Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance #2)(2)

Brenda, her name is.

You can put a treasure in a vault. You can bury it on a forbidden island, send it to the bottom of the sea or put it on a mountain, and the weakness will always be the same: Somebody knows where it is and how to find it. Any security system is only as strong as people, and people are, by nature, weak.

Brenda. Thirty six years old. Mother of three, Divorced, lives in a rent-controlled two bedroom flat with her kids, will soon be struggling to house them as the eldest, a girl, grows too old to sleep in the same room as the boys. Smoker, drinker, and most importantly, gambler. Of the illegal variety. She has an addiction to hold'em, knows how to play but doesn't know how to win, and owes money. She owes money to a title loan agency, to one of those late night commercial lenders, and to some very unfriendly people who break legs when they don't get paid.

That would be a terrible shame. Brenda has great legs. She is the full package, in fact. I'd take her over three Veronicas any day. Long legs that look very nice in the fishnets she's wearing, great ass, big rack, and a sweet, warm smile. A real person, and she looks like she'd be wild in the sheets, too. Makes me wonder why the old man bounced her. He probably traded up, or just got bored. I consider myself a student of the human species.

Lesson number one: Love is bullshit. I don't have time.

Now, other pursuits…

I peel my eyes off of Brenda's ass. I can't afford to get either of us in trouble. Truth is, I can make an escape if need be, but I can't let her go down. She does have kids. I have a soft spot for women with kids, always have. Especially single moms. Almost makes me want to settle down sometimes, but no.

This will be one of the easiest jobs I've ever pulled, if everything goes right.

Getting in was easy. I'm here, after all. Getting back out is the problem, since I'm not supposed to be here. It took me a month of scouting to bump into Brenda and learn her story, start working on her, spending time with her, finally convince her to help me out with this crazy scheme. I can talk anybody into anything, if you give me enough time. Right now I need to keep my eyes on the prize.

Not too hard, though. The prize is a diamond necklace currently strung about the pale slender throat of the bitchy heiress, and what a necklace it is. On the street the gold would sell for a few grand, the diamonds maybe twice that. The value of the bauble lies in its history-it's been in her family for four generations, bought for her great grandma by the founder of the fortune Veronica is set to inherit, if she doesn't piss off her grandfather too much with her antics. She has something of a reputation, and a reality show. Thankfully there's no cameras here.

I'm having a bad hair day.

The necklace drapes diamonds and emeralds just above her awe-inspiring cleavage. Believe me, I tried to come up with a plan to get myself in bed with her and then steal the necklace. It would be easier, but crueler. Something about it left a bad taste in my mouth, so I went for Plan B: Fake my way inside, get access to it while she takes it off.

Circulate. Steal a little. Keep an eye on the mark. That's all there is to it. I keep an eye on my partner, too. She's nervous, but she doesn't show it to the guests, even when they slap her ass. A big guy smacks her rump after taking a drink from her tray, and I can see her face twist in anger for just a bare second before slipping back into an almost preternatural calm. The guy that got a handful of her backside has six inches in height and maybe a hundred and fifty pounds on me. Football player, I think. He looks familiar. Brenda scurries away from him as casually as she can. By the time she's out of sight he's already forgotten his humiliation.

Also, I stole his wallet. He didn't even notice me.

Fuck you, mister running back. I have your platinum card.

I almost lose Veronica. She's leaving the damn party, headed up the stairs to the top floor of the penthouse, laughing with another girl dressed in even slinkier clubwear, a black dress that's really just a tube that stretches from her armpits, over an ample bust and down to just barely cover her ass. I get an eyeful as she scampers up the stairs next to the smoothly striding Veronica.

Might be time to make a move.

I slip away from the crowd, tuck my tray under a table and use the dark and smoke and noise to my advantage. There's a corner by the terrace where I can slip out of my crushed velvet. Underneath, a black body glove and some sewn-in pouches for my tools. The hardest part is getting up the stairs, but no one's looking. They all feel safe here.

This is the really fun part.

The door to the suite of rooms isn't locked. I slip in, and don't close it, making no sound as I creep through the room. I've studied the blueprints, and it's a good thing. The room is pitch black, all the lights out except for the glow of a fish tank and soft light from above. The bed is set on a loft above the rest of the suite. The aquarium light reflects on sparkling blue, like a slice of sky laid out on one of the couches. Veronica's dress. I hear a soft sound like a whimper.

Oh. Okay.

Focus, Apollo. You're here for the necklace.

I check the dress first. Her bracelet and ear rings are on a side table. My fingers itch at the sight of them, but it feels petty to take them.

Fuck petty, in the pouches they go. I search slow, working my way across the room…

… I just heard a moan.

I take a deep breath and hold it, waiting for the creak or the cat or some unexpected thing to give me away, but when I reach the top of the steps I realize I don't need to be to so careful. I'm not going to be noticed. Another moan, louder this time.