The Perfect Con (A Bad Boy Romance Novel) (Bad Boy Confessions Book 1) (6 page)

“Good—”

“Night, Leo,” I answered, swinging my legs over the side of the passenger seat and standing. I didn’t follow his tactic of obliviousness. Instead, I stared at him with an undeniable plainness, a hardness. “Sweet dreams.” But I said it like I was telling him to go to hell.

G
reat
. Now I couldn’t drive the damn Porsche without thinking of Sofi’s hand in my pants, her breath on my ear, hair swirling all around us…the smell of saltwater and the rushing of the waves beyond the coast…the road dissolving beneath us for just a handful of seconds…

A horn blared behind me, shaking me from the reverie, and I tapped the gas, moving onward through the sluggish Monday traffic. I was in the center of Aurora Beach, en route to the museum. I was meeting Sofi there to familiarize her with the lay of the floor. It was only after she’d traipsed up the stairs of Castillo estate and disappeared within—myself staring after her in a way that would seem unwavering with responsibility and maturity to an outsider, but felt like a restrained toddler throwing a tantrum on the inside, wishing I could follow her up those steps, knowing that Ronaldo would have me murdered if he saw my car in his driveway the next morning—that I realized I’d been too distracted by everything else to get her number and set up a date for this week.

I was in the full throes of self-loathing when I returned to the house and found Gabe in the kitchen, eating half of a fresh pizza. I didn’t tell him about Sofi in the passenger seat (and then in the driver’s seat, on my lap)—but I did tell him that I’d been too distracted to remember to get her number.

“You?” Gabe scoffed. “Mr. Checklist? What could possibly have been that distracting?”

“I had to teach a lesson to some prick at the club. This is why I stay away from fucking millennials, Gabe.”

Gabe grinned. “I just can’t take you anywhere, can I? Well, big brother, you’re in luck.”

“How am I in luck?”

“I don’t have Sofi’s number—but I did get Madeline’s, and she’s living with Sofi for the summer.”

“Madeline? That—ice sculpture? You got her number?” Gabe tilted his head to the side and allowed a small, impish grin to sneak across his lips. “Argh, did you sleep with her?”

“’Sleep with her’? What are you, Mom?” he said. “No, I did not ‘sleep with’ her.”

I rolled my eyes, and my shoulders went limp with disappointment. I’d been so busy trying not to jeopardize this faux campaign myself, I’d completely forgotten to secure more obvious sources of screwing up. “Did you fuck her?” I asked.

“Little bit.”

He didn’t ask me the same about Sofi, thank God. Probably wasn’t expecting it of me.

My eyes flicked to the Porsche’s rearview. I’d be arriving at the museum in just a few minutes, and the nondescript Sedan was still tailing me far too closely, making obvious lane changes. Oh, Cyrus. At least he would finally have something tangible to bring his department, even if it wasn’t me.

An unwelcome fantasy of handcuffs being secured too tightly around Sofi’s wrists caused me to cringe and blink away from the image. Not my problem. Bad things happened to stupid people all the time. Just look at Gertrude van Buiten. She trusted Gabe as her interior designer. Now she was missing two million dollars in rare jewelry. That was her own fault. And this was Sofi’s fault. Not mine. It was Uncle Ronaldo’s fault.

Aurora Beach Museum of Art and History loomed on my left, a structure of columns and spires, long windows catching the Floridian sun, throwing it across that third floor. I turned into the parking lot, the sedan turning with me. Oh, Cyrus. Climbing out of my car with a blue suit coat over my shoulder, I inspected my appearance in the reflection on the car window, straightening my black tie and smoothing down an errant hair. Then I glared at myself. I was straightening up the details because a real man cares about the image that he projects: steadiness, firmness, respect.

Not for Sofi. Ahem.

I shrugged on the suit coat, knowing it would be chilly inside, and strode across the sidewalk and through the vast foyer. I paid the attendant at the front of the building and entered the first floor, where paintings and tapestries were admired. I was as familiar with this floor as I was with the third, if truth be told.

Sofi stood in front of one of my favorite paintings, examining it.

I grimaced. Of course Miss Perfect was admiring my favorite painting. Of course she was.

Her hair was gathered into a sloppy bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore a slim black pencil skirt. And classic black-and-white Converse sneakers. And a faded blue t-shirt. Something in me stirred at the mixture of styles, at the flippant combination of high and low. Something unwanted—and strong. She was kind of awesome.

I approached her, forcing myself to focus on the painting over her shoulder, and not on her.

It was called “Torn,” and had been painted during the Renaissance. Its stark, monochromatic landscape filled the canvas, and was crumbling. Two shadows—lovers, I’ve always assumed, though I’m not sure why—struggled toward each other across the doomed wasteland. I had always thought it was a comment on the destructive nature of grudges and arguments to a relationship, but, considering the era, it probably had more to do with God than anything else.

Sofi glanced over her shoulder and saw me before I announced myself. She smiled softly and turned back to the painting.

“Is it romantic or depressing?” she asked.

“Depressing,” I answered without hesitation. “Definitely depressing.”

“Because they’re never going to make it?”

“Because this painting depicts a circle of hell,” I answered simply. “It doesn’t matter if they make it or not. They’re still in hell.”

“Oh.” Sofi cast her eyes downward. “I guess I can relate.” She pursed her lips and glanced toward me with uncertainty. She cleared her throat and my own clutched as I realized, one second too late to stop her, what was about to happen: the inevitable awkward apology. She launched right into it. “Hey, look, Leo, I’m sorry about last night. I know that kind of behavior is inappropriate between associates. I was just trying to have some fun, and you seem—different.” Her smile was shy, and she struggled to make eye contact. She crossed her arms over her breasts and tucked them at her sides. “Whatever is going on in your personal life is your own business. I…it was my fault.”

Feeling a twinge of guilt, I raised my hand to touch her shoulder, then thought better of it and dropped the thing back to my side. She was totally overreacting, but, at the same time, it was all for the best. It was better to not get the objective confused. I was glad—yeah, glad. “Hey, I was there, too,” I reminded her. “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes I go overboard. Just ask that dumpster behind the girl’s dorm at San Maria’s Catholic School.”

I cocked my head to the side. “I’m afraid I don’t catch the reference.”

An awkward grin broke across her face. “I set it on fire,” she explained proudly. “I watched it burn—and then, it watched me get expelled.”

“Of course.” I smiled back at her, and then smothered the gesture. Gabe had a point; whatever I thought was happening here, a set-up, revenge, it wasn’t really happening. What was really happening was a repartee being struck with a beautiful young woman who was able to coax a response from me—but I couldn’t let that carry on. I had to stifle it now.

My gaze panned instead toward the stairs which would lead us to the floor of jewels. A cold guilt settled into my stomach. She blamed herself for being jerked into my lap on the ride home last night. She blamed herself and apologized, while I was plotting to have her incarcerated. While I had been the one who couldn’t control myself; I’d practically tackled her on that beach. I snapped. It was my fault, and I knew it.

“Anyway, Sofi, don’t worry about it,” I said, like she was a waitress, like we were discussing a cold cup of coffee. “You are right. Naturally, it is best to keep business and pleasure separate, I agree. You’re a beautiful girl, but.” I swallowed and forced the words out of my mouth. Forced it to be true—even if I hadn’t felt this way about a woman in…ever. It didn’t really matter. I was rusty for a reason; I was a married man. I was wed to my business. No matter how electrical my hands felt when they gripped her hips, no matter how complete I’d been for that ten seconds of orgasmic ecstasy. “It doesn’t really matter, for all intents and purposes.” I dared to look at her and saw that she was still wearing that smile. It was too pleasant, broaching on defensive. Another pang sang through me. This was why we were supposed to stay focused on the task at hand; now I felt shaky. “Shall we advance to the third floor?”

“Please,” she said, and we went up the first set of stairs without speaking. I cursed myself as my eyes gravitated helplessly toward her perfect, heart-shaped, gently swaying rear end. And right after that inevitable awkward apology.

On the second set of stairs, I offered up a topic of conversation like it was some kind of olive branch, though my mind just kept repeating, annoying me: it really wasn’t her fault—I had been having a really, really, really good time. She just had no idea what she was dealing with. She thought that this was going to be fun. And she was wrong. This was going to be the worst thing I’d ever done.

Though I supposed now was not the time for second thoughts and guilty reactions.

“Why do you suppose they call it the Heart of Icarus?” I asked. “Is it because it’s gold, like the sun…or because it’s dark, as if with failure?”

She looked at me, and an unwelcome thrum passed through my sternum—but not guilt this time. Desire. One perfect curl had escaped her bun, but I would not let myself have the satisfaction of whisking it back behind her ear. We could not go down that road. It would ruin everything.

“Haven’t you ever seen the Heart when the sun hits it directly?” she asked.

I thought about it. “Maybe I haven’t,” I allowed.

She grinned. “Maybe you didn’t spend as much time up here as I did.” We reached the threshold of the third floor and crossed to the case which held the rough chunk of topaz, yellow on the outside, nearly black at its core. I had always associated that darkness with failure, depression, loss, and self-loathing.

“Icarus was the inventor whose wings—wax wings—melted when he approached the sun,” I told Sofi. “I think that blackness reflects how we feel when we lose. Hence the name, the Heart of Icarus.”

Sofi grinned. “Icarus wasn’t the inventor,” she said. “Daedalus was the inventor. Icarus was his son—the one who wanted to fly.” She sighed and placed her hand, fingers splayed, on the case. An irrelevant memory of the softness of her touch skated across my mind. “When you’re here at sunset—the sunlight falls at just the right angle, only for a few minutes, you know, and the whole jewel lights up. Its dark center fills, and it shines, like—like Icarus felt when he was close to the sun.” She smiled broadly and gazed over her shoulder at me. “It’s not about the failure. It’s not about the darkness. It’s about…the effort. It’s about happiness.” She looked away, back into the case. “Risk,” she went on. “Sacrifice.”

My eyes trailed over the line of her cheek, and my eyelids lowered slightly, lost in a dream.

She sighed heavily and turned away. “Too bad it’s still a few hours until sunset.” She pursed her lips and didn’t seem to notice my mildly drugged expression, thank God. I shook it off and directed my gaze from her face, eyes falling incidentally onto the hardening pebbles of her nipples, pressed against the thin cotton of her t-shirt. Damn it! I couldn’t get away from it. My dick twitched like a wolf catching a scent, and I very consciously beat it down—not in the fun way. “Do you want to get out of here? I forgot how low they keep the thermostat.”

“Forgive me.” Without even thinking twice about the gesture, I shrugged off the coat of my suit and draped it over her shoulders. “I wasn’t thinking. I apologize.”

“Oh…” She lifted her large bun out of the suit and let it drape over the lapel, then looked up at me with an enamored gaze. “Thank you.”

I broke eye contact immediately. No, no, no. Not happening. Forget it. Whatever keeps stirring in the pit of your stomach—beat the shit out of it and buy a padlock.

“Do you want to go with me for some lunch?” she invited sweetly. “My uncle has a chef on the house staff. She can make anything you desire.”

Somehow, I doubted it, unless she was going to just lay Sofi on a piece of bread and spread her.

My mouth filled with saliva and I swallowed, cursing silently.

“Um,” I answered. “Hm. That’s an interesting idea. But—I don’t think so.”

“Why, you afraid of eating? You Madeline now?”

“No, of course not,” I scoffed. We went back down the steps of the museum, passing Cyrus on the way. I winked at him and slung an arm around Sofi’s waist as we passed. It was immature and cavalier, like something Gabe would do, and I was no Gabe, but I felt strangely high. A little loose around the edges. Different. Good. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I chastised her.

“Then come have lunch with me. Besides—we’ve seen the room. We’ve seen the case. But we haven’t talked about the plan.”

I exhaled. She had a point there. For some reason, I just didn’t want to be alone with her. It was riskier than the campaign itself. If we stuck to the mission, she would end up in jail, and I would feel avenged. Perfect. If we spent too much time alone together, I would forget the mission, she would end up having my baby, and then Gabe would never let me hear the end of it. I had always promised him that it was his dick that would ruin his career—when mine suddenly needed the leash and muzzle, howling after Sofi like this. It was stupid! The smell of coconuts and vanilla was just body wash! The laughter in her eyes was just…well, magical, but also—also stupid. Crazy. Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan.

As I had told Gabe, this wasn’t high school. I wasn’t trying to just date the girl, break her heart, and be done with it. I was going to set her up for grand larceny. I was going to see her sent off to jail, all in the name of revenge on her doting uncle. Just to quell my wrath. It was the perfect con. We could not talk like this. We could fuck, but we couldn’t have breakfast, and share secrets, and—and punch guys for implying that they would use her communally. It would only confuse the objective, muddy the plan, and I’d end up some idiot with kids, latching on to anyone who would listen so I could tell them the story of how I’d met Sofi. God, we’d take out a mortgage and set up college funds. We’d become one of them. Regular people.