Stealing Valentine

Chapter 1

Dutch

“Well, well, well.”

She gasps, whirling and her face going white as she spots me. Her green eyes flash, and I see her tense. I see that fight or flight instinct snap across her face, and my jaw tightens.

“Uh-uh,” I growl lowly. I can see it in her eyes—that moment where she’s deciding whether or not she’s going to run for it.

Not a smart idea.

I’m betting I know exactly what she thinks she sees. She thinks she sees a pampered rich guy in a suit, like the rest of the assholes at this party. But, she’s wrong. She doesn’t know the hardened man under that polished exterior. She doesn’t know the fighting instinct I’ve got inside, the sharpened senses, the coiled muscles ready to pounce.

Her eyes flick again, but this time, I see her take a breath. She tries to force a smile as she bats her eyes at me.

“Oh, sorry, am I not supposed to be in—”

“No, you’re not.” I growl.

She fucking knows she’s not, too. But then, she’s not in here by accident. I’m not buying the innocent look, or the catering staff outfit she’s wearing. She looks too good, for one. She doesn’t look like she’s been on her feet all day serving cocktails and hors d’oeuvres to douchebags in suits. There’s not a lock of that gorgeous chestnut hair out of place on her head, and she’s in heels.

Please. Catering staff don’t wear heels to work.

I’m not buying any of it, which means she’s in here quite purposefully. And I know exactly why.

…I know why, cause it’s the same damn reason I’m here.

She smiles again, turning and leaning against the big, high-tech, highly secured display cabinet behind her—the one I’m betting she’s been trying to pick open, just like she’s cracked her way into this room, which was locked, by the way.

She’s playing a dangerous game. And with me, she has no idea how dangerous it is.

“No? Oh, well,” she smiles again, but those eyes of hers are darting around like trapped cat.

She giggles flirtatiously. “I just came in looking for the ladies room, and all these pretty things on display—”

“Pretty things like the Whistler necklace and earrings, specifically?”

She freezes, swallowing thickly, and I can see her pulse beat quickly in the hollow of her neck.

Fuck.

The second I saw her when I stepped in here a second ago, I knew I was in trouble. It was instant, and looking at her now, it’s like I see the whole thing play out in the blink of an eye. I see her, and I know she’s going to be my ruin.

My jaw clenches, and I can feel my pulse quickening, turning to a dull roar in my ears as my eyes lock on her.

Damn, and she’s gorgeous.

Long, tumbling brown locks of hair frame her stunningly beautiful face. Soft, pink lips. Big green eyes with dark smoky lashes. Her skirt is modest, brushing the backs of her knees as she turns on black stilettos. The sleeveless white blouse clings to her, hugging her slim waist, cupping the soft swell of her breasts. Fuck, the damn thing is buttoned all the way up to her throat like a freaking librarian, but it doesn’t matter.

I look at her and I know she could be wearing a goddamn burlap sack and still be the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen.

I can feel my blood turning hot, pulsing through me and making my jaw clench as just the sheer sight of her gets the beast inside of me roaring for more. My cock pulses in my dress pants against my thigh, throbbing as I drink her in. I swallow, my jaw grinding and my eyes locked right on her.

Oh, she’s going to be trouble all right. And it’s not just that the sight of her has my muscles clenching, and my cock thickening between my thighs. It’s not just that I can imagine tearing those clothes off and crushing my lips to hers like a raw, primal need to lay my claim on her.

…It’s that considering what’s at stake and what I’ve planned for the night, this is one twist I never saw coming.

I’ve planned it all out. I’ve spent a year inserting myself into Cobalt Tech, pretending to be just another white-collar asshole like the rest of them. I’ve put the time in. I put off other, easier, faster jobs, because the payout for this one was going to mean an easy fucking life, for the rest of mine. Early retirement at thirty years old. Not fucking bad.

Yeah, I’ve put up with all the insufferable assholes working at Cobalt. I’ve swallowed my bile and made friends with the douchebag at the top, Martin McCue—enough so, in fact, that he’s invited me to one of his “power-meeting” dinners at his Hamptons estate along with twenty or so other high-ranking employees and some of his family. On Valentine’s Day, for whatever asinine reason.