Code Name Heist (Jameson Force Security 3)

It’s all moot because she’s stuck. She’ll never do anything to risk her dad’s life. Frankly, knowing what I know now, I’d never ask her to do it.

On top of everything else, I now have to figure out how to protect her and her dad.

I make a command decision before I can talk myself out of it. Leaning over, I turn on the bedside lamp so we can see each other clearly. “I have something to tell you too.”

Sin cocks her head, a small smile of encouragement playing at her lips. It’s a silent reply. You can tell me anything.

“I’m undercover,” I say bluntly.

She wasn’t prepared for that. Her eyes flare with shock, her mouth falling open.

“After prison, I went to work for a private security company in Pittsburgh. An insurance consortium got wind of some major heist that’s supposed to be going down somewhere in Europe, and they knew William Mears was involved. I’m a plant—an inside man who could walk back into this life to get in on the deal.”

“You’re not working with the police?” she asks, her eyebrows knitted.

“No. Which makes this extra dangerous. I have nothing protecting me. I get pinched doing any of this, I’m going to jail.”

“So you’re supposed to figure out what the big heist is and tip them off?” she inquires.

“Something like that. I haven’t quite gotten it figured out, but I do know I want you as far away from this as possible. Since I know they’re holding your dad over your head, we’re going to have to figure something else out.”

“We?” she inquires hesitantly. “As in you and I will have to figure something out?”

“You know all my dirty secrets, Sin. What you choose to do with them is up to you.”

Sin comes to her knees so fast I jerk back a bit. But then her hands are on my face, and she’s peering right into my eyes. “You can trust me, Saint. I’ll help you with this. I want out. I want my dad safe. If taking Mercier down is the way to do it, then that’s a no brainer. But more than anything, I’m so damn happy to have you back in my life I’d do anything to keep building on this. Consider me on the team. We’re going to figure out this heist, then we’re going to let him have his due.”

There’s no describing the mixture of relief and elation at her words, nor the weird fact I’m completely turned on by the determination to keep me in her life.

Moving quickly, I have her flat on her back with her legs spread beneath me. I’m short on words right now, wanting to be inside her too badly.

But I do manage three important ones. “Thank you, Sin.”CHAPTER 14SinMy father no longer lives in the house I grew up in. Once I reached adulthood and left the nest, it had become too big for him even though it wasn’t large to begin with. Since his stroke nine months ago, I’m grateful for the small flat he rents in Tottenham. Smaller space means less he has to take care of. Even though he can afford more, he’s never been the type of man who cared about material things. After years as a thief, he has piles of money stashed all over London in safety deposit boxes, which he can now use to pay his essential living expenses.

No, my father has never been about greed. With him, it was always about the thrill of pulling off a spectacular caper.

About not getting caught.

But while my dad was good, he wasn’t perfect. Before I was born, he had done a stint in prison for a botched car heist. He had always told me that he’d never complained once about getting caught because when it all boiled down to it, he was in the wrong and was always prepared to face the consequences.

One of Dad’s pieces of advice to me was, “If you’re going to live this type of life, you better be prepared to be caught at some point. As long as you know that and accept the risk, you should never lose a moment’s sleep over what you do.”

I often rolled that conversation around in my head when a guilty conscience would plague me over the things I have done. It’s a risk I’ve been less and less sure I’ve wanted to take over the last few years.

After Saint suggested we visit my dad, I had texted him that I was in town and was going to come by to see him before I had to fly out this evening. When I knock on the door to his flat, it swings open immediately. It’s obvious he’s been excitedly waiting to see his only daughter.

“Sindaria,” he exclaims, pulling me into a hard hug.

Even at sixty-three and recovered from a mild stroke, my dad is still a strong man. He’s tall and thin, but he still manages to lift me clean off the floor. It doesn’t prevent me from noticing he doesn’t squeeze as hard with his right arm as he does with his left. The aftereffects of his stroke.