Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

His knees buckle a bit as we reach his office door. “What do you want me to say? That you’re not slutty? Tell me. I’ll say it.”

“Nah. I’m not in the mood for more of your lies.” I push the barrel against his spine. “I’m more in the mood for shooting you in the balls. Do you know what it feels like to get shot?”

“No,” he says, his hands shaking where he holds them in the air.

“I do. It hurts like a bitch.”

His voice is high-pitched. “What do you want?”

“Open the door.”

The door has an electronic lock as well as a key. Double security. He fits the key in the hole and unlocks the door. Then he punches another code on a wall panel and fumbles with the doorknob. It takes him a moment before he manages to turn it.

I push him again. “Inside.”

He stumbles into the room.

“Open the safe,” I say.

He spins around and faces me with a wide-eyed stare. “You’re joking.”

“I asked you nicely for a few hundred bucks. How much do you pay for a round of golf at Sun City? A thousand bucks? That’s not counting the drinks at the bar. You could’ve given me the price of an afternoon of fun. You want to know the truth? I would’ve walked away even if you’d given me nothing but a kind word and pretense of care. Now it’s going to cost you a whole lot more than playing eighteen holes.” I aim the gun at his balls. “Am I laughing? I should be, but I’m afraid you’re not that funny. No jokes, Mint. Open the safe.”

He sniffs and coughs, looking like he may choke on his spit as he goes to the safe and turns the dial.

His pride is his downfall. He could never stop boasting about his wealth and how many diamonds he kept in his safe. Luckily for him, I’m not interested in horses or a house on the beach, or those things he bragged about would’ve been next on my list.

“Take everything out,” I say. “Pack it on the desk.”

With tremulous hands, he places velvet bags on his desk. The desk is large, no doubt making up for what Mint is missing in size.

“Open them,” I say.

He opens the strings of the bags, letting the gemstones spill onto the polished surface of the wood until there’s a colorful array of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, tanzanites, and my prize—diamonds. There must be at least a hundred stones of different cuts and sizes, all ready to be set into rings for women who are worthy of being wives and mothers.

“Hand over the diamonds,” I order.

He shoves the stones back into the bag, draws the strings, and gives it to me. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Thank you,” I say, blowing him a kiss as I shove the bag into my back pocket.

I know this office well enough to know there’s only one landline. Mint invited me up for more than one cup of coffee to show off his worth. It’s a pity there’s nothing of worth in his heart. I bet the same goes for what’s in his pants.

I point at the phone. “Pull out the cord and give it to me.”

He does so fuming a little more but not showing less fear.

“Now your cell phone,” I say when he’s handed me the cord.

He takes his phone from his desk and puts it in my outstretched palm. I pocket the phone and the telephone cable.

I motion with the gun toward the security monitor on his desk. “Give me the camera recording.”

“I can’t,” he says in a tremulous voice. “There’s no disk. The recording is rooted to my laptop.”

That’s easy then. I kick the monitor with my heel, sending it crashing to the floor.

Jumping out of the way as glass shatters next to him, he yells, “What the fuck?”

“Take your laptop,” I order.

He picks it up gingerly.

“Throw it out of the window.”

His lips part. He gapes at me before saying in a hysterical voice, “I’ve got work on here, stuff I can’t recover.”

Stepping over the broken monitor, I push the barrel against his crown jewels. “Need some motivation?”

A trickle of sweat runs down his temple. “Fuck. Okay.” He opens the window with one hand, pinches his eyes shut, and throws out the laptop.

A dull thud and a scream sounds from the street. It’s at the back of the building, on the side Ian isn’t watching.

“Hey, watch out, moron!” a man yells.

“Tell him you have anger issues,” I say.

Mint sticks his head through the window. “Sorry. The laptop gave me problems. I lost my cool.”

“Fucking twat,” the man calls. “It could’ve been on my head.”

“I’m sorry,” Mint says again. “Hey! Hey, tell that guy to leave my laptop.”

“You dumped it,” the man says. “If it’s trash, the beggars have a right to take off with it.”