Page 2 of Point Blank

Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a library, a bonus room, and Alban’s suite. She closed her eyes, suppressed the rush of blood drumming through her ears, and concentrated on the silence of the second level.

Tick, tick, tick

The loud hands of a clock—somewhere—echoed down the hall. Her heart rapped against her breastbone to a racing beat. Chill. You can do this. Alban would slaughter her if he caught her, but there was no other choice. She tucked the earbud back in and spoke over Dani into her bracelet. “I’m going in.”

“Be careful,” Dani breathed. From here on out, Dani and Peyton wouldn’t speak unless Serena asked for something, or they needed to alert her. She’d notify them of her location in case things went down hill, but for now, focus was of the essence. She couldn’t get caught.

She eased around the corner and down the hall. Small lights along the baseboards lit her path. She passed the guest rooms. The library would be farther ahead, beyond the wide-open bonus room, and then Alban’s suite. She looked over her shoulder. Light shone from the foyer and staircase on which she’d entered, but there were no sounds of anyone approaching. She was almost there. She moved a little faster. If someone spotted her, she sure as hell didn’t want to look as if she was running. She crossed the bonus room’s threshold, leaving the hallway’s confinement behind her. To her left, a wrought iron railing—and a twelve-foot drop—was the only thing separating her from the main living area on the lower level. Which meant she was directly above the bald guard. She’d officially crossed into the most private quarters of Alban’s house.

She glided down the last twenty feet of the hallway and stopped at the closed doors at the end. She rested her hand on the winged handle and pressed. It didn’t budge.

“I’m at his door, but it’s locked.” Her voice came out on a growl. She lifted her clutch and pulled out the lock-pick tools. Then she dropped to her knee and inserted the two utensils into the slot.

“Paranoid bastard,” Dani said.

“Alban just finished his speech and the band started again. I’d say you have fifteen minutes—tops—before he retires for the night.” Peyton’s words were rushed.

Serena’s stomach tightened. Shit, shit, shit. Alban always left his parties fashionably early. The tendons in her fingers clenched. In fifteen minutes, they’d better be on the other side of town. She needed to hurry. She grunted her acknowledgment. The lock clicked open. Her fingers relaxed and she pulled out the tools and dropped them into her bag. She rested her palm against the solid mahogany wood and the door coasted open with a loud creak.

She sucked in her breath and winced. Jeez! Next time she’d be sure to pack some oil. No, there wouldn’t be a next time. This heist was her last. She slipped into the bedroom. Lights from the tray ceiling above the bed lit the room in a soft glow. She scurried across the oriental carpet to the adjoining door that led to his office.

Peyton had scored a job as Alban’s assistant, and Alban always invited his staff members to his parties. Tonight, Serena had come as Peyton’s plus-one. One day, after working for him for several months, Peyton spotted the safe while snooping, under the guise of cleaning, in a cupboard on the wall of shelves and cabinets behind his desk. Knowing where the safe lay made the job that much easier.

She stopped at the doorway and scanned the room.

Empty.

Time to get the rocks. She crossed the room, pulled out her tools, and laid them on the shelf next to the cupboard. “I’m at the safe.”

“He’s talking to the prince of Dubai, and I did a head count of the guards,” Dani said. “Still can’t find the fourteenth, but maybe he called in sick or had to leave early.”

“Thanks. Get ready to write down the combs.” Serena yanked the cupboard door open. The safe’s gunmetal steel stared back at her. Her nerve endings tingled. She pressed one of the stethoscope’s plastic-covered tips into her ear and laid the diaphragm of it against the metal, near the handle. She closed her eyes and turned the dial one miniscule increment at a time.

Click

“Ninety-seven,” she said into the mic. She turned the dial again.

Click

“Fourteen.” Her pulse kicked up a notch. Almost there. She turned it again.

Click

“Twenty—”

A hand crushed over her mouth, jerking her head back. She shrieked but the sound remained lodged behind thick fingers. Panic shot through her veins, and she froze. The stethoscope fell from her fingers and bounced on the floor at her feet. The hot, hard wall of a chest pressed against her back, and a steady huff of breath danced over her ear. Cold metal ground into her temple.

A gun.

Milo’s fingers twitched over Serena’s mouth. Her chest rose and fell against his forearm, making goosebumps stand up on his skin beneath the stupid tuxedo Alban’s bodyguards had to wear. He caught the scent of . . . what was that? Lilies? Hydrangeas? Some kind of flower that never would have attracted him before but now it did, because it was on her. Her hair was the same natural blonde shade, and the heels she wore added a good four inches to her five-foot-two frame. A tattoo, script he couldn’t read from this angle, peeked out from underneath her hair, right between her shoulder blades.

Serena with a tattoo? Damn. That was so far from her character, so far from the woman he remembered, that he almost questioned if she was who he thought. But there was no doubt. He’d watched her weasel her perfectly shaped ass and bare back right into Alban’s suite, and that brief flicker of her body had sent flashes of memories through his brain—memories that had been buried deep. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been seventeen. Nine fucking years ago. He’d thought of her hundreds, no, thousands of times over the years. He hadn’t allowed himself to get in touch with her, hadn’t wanted to taint her with their past, just in case she’d gotten out.

He lowered the gun and spun her around. Nope. She wasn’t out. She was here, still pretty as ever and in the thick of thieving. Her eyes, big blue plates the color of his favorite pair of jeans, widened. She inhaled sharply, and her back pressed against the safe she’d been trying to break into.

Alban Moussa’s. Of all fucking people.

It shouldn’t have turned him on. And in truth, part of him wanted to throttle her for being so brazen and stupid. But her live-on-the-edge streak was what had always driven him so crazy.