Stepbrother Thief(6)

Gill stands up straight and moves toward me, close, too close for my liking, but I'm not about to back down. He's at least got on a normal outfit today—plain black tee, jeans, run of the mill brown boots. Yesterday, he was all geared up like he was getting ready to star in a big budget action flick. He looks a lot less intimidating this way.

I glance up into his face, brushing some stray strands of hair from my forehead. I'm tall—five foot eleven to be exact—but Gill is absolutely massive, and I'm not just talking about what's under his jeans.

“God, have you gotten taller?” I ask, taking a step back to examine his six foot four frame, the corded muscles in his arms, the lean but muscular body I've always admired. Gilleon has this quiet strength about him, this power that seems to come from somewhere deep down, some place that he's never let anyone else see—not even me. At least, that was the case when he left. By now, he could be married with kids for all I know. Of course, he does keep in touch with his dad and Cliff's never said anything to me but … maybe my stepdad was just trying to spare my feelings?

I surreptitiously snag a look at his ring finger, but he catches me in the act and lifts his left hand.

“Not married,” he says, wiggling his fingers and smirking at me. “Not that I'd be wearing a ring if I were—job hazard.”

“Uh huh,” I say, turning away and putting my hand on the railing of the stairs. The hotel has an elevator, of course, but after living in Paris for so many years, especially in an older area like Le Marais, elevators are either nonexistent or they're broken. Anyway, the idea of crowding onto an elevator with Gill is terrifying in its own right. “Aren't you supposed to be off doing … whatever it is that you do?”

Gill jogs down the first few steps and then keeps pace with me, tucking his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans all casual like. What a front. I've seen the man move like a jungle cat, muscles sliding underneath his skin, as he broke a man's arm with his bare hands. Gill is anything but casual, calm, normal.

He's a monster.

I swallow hard and curl my fingers tighter around the railing, letting my palm slide along the polished wood.

“I wanted to make sure you were alright.” His voice is smooth and low, pleasant enough to bring back memories of warm afternoons snuggled up together in his bed, spent from lovemaking, sweaty and content and happy.

I clench my jaw and force myself to sound as pleasant as he does. Soon this'll all be over and I'll probably never see him again. I hate that that thought does nothing to calm me down.

“Is there a reason I wouldn't be?” I ask and he shrugs, just like that. If something's gone wrong, is going wrong, he won't tell me about it. And since I'm not a master thief, a career criminal, all I can do is sit here and wait and hope that he comes through on his word. He's never broken a promise to me before—only my heart. And that, he left shattered in so many pieces that I'm only just now finishing up the repair. I am a strong, powerful woman and I don't need Gill, don't need any man to make me happy. Some more cheesy positive self-talk makes me feel better and I relax, taking a deep breath as we hit the first floor landing.

“Most people wouldn't be quite as comfortable in this situation as you seem to be,” he murmurs, scanning the lobby with a practiced eye. I sweep past him, letting him do his thing, and saunter over to the hostess station for the hotel's restaurant, pretending I'm dressed in my best Parisian couture. I can work these fucking flip-flops.

“One, please,” I say and the hostess grabs a menu.

“Two,” Gill interjects, appearing out of nowhere behind my right shoulder. Immediately, the woman's eyes catch on his face, her throat working against the surge of hormones that must be rocketing through that petite little body of hers. Small blessing, he doesn't even glance her way. I'm no idiot; I'm sure in the ten plus years that Gill's been gone that he's slept with people, dated them, maybe even loved them. But I don't want to see it.

“You joining me for a drink?” I ask, tossing the words over my shoulder at Gill. His dark hair gleams under the dim orange and red pendant lights that line the restaurant, but his face betrays nothing.

“For old time's sake?” he asks, and the words cut straight through me. Old. That's what our love is—old and feeble and frail. No, no, it's even worse than that: our love is dead and there's nothing that can be done about it. Death is the end; death is final. Life's taught me that lesson more than once.

“As long as you give me an update about Cliff and Solène, I suppose I can tolerate your presence for a little while.” I slide into the booth and immediately kick off the flip-flops under the table. “Dieu merci,” I breathe. Thank God.