Code Name Heist (Jameson Force Security 3)

Saint ducks inside the taxi to hand the driver some money. When he straightens, he gives me a once-over and a wry smile. “Your damn dress is distracting as hell, Sin. How am I supposed to case this place when I can’t keep my eyes off you?”

His words shouldn’t warm me so much. He’s clearly attracted to me, so the sentiments aren’t necessary.

But damn if they don’t make my belly flutter. Even has my heart hoping he’ll learn to trust me again one day. That maybe we could get back to the place we once were.

Saint looks amazing tonight, too. He traded in his trademark suave business suit for a fitted pair of straight-leg pants and a button-up dark gray shirt, appearing very European. He’s certainly turning many a woman’s eye as we walk into the club.

I haven’t had any time alone with him since our night together after the Dennison heist. He hadn’t called or reached out to me.

But neither had I to him.

During the past three days, we’d seen each other twice at Margeaux’s while going over the Throb job with William. When we left those meetings, we’d walked in opposite directions without a word.

I can’t speak for him, but I kept my distance because we’d been around other people. Each time we’d left Margeaux, William and Neal walked out with us. I certainly don’t want either to realize Saint and I are sleeping together again.

Or, rather, that we’d had sex once. Whether it will happen again is anybody’s guess, but a girl can hope, right?

Inside the club, it takes a moment to get my bearings. The music thumps with deep bass, and there are way too many strobe lights flashing. It’s a two-story building with a main dance area on the first floor and a large balcony along the perimeter of the second.

It’s packed—being one of the more popular nightlife hotspots—and it’s frankly a bit claustrophobic. I’d never gone through a phase where I’d felt like I needed to go out dancing and partying until the wee hours of the morning. But then again, I hadn’t—and still don’t—have friends because of what I do for a living. I’ve always been alienated from normal life.

Leaning in close, Saint says, “Let’s hit the bar, then go upstairs.” His lips practically touch my ear, but it’s the only way to hear anything over the music.

When I nod, he leads me to the bar. He orders a gin and tonic for me and a vodka on the rocks for himself. It takes a few minutes, but we scope out the scene as we wait.

After handing me a drink, he takes my other hand. At the staircase to the balcony, he gestures for me to precede him up, but he never lets go of my hand. We move through a throng of dancers to the railing where we’re able to get a bird’s eye view of the happenings below.

We’ve never been in this particular establishment before, but the scenery is familiar. William had enlarged several photos taken here, then tacked them on his corkboard. We’d studied them at our planning meetings.

To our right, down below is the bar.

Around the perimeter of the dance floor, there are many tables crowded together.

To the left, there is a VIP seating area on a raised dais, which is cordoned off with velvet ropes. Beyond that is the staircase that leads to the balcony.

And on the first floor, directly opposite where we are, there’s a small hallway that leads to the two unisex loos on the right side and the owner’s office on the left. At the end of the hallway, there’s an exterior exit door that opens into a small parking lot.

That’s where we surreptitiously keep most of our attention. Saint sidles in close to me as I lean my forearms on the railing, my drink cradled in my hands. Pressing his hip against mine, he puts one hand on my lower back. He’s close enough he doesn’t have to scream to be heard above the music.

“I make five security guards,” he eventually says.

“Same,” I agree.

It was the first item on our agenda—seeing how easy it would be to identify security personnel. According to William, who has visited the club three times, the guard count ranges from three on a slow night to seven on a busy one. Even though they wear uniforms, they’re still a little hard to spot given the amount of people inside. William had said the guards mainly stuck to their assigned positions. After fifteen minutes of observing them, we concur.

There’s plenty of movement along the hallway across from us as partygoers go in and out to reach the restrooms. We patiently wait to see if the owner, Jason Brandis, makes an appearance, but it’s not necessary for him to leave his office. The three times William had cased the place, he said Brandis mingled with guests and usually stayed out drinking and dancing with the young women until closing.