Page 2 of Stealing Blinds

“Something more enticing,” is all I offer, but since the night is still young, I tack on, “For now.”

“Check in.” He sets his cup aside and slips his hand into his pocket in search of a wad of bills.

Street vendors only take cash, so like the good brother he is, he’s planning to give it to me.

I fish the roll out of my own front pocket, producing it between my index and middle finger with a caustic grin on my face. “This what you’re looking for?”

“Always a jackass.” He huffs, but it’s in jest because this comes as no surprise.

We all have our talents. Sleight of hand is mine.

“Give him a break.” Tessa rises to my defense with her on-brand sarcasm. “If he’s not going to take the party girls, you can’t expect him to leave empty-handed.”

“Right.” I arch a brow for one last brotherly jab before I’m on my way. “Count your wins. I took your money but left you your wife.”

He squints in warning with a menacing smirk that only amplifies my amusement, but time is of the essence.

“Tab is on my card, so we’ll call it even. I’ll text you later if I don’t come back to steal the groupies.” I plant a kiss on Tessa’s temple and hustle down the spiral staircase, weaving through the throng of people and passing at least fifty policemen on foot and horseback. I finally make my way to a back alley behind the museum, just as the silhouette I was watching jumps off a fire-escape ladder and nonchalantly breezes back to the packed street.

Based on the petite height and build, I’m guessing the con man in question is a woman. She vanishes among taller people and elaborate decor, but I manage to catch up to her. She’s dressed in all black with a pretty mask on her face. As she leisurely strolls, she lets her thick, dark brown hair down, then unbuttons and ties her black shirt in a knot below her ribs to expose a purple tank top and a sliver of tan skin above her sleek black jeans.

But as riveting as she is, I’m equally captivated by her backpack, which I swiftly peruse.

Enlightening.

“You look like you need to get off your feet, beautiful.” I run my fingers through my hair to restore its intentionally mussed style after adjusting the prize I lifted from her backpack. “There’s a little place up here where we can grab a cocktail.”

She laughs—it’s raspy and dismissive in the sexiest way—but she doesn’t spare me a glance. “Smooth, bud. Don’t waste your time on me when there are countless women who are halfway to falling at your feet.” Her gaze flies to a man in his sixties, surrounded by three topless girls who are less than half that and barely standing. “No matter who you are.”

I keep pace a half step behind her. “I prefer to devote my time to someone who can start the night upright.”

“By taking them for a cocktail so their upright minutes are numbered,” she counters, following that with a deadpanned, “Swoon.”

A chuckle bubbles in my throat. “Sounds like you have a drinking problem. That’s not on me.”

A laugh that lands more like a scoff accompanies her faster stride, and she still refuses to look at me. “I’m sure nothing ever is.”

Icy. I’m guessing she has more baggage than her pillaging backpack.

“We must be getting off on the wrong foot, but I can see you’re a woman who takes what she wants, and I tend to do the same, so let’s start over.”

She doesn’t miss the stress I put on the word take, so she finally snaps her focus to me. And we both halt.

She stops because she stole a vintage, gold-plated Mardi Gras mask, designed by a Venetian artist and gifted to New Orleans a hundred fifty years ago to be kept on display in our heritage museum. And now I’m wearing it beneath the mask I had on at the bar.

But me? I freeze because she’s fucking stunning. Smooth, golden-tan complexion. High cheekbones and soft features. Plump, rosy lips. And beneath her ornate, winged mask, thick lashes frame the most mesmerizing amber eyes, which are glaring at me.

She crosses her arms, enhancing the swell of her cleavage and her brimming ire. “You’ve got nothing better to do tonight?”

Smart. She’s calling me out without saying anything self-incriminating or obvious to any passersby. And she’s not panicking; she’s coolly assessing.

“I could ask you the same. Seems a bit risky to be wandering these streets for a payoff that couldn’t be more than a hundred. Reckless.”

A hundred thousand is what I’d guess this mask is worth, but there’s no sense in shouting that. The furious set of her jaw confirms it anyway.

She rakes her gaze over my gray sports coat, black T-shirt, and jeans and back to my face. “Says the man who has moral compass: failure to load inscribed on his forehead.”

Fuck, she’s a spitfire.