Stepbrother Thief (23 page)

My heart leaps into my throat, but I do what Gill says, sliding down and curling my knees against my chest. It's a tight fit, but I manage. While I'm down there, I take off my pumps and half stuff them in my unzipped clutch. If I have to run, I'll go twice as fast in bare feet.

“What's going on?” I ask, praying that Cliff and Solène are safe right now. I have to believe they are and focus on the situation at hand otherwise I'll let my mind get away from me with worry. I glance up at Gilleon, at the strangely violent calm that's settled over his features. When he gets like that, he almost looks inhuman.

“We've got a tail, damn it,” he growls and then, strangely out of place for the situation, a wicked grin curls his lips. “Shouldn't have stopped to fuck.”

“Especially not now that I have to run for my life with wet panties,” I bemoan and he chuckles. Maybe it's not appropriate to joke in this sort of scenario, but what else do I have to do? “Anyway, if you've only had four lovers in the past ten years, I don't blame you.”

“Are you trying to say that I'm backed up?” he purrs, using that eerie calm to pitch his voice in a way that makes me bite my lip.

“Yeah, actually, I am.”

“You're probably right,” he tells me, and I tense as I feel the SUV slowing down.

“What's going on?” I ask, getting ready to open the door and run if need be.

“There's a red light,” Gilleon tells me, his voice tinged with the slightest whisper of amusement. “We might have a tail, but we're still in the middle of the city and we don't need cops looking our way. Besides,
I
know they're there, but I don't need to let on that I do.”

“Ah.” I take a deep breath, relieved that Gill's still got a sense of humor in him. If he goes dark and cold like he did the day of the heist, it'll make this a whole hell of a lot harder. “That makes sense.” I put my chin on my knees and try to breathe—not an easy fit jammed as I am between the front seat and the glove compartment. “And am I down here because we're worried about stray bullets?”

“Well, not stray bullets,” Gill says and a chill travels down my spine. “If they shoot at us, it'll be with a very specific purpose in mind.” He looks over and something he sees on my face spurs him to add, “but don't worry,
ma belle petite fleur.
I won't let
anything
happen to you.” I almost comment on the
beautiful little flower
remark, but the growl in his voice, the ferocity with which he spoke, makes me decide to let it go. In this situation, Gilleon is the expert and I don't have any qualms with following orders—or letting him call me old pet names in French.

“Where are we going?” I ask, knowing he won't take us back to the house if we're being followed.
So much for clean panties.
My after sex glow is fading fast, replaced with the rapid thudding of a frightened heartbeat. I'm not about to have a panic attack or anything, but I won't lie about my fear. Running, hiding, from that particular emotion, never turns out well.

“You'll see,” Gill says, and I know that if he could tell me, he would. I let him do his thing and close my eyes for a moment.
Please tell me I did this all for a good reason, Gill,
I think at him, knowing that our next heart-to-heart is going to have to touch on whatever secret it is that he thinks he's hiding from me. “Sit tight, Regi, and we'll get though this.”

Ten minutes later, I feel the car slow to a stop for good this time, opening my eyes to find Gill shutting off the ignition. He waits for a moment, eyes trained on the rearview, and then looks down at me, pupils dilated like a cat's. I can almost swear that I see the light of a passing car reflect off the backs of his irises.

“You can sit up now,” he tells me, “and put your shoes back on if you want.” Gill gives me a small, tight smile and slides the car keys in his pocket, taking a moment to button up his gaping shirt. When I uncurl myself with a groan, my muscles and joints protesting the tight quarters, I look out the window and find … that we're at Pike Place Market. We're parked right in front, on the brick road of Pike Place itself, sitting pretty in front of a white and blue sign with a wheelchair emblazoned on it. Without skipping a beat, Gill leans over and opens the glove compartment, withdrawing a matching blue handicapped parking permit and hanging it over the rearview. Outside the window, tourists abound in a thick stream, some of them towing young kids, probably looking for the infamous 'Rachel the Pig', the golden pig statue that graces the market—a massive piggy bank who's rumored to grant good luck if you make a donation and rub her snout.
Oh, Seattle.

“What are we doing here?” I ask Gill as I slip my shoes back on.

“Pull down your mirror and put some lipstick on,” he orders, dropping his eyes to his wrists and adjusting his cuff links. Normally, I wouldn't much appreciate a statement like that—or have even the slightest desire to listen to it—but this is different. I know that by questioning anything Gilleon tells me, I'm putting my life at risk. His life. Maybe even Cliff's or Solène's or Aveline's. “Smile at me while you're doing it,” he adds, looking over at me with an affectionate expression, one that I have to wonder at. Either Gilleon's an amazing actor or …

“Gum Wall before or after dinner?” I ask, withdrawing the dark plum lipstick and sliding it across my mouth. I definitely don't miss the spark in Gill's eyes as he watches me trace my lips. I pucker them up and then slide my index finger into my mouth, withdrawing it more slowly than I probably should. It's just a trick to keep the color off my teeth, but it serves to draw Gill's breath from his chest and curl his fingers into tight fists.

I put the lipstick away, fighting back a smile and wishing I had some liner or gloss or something other than just color. Oh well. I didn't even reapply any makeup before this little not-date of ours—I hadn't expected to want or need anything like lip gloss. Or wet wipes. Or—little trick I learned when Gill and I first got together—a small tampon. Keeps all that exciting quickie cleanup to a minimum when there's no bathroom nearby.

“Oh, definitely after,” he purrs, reaching over and touching the side of my face with his tattooed fingers, drawing my gaze over to his. I let him, telling myself I'm just playing along with this little charade for whoever happens to be watching us. “Dinner and then … a wall covered in used chewing gum. The air is heady with the smell of romance.”

“Isn't it?” I ask, raising my brows and hating the small surge of disappointment I feel when Gill drops his hand away from my face. “Sex in a parking lot, being tailed by some rival criminals, and a romantic Italian dinner.”

“I'll let you in on a secret,” he whispers, leaning across the car and whispering in my ear, “we won't be making it to dinner.” Gill's hot breath makes my entire body light up. And the innuendo present in that statement? Damn it. I wanted after-sex to be awkward with him, horrible, guilt ridden. But it's just not. It's so … right. Fuck. “Get your stuff and take this,” he hands me a large black leather purse—a Saint Laurent, I think—that he grabs from the backseat. “Wait until I come over and open your door. Stick close to me and hold onto my arm—do
not
under any circumstances let go of me or let yourself be separated by the crowd. I don't care if you have to strong-arm a toddler out of the way.”

Gill pulls away without waiting for me to acknowledge his words, climbing out and walking unhurriedly over to my side of the SUV. I take that moment to stuff my clutch inside the larger bag, right on top of some folded clothes. Hmm. When he opens the door, I take his hand and let him help me out.

I almost feel sorry for whoever's following us—the parking down here is just horrible. We got the last handicapped spot in a sea of tourists and there's absolutely no where to idle, to stop and watch. Obviously, Gill knows how to pick his battles well.

He guides me through the crowd, moving carefully but not quickly, picking his path with a precision that I don't even begin to try to understand. This, this is Gill's world and I'm just a guest in it. After this is all over, he'll keep doing what he does and Cliff, Solène, and I will move on with our lives. If he'll decide to have a relationship with his daughter is anybody's guess.

“You still know how to shoot, right?” he asks me, and I nod. Way back when, before we moved to France, Cliff used to take Gill and me to the outdoor shooting range to blow off some of that infamous teenage angst. It's been a while since I've handled a gun, but I never forgot. “Good.” That's all he says, not bothering to elaborate.
Great.
If this day comes to a close and I end up with blood on my hands … No. I won't think about that, not right now. I have to trust that Gilleon will do whatever he has to to keep that from happening. On the other hand, if someone's threatening my life—or the lives of anyone in my family—I won't hesitate to pull that trigger.

People swirl around us in a mess of color and laughter, smiles flashing and eyes blinking past. I don't see anyone that looks suspicious, but then, that's the point, isn't it? Smells overwhelm me, making my mouth water and my belly clench tight. Damn it. Tonight was supposed to be about dinner and conversation, not running from bad guys. Or sex. It definitely wasn't supposed to be about sex.

“Tell me this is all for a good reason, Gill,” I say suddenly, the words falling past my lips before I can stop them. I realize this isn't the time or place for a proper conversation, but I just want to hear him say …

“It is.” He pauses—only in speech, we keep walking—and then takes a deep breath. “A selfish reason, maybe, but a good one.” Gill glances over at me, his eyes sharp and cutting, splitting me open with a single look. Shit. I don't like to make a habit of it, but I glance away first. “This way,” Gill whispers suddenly, turning us around on a dime and blending back into the crowd that's flowing the opposite direction.

Within a few minutes, we're back where we started, rain pouring from the sky in sheets, the sudden downpour corralling everyone inside and away from the street. Gill keeps us dry, but walks us along the edge of the open air market like he's looking for someone or something. I half expected to see the SUV surrounded by a bunch of guys in leather jackets and sunglasses, but that's not the case. It sits there, glistening in the rain, completely and utterly unmolested as far as I can tell.

I pull my gaze away, knowing there's no way Gill would take us back to that particular vehicle, and wonder what he plans on doing. At least, I hope there's a plan in all this. I consider asking, but then again, this is Gilleon Marchal we're talking about—of
course
there's a contingency plan in place.

We walk for a little while down Pike Place and then circle back towards the Skybridge and the parking garage. Before taking me down that way however, Gill pauses near the restrooms and waits for a break in the crowd before dragging us
both
into the ladies' room.

Unfortunately,
break
in the crowd doesn't necessarily mean
nobody is in the bathroom.

I smile an apology at the gray haired woman glaring daggers at us from the sinks.

“Gill,” I begin, but he ignores me, ushering me into the largest stall at the end and ignoring the passive aggressive huffs of the angry lavatory patron. My guess? It'll be a matter of seconds before she's off to find an employee of some sort to complain to. “What are we doing in here?” I whisper as Gill slides his arm from mine, depriving me of that strong warmth that I hadn't realized I was enjoying until now. I purse my lips. Not at him, but at myself.

“Hand me the bag,” he instructs, and I pass over the black leather purse—
definitely
a Saint Laurent and probably
very
expensive. I kind of want to keep it.

I watch quietly, not wanting to draw any extra undue attention to our stall, as Gill pulls out a long sleeved red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, passing them over to me. He withdraws a similar outfit for himself, only his tee's black, nice and plain. Mine has fish on it and the words
Seattle, Washington
scrawled in navy blue cursive. A tourist's shirt.

“You could've taken your clothes and changed in the men's room, you know,” I say, an ulterior motive buried behind my words. Changing in this stall with Gill means stripping down next to Gill. I know we're on the run and all, but hormones will be hormones. My body already misses the tight pressure of him buried inside of me, the heat of his fingers roaming over my hypersensitive skin. I grit my teeth a little, but force myself to take a breath and calm down. Calm is the
only
thing that will keep me safe in this scenario; panic never helped anybody do anything.

Seems Gill can pretty much read my thoughts off my facial expressions alone.

“I won't look,” he promises with a slight smile that I meet with raised brows.

“Like I give a shit about that,” I lie, reaching back to unzip the jumpsuit, the movement sparking an immediate recall of what went down in the SUV. “But that lady's going to search her angry little heart out until she finds someone to complain to. We don't need that kind of attention right now.”

Gill's mouth tightens a little and he turns away as I drop the straps on the jumpsuit. Huh. Not the reaction I expected from him. I thought he'd be appreciating the view.

“I would've loved working with you,” he says quietly, his voice like satin over steel. Pretty to listen to, hard to come up against. Almost as hard as the strong, thick muscles in his back when he shrugs off the suit jacket, shoulder holster and button down. “I think you would've been good at it.”

“At …” I almost say
stealing jewelry,
but I'm not that stupid. I might not be a master thief, but I do have a lick of common sense. Guess I'll have to clarify with him later.
You could've asked me to come with you, Gill,
I think, wondering what his day to day life is really like when he's not playing bodyguard to the rest of us. I bet he's seen the world by now. Being a professional thief was never a dream of mine, but being with Gill was. If he had asked, I probably would've gone with him.