath to stop him before he really gets going, but he leans forward, boots squeaking against the hardwood floor, muscles sliding beneath his skin, tattoos dark and mesmerizing.

“And I meant that kiss.”

“Gilleon.”

“I want to talk about what happened.”

“We can talk about the kiss later.”

“It's not the kiss I want to talk about,” he says with an intensity in his gaze that makes me shiver. “I want to talk about the day I left.”

My heart turns to ice in my chest, and I can't seem to hold his eyes, so I look away, at the rug on the floor beneath the coffee table.

“But right now, I have to tell you the bad news first.”

“What could be worse than talking about that day?” I try to make it a joke, but it just sounds sad to me. I smile anyway.

Gill takes a breath, shoulders rising and falling as he sits back and looks at the ceiling for a moment.

“The robbery was never reported to the authorities.”

“Never …” I start and then wrinkle up my brow. “How is that even possible? How does a hundred million in jewels go missing and nobody talks about it?” Gill's good at his job, but not that good.

“The reason I hit that store was the same reason you got hired to work at it,” he tells me, his voice grave and full of a thousand and one regrets that hang heavy in the air around us. If only the tang of regret could make up for a decade lost. “The man who owns that shop … he's owned me for the last ten years of my life.”