Uptown Thief (20 page)

“Then why didn't you want to come tonight?” he asked. “You hesitated at first.”

Marisol leaned back and crossed her arms. “If you had asked me out on a date, you know I would have said yes. But you made me a business proposition. I know what the product is worth, and I don't undervalue my assets. If I get to have a luxurious, erotic evening with you, that's just a fringe benefit.”

“So we could have had this same evening without the donation to your clinic?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “You're paying for expediency. You're paying to get an asset in one night that otherwise would have taken months to acquire.”

“I once waited over a decade to acquire a company,” VanDyke said. “Laid the groundwork step by step.”

“I checked your portfolio,” Marisol said. “Both business and . . . domestic. You like a quick merger, sudden turnover, and to let the asset go before it's clear what the long-term prognosis is. If it crashes and burns, you don't take the blame, but if it soars, it becomes part of the VanDyke mystique. How. Does. He. Do. It?”

“A strategy that works,” VanDyke said.

“It works better in business than in your domestic affairs,” Marisol said. “And I have certain liabilities that starlets and socialites don't have. Liabilities that you wouldn't want in the tabloids. I know why you sent the staff home.”

“You do understand my portfolio,” he said.

“You wanted to ask me out at the gala, but I hadn't been vetted yet,” she said. “You got some background on me and found out I wasn't a contender for a longer-term, more visible arrangement, but you couldn't resist the write-off. You knew we could come to an agreement.”

“I'm not used to women who can decode me,” VanDyke said, his brow furrowed.

“I raised the price to protect my own interests,” Marisol said, pleased and validated by her effect on him, a Puerto Rican girl from the hood, talking finance and business with a billionaire. “When you took the date off the table, I lost out on a massive secondary gain.”

“Which was what?” he asked.

“Disclosure,” she said. “If we meet as escort and client, I'll never disclose that fact. On the other hand, if we were to meet on a date, no gag order. So I might let it slip in a strategic moment that I had dinner with you. You know exactly what that's worth for a businesswoman. Any personal connection with you puts my stock through the roof.”

“You're charging me for the monetary value of bragging rights?” he asked.

“ ‘Everything has value,'” she said. “ ‘The wise entrepreneur gives nothing away for free without a strategy.'”

“Now I'm the one who thinks I'm dreaming,” he said. “I'm sitting here with the hottest woman on the planet, and she's quoting my words back to me about how she used my theories to get me to triple my offer.”

“Quintuple,” Marisol said.

He reached across the table and took her hand. It brought back the dream in which Raul had taken her hand on the beach. Inside the dream, that had felt so right, so perfect.

VanDyke's hand felt wrong. She dropped her eyes, attempting to look coy, steeling herself against the rising sense of repulsion.

She took a breath and retracted her attention from the contact points of his palm on the back of her hand. She pulled some part of herself deep inside, curled it up safely, and met his eyes.

“It's sort of like a mind fuck,” he said, his lips parting into a slow grin.

“More than just mind,” she said.

She needed to get things moving to keep the plan on time. She reached forward, grabbed his tie, and tugged it.

VanDyke leaned across the table and kissed her. Softly, his tongue gently touched hers. He put a finger on her jawline and slid his hand around to the back of her neck.

When the kiss ended, she pushed back her chair and walked around the table to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him more insistently, pressing against him, tousling his hair with her gloved fingers.

Chapter 20

H
ow similar men's bodies were under their clothes, under their titles and their salaries. Some tiny part of her was surprised to find that Jeremy VanDyke was no different, billions and all. The only difference was the possibility of the heist, bigger than anything she had ever imagined.

The power of it made her skin flush with heat, her pulse race. More than strangers from uptown bars, where she could call the shots. She was every bit as much in control, but the money was a delicious secret, and the combination was thoroughly intoxicating.

“Let's go to bed,” he murmured into her neck.

“Yes,” Marisol said. On the way out of the kitchen, she grabbed her clutch purse.

The enormous bedroom, done in decidedly masculine colors—slate blue with chrome furniture—looked out on the river. Nestled in the corner was a king-size bed with gray bedding.

He accelerated. His tongue in her mouth, his hands feeling up her breasts through the dress. She moaned to feign pleasure, and peeled off the elbow-length gloves so she could work. She wrapped one arm around his neck while she unsnapped her purse behind his back. She tossed the gloves onto the table.

He unzipped the upper half of her dress, and she let the purse drop to the floor, palming a couple of accessories in her hand.

She had selected the turquoise dress for the waft of the satin and the drama of the unveiling as much as for the way she looked while wearing it. The dress coming off should look like a wave washing down along her body, sweeping her clothing out to sea.

She stood in front of VanDyke: her body in profile, the upper half twisted toward him, full face, cleavage visible. A little snatch, a little ass, a little hip. Perfect.

She reached and undid the rest of the zipper of the dress. She held the bodice up in the front, revealing a slice of her bra strap, and the skin of her shoulder. Finger by finger, she released her hold on the garment, let the fabric fall in a wave to her feet, the remains of the dress crumpled around her ankles like sea foam. Marisol rose up out of the ocean in her deep violet demi-bra and matching thong panties like a bikini.

He looked in awe at her full breasts and narrow waist, her wide hips and round ass.

Marisol tucked a condom and tiny tube of lubricant into the back of her thong. She dropped her hands to her sides, palms up, soft inner arms forward. Head back; neck exposed.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off her, he unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off, along with his undershirt. The tan was more pronounced on his face, but he wasn't pale like she'd expected. He unbuckled his slacks and let them drop, revealing long, muscled legs with pale blond hair on the calves. He stepped out of his shoes and socks and walked toward her.

She slipped one hand behind her back and pulled out her accessories. He slid both arms around her waist and ran his hands down over her ass. She wrapped one brown leg around his waist and thrust her hips against his. He had a raging erection. He unhooked her bra and slid both hands under it to cup her breasts.

He backed her up toward the bed and she fell onto it, undoing the French twist and splaying her dark wavy hair below her. He climbed up onto her and groped her breasts, kissed her neck, tangled his fingers in her hair.

With her left hand, she popped open the lubricant. As he pressed his tongue into her mouth, she used her index finger to push aside her thong panties and squirted the lube inside her. Let him think she was this wet for him. She tucked the lube beneath the corner of the bed to retrieve it later. Then she opened the condom packet and tucked it beneath the pillow where she could easily get to it.

With both hands free, she slid them down into his underwear, caressing his erection. He moaned and his tongue went slack in her mouth. She rolled on top of him and pressed her tongue into his mouth.

She reached up and pulled the condom out of the packet, dropping the wrapper onto the floor and slipping the condom into her mouth.

She straddled him and pulled off his underwear, checking out his penis at close range. Nuzzling it, to camouflage her inspection.

She leaned in and put the condom on with her mouth. He moaned as she took him deep into her throat, just to the point before she gagged, then pulled out. With one hand, she kept massaging his erection, shielding the condom from his view. With the other hand, she pulled off her thong, and tossed it so it would fall onto the bed within his reach.

He picked it up and saw the telltale sign of fresh moisture on the crotch.

“Oh, you make me so wet!” she moaned. “I just can't wait!” And with that, she thrust him inside her, riding him hard.

It took him a minute to rally. He wasn't willing to be topped the whole time. He rolled her over and finished up in the missionary position. She hated the feeling of him on top of her, but she tuned out from the sensations in her body. Instead, she focused on reaching under the pillows and checking around the edges of the bed to make sure he didn't have any weapons handy. After a while, she began moaning, faking a massive orgasm and wrapping her thighs around him as if her life depended on it.

After their breathing returned to normal, she wiped the moisture from her forehead. “That was amazing,” she said.

He smiled.

A moment later, she reached down between her legs. “We should—”

“Of course,” he said, and began to pull out. She held the condom expertly, pulling it first out of herself without leaking, and then off of him, all in less than a second. If he even knew she used one, he didn't say anything.

“I'll be right back,” she said. She managed to scoop up the lube and wrapper, and held them with the used condom in her hand as she walked toward a pair of doors.

“Door on the left,” he said.

In the bathroom, she tied the condom and flushed it with the other stuff. Cleaned up some of the lube and washed her hands.

She ran her fingers through her hair. She wanted to look tousled, but not disheveled. Now came the more awkward part. If they were lovers, they would cuddle. If he were a cheap client, she would collect her money and leave. But he was something in between. The sexual tension and fantasy that had held them together was now gone. Would he be a talker? Or the I've-got-to-get-back-to-work type of businessman? Or, God forbid, the I-could-really-fall-for-you-under-other-circumstances type of guy?

The team was due any minute. She needed to keep him in the bedroom for when they arrived.

She opened the bathroom door. He was lying back on the bed, covers up to his waist, arms folded behind his head, a portrait of satisfaction. She scanned the bed area carefully, still checking to make sure he didn't have a gun within reach.

“Looks like someone satisfied more than just my curiosity.” She smirked and sat on the edge of the bed, naked. She didn't want to take liberties—get back into the bed like a lover—but she wanted to continue to be available, interested. She reached over and ran her hand across his chest.

“You are a delectable woman, Marisol Rivera,” he said, smiling up at her.

She leaned in and kissed him.

He reached to pull her toward him when the door flew open and two masked gunmen entered. Marisol screamed and scrambled to cover herself with the comforter.

“What the—” VanDyke said.

“Hands where I can see them!” Jody yelled. “One move, one more noise, and you're dead.” The intruders had on shades over ski masks and were dressed in black sweat suits. They had on thick black gloves that made their hands look much bigger.

Marisol and VanDyke raised their hands. The comforter slipped down, revealing Marisol's breasts.

“Nice,” Tyesha said, and moved toward her, poking her breast with the gun. Marisol wore a terrified expression on her face.

“No time for that shit,” Jody growled, and pulled out a roll of duct tape.

She tossed it to Tyesha, who caught it and proceeded to bind the billionaire's hands and feet. Tyesha sat him and Marisol on the floor at the edge of the bed and bound them together, back to back, while Jody held them at gunpoint. Then the gunmen taped their mouths, and bound them to the leg of the bed.

“Anybody comes in before we get what we came for, you're dead, you hear me?” Jody asked. Neither Marisol nor VanDyke moved. “Nod your head if you hear me.”

The two of them nodded, their heads bumping by mistake.

“Grab that purse,” Jody ordered.

“He's the one with the money,” Tyesha said.

“You never know,” Jody said, and Tyesha obeyed.

The gunmen stepped out of the room, leaving them taped and helpless on the floor.

* * *

Tyesha and Jody walked into VanDyke's study to find Kim kneeling on a chair in front of the safe. The apartment was true to the blueprints Marisol had gotten from the celebrity bachelor site. The safe wasn't indicated on the plans, but Marisol had accurately guessed its location, because the wall was slightly thicker.

Kim was surrounded by neat stacks of paper and wood paneling. The safe was the height of a regular door, but narrower, with the dial above doorknob height. It was nestled next to the solid oak desk, in an alcove just wide enough for the billionaire to stand in front of it. Kim pulled on the fingerprint gloves and pressed the right index finger to the sensor of the Superlative safe. All three women held their breath.

ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN, the red digital display read. Next she tried the right thumb.

ERROR, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

“Well?” Jody murmured.

“Two tries and it won't open,” Kim said, an edge of panic in her voice. “Maybe I'm doing it wrong. Or are the gloves fucked up?”

“My friend said she confirmed the match with a microscope,” Tyesha said.

“Then why isn't it working?” Jody asked.

“Try the right middle finger,” Tyesha said.

“Why?” Jody asked.

“I saw this photo in the tabloids of VanDyke giving the paparazzi the finger,” Tyesha said. “The safe is set up so that it would be really awkward to use the left hand. So let's assume that Kim did the first two correctly. He wouldn't do the ring or the pinkie finger. I think it would be VanDyke's big ‘fuck you' to the world.”

“Okay,” Jody said. “But if it doesn't work, we get the hell out. We cut the video lines, but there could still be a separate alarm system from the safe.”

“Fine,” Tyesha said. “Go, Kim.”

“Don't rush me!”

Slowly, Kim wiped off the print sensor, then placed her gloved middle finger on the small square of glass.

“Well?” Tyesha asked.

“It takes a minute,” Kim said.

They kept their gazes on the small display rectangle, which was now blank.

An internal sound whirred. An alarm? A go-ahead? Finally, after what seemed like forever, the combination dial lit up.

“Well, fuck you, too, Jeremy VanDyke,” Tyesha said, and Kim went to work on the safe.

* * *

Two hours later, the driver came into VanDyke's bedroom.

“What the hell?” he asked, mouth open at the sight of his boss bound with a woman to the leg of the bed, both naked.

He ran over to VanDyke, who gestured with his head for the driver to ungag him first.

“Mr. VanDyke, I came back an hour ago,” the driver said as he carefully pulled the tape off the billionaire's mouth. “I didn't wanna interrupt, but after a while I came to the door, and saw it was open, and the cut wires—”

“Get my cell phone!” VanDyke yelled when he could finally speak. “Bedside table! Now!”

The driver scrambled to comply. Marisol watched him run around her, as if she were a piece of furniture.

“Undo my hands!” VanDyke ordered. Marisol heard the ripping of tape behind her, then the beeping of cell phone buttons.

“This is VanDyke,” he shouted into the phone. “Now my feet,” he barked at the driver. “Get my feet.”

Marisol heard more tape ripping a few feet behind her.

“Send the security detail over immediately. We've had a break-in. Don't alert the police just yet. I want an internal response first.”

As VanDyke pulled on his boxers, Marisol made muffled sounds behind the gag.

The driver carefully unbound her mouth.

“Oh, thank God!” she said.

“Is the front door still open?” VanDyke asked the driver. “Did they break the lock?”

“I don't know.”

“Go look. If it's not secure, stay there until the team shows up. Call me on my cell if anything happens.”

“What about me?” Marisol said. “Can he at least untie me first?”

The driver hesitated, looked from Marisol to VanDyke.

“No time,” VanDyke said.

VanDyke undid her wrists and rushed to dress himself.

Marisol undid her own feet and rummaged around in the bedclothes for her underwear. As she pulled the bra out of the tangle of sheets, she heard a pair of security guards storming up the stairs.

VanDyke stepped into the hall, his shirt open. “Don't move anything,” he yelled. “Just give the place an initial once-over.”

“Got it!” the guy yelled from the hallway, as she crawled beside the bed looking for her left shoe.

“You need to go,” VanDyke said to her as he scanned the floor and picked up her dress.

The driver appeared in the doorway.

VanDyke took Marisol by the arm and thrust her toward the driver.

She stood naked between the two men, underclothes in one hand and a single platform stiletto in the other.

“Take her home,” VanDyke said.

“What about my—” Marisol began. She was about to say “dress?”