Four

Gabriel

“Three suspects were confirmed dead at the scene,” the late-night news anchor says robotically to the camera. Three unflattering mugshots pop up on the television screen.

I recognize every single one of them.

“Martin Jones, Harry Lim, and Laura Ortega are known to police,” the news anchor continues, “and were considered persons of interest to Interpol for several prolific heists spanning the last twenty-five years.”

Poor bastards, I think quietly to myself as I sip red wine. If only they had the good sense to quit while they were ahead like I did, maybe they wouldn’t be six feet under.

Penelope approaches from behind, clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Serves them right, I say. Honestly, what is the world coming to?”

“Is Odette asleep?” I ask her, paying her comments no mind.

“Out like a light, sir.”

The images on the television screen flash, a new picture coming into view. The image is grainy, but it’s very obviously of a young woman. It’s not just any young woman, either. When I squint, I can just barely make out the more prominent features of her face.

Raquel.

“Investigators are on the lookout for another suspect who currently remains at large. If you spot this individual, do not approach and contact the police immediately.”

“Good God,” Penelope mutters. “That’s her! The woman you’re hiding upstairs!”

I hush her calmly. “Quiet. You’ll wake Odette.”

The housekeeper storms around the back of the couch and stops right in front of me, blocking my line of sight. She shakes her head, her hands on her hips. “Monsieur Rochefort, I don’t know what’s going on, but that girl is clearly bad news. I don’t understand—”

“And you don’t need to,” I interrupt, standing up to peer down my nose at her. “I have the situation under control.”

“We need to call the police.”

“No.”

The old woman presses her lips into a thin line. “She is a criminal. A criminal sleeping right down the hall from your daughter. How can you possibly think any of this is okay?”

I don’t blame my housekeeper for being overly cautious. A normal person has every right to be freaked out in this situation. I, however, am not a normal person —though I certainly pretend to be. If Penelope knew the truth about who I was, I doubt she would have worked for me in the first place. She’s a good, honest woman. A civilian. And I’m…

“She isn’t a threat,” I state simply. “I’m asking you to trust me on this.”

Penelope stares me down, but I don’t budge. She’s a wide-eyed old dog trying to intimidate a grizzly bear. It takes a minute or two, but she eventually relents, throwing her hands up while cursing expletives under her breath.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she grumbles.

“I always do.”

* * *

While the rest of the household sleeps, I get to work.

Disposing of Raquel’s stolen vehicle is a huge pain in the ass. I spend the better part of an hour wiping down the inside with bleach to remove any traces of DNA before prying off the license plates and scratching out any identification numbers. By 2:00 a.m., the vehicle is dropped off at the nearest scrapyard, scheduled to be crushed into smithereens first thing in the morning. I should have done this the first day she got here, but I was preoccupied with making sure she didn’t die on me.

When I get home, I double check all the locks. The doors, the windows, everything. It’s not that far off from my usual nightly routine, but today, I’m especially on edge.

Something about Raquel bothers me. Every time I look at her, I get this strange sensation in my chest. She’s only been here for three days —and unconscious for the majority of it— but that’s all it took for her to completely occupy my thoughts. No matter how hard I try to stay objective, to keep a hard line between us, the more I crave.

I want to know about the heist in Paris. I want to learn more about the explosion that left her in such a state. I need to know why Chet would even consider letting his own daughter join his crew. If I were in charge, there’s no way in hell I’d let Odette anywhere near our line of work. Of all people, Chet should know how dangerous it is. Why would he risk putting a loved one in harm’s way?

Maybe that’s why I feel so… protective. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Odette. Perhaps I’m projecting onto Raquel now that she’s in my care.

Only I know that’s not quite right. What I’m feeling is more…

Feral.

I’m not occupied by thoughts of Raquel. I’m consumed by them.

The arch of her cupid’s bow mouth. The long, slender elegance of her fingers. The burn and fire behind her dark chocolate eyes. The way her sultry voice is a violin played on its lowest string, the sound of her words reverberating inside my skull.

Stay away, I remind myself. The last thing I want is to overstep, even though that’s all I want. Giving in to temptation is for weak men, and I’m anything but. Besides, I’m sure that this whole matter will be wrapped up in a matter of days. There’s no sense in getting to know her better when she’ll be out of my life as quickly as she came.

When I arrive home after dumping her car, I hear movement in the kitchen. Quiet shuffling, the clinking of glass, and a little girl’s voice whispering, “Merci.”

Odette?

I rush in to find my daughter standing next to Raquel by the sink, holding on to a glass of water with both of her tiny hands. Raquel’s dressed in a simple white tank top and black shorts that cut off mid-thigh, items likely purchased for her by Penelope earlier in the day.

“What is going on?” I demand.

Odette turns to smile at me after taking a big sip of her drink. She says nothing, however, much to my disappointment.

“She was thirsty,” Raquel explains. “At least, I think that’s what she said. I think your housekeeper lady is fast asleep.”

I frown. “She spoke?”

“Um… Yeah?”

Raquel doesn’t understand the gravity of this moment. I haven’t heard my daughter’s voice in two years. I’ve taken her to see countless speech therapists and psychologists, but ten minutes with Raquel and suddenly she’s talking again?

I crouch down so I’m eye-level with Odette. “What are you doing up so late, chérie?”

She doesn’t answer. I ignore the ache in my chest, trying not to read too hard into the fact that she’s more comfortable speaking to a complete stranger than she is with me. Maybe it’s because Raquel’s a stranger that Odette finds it easier? I honestly can’t say.

“She knocked on my door,” Raquel says softly. “I think she had a bad dream or something.”

“Is that true?” I ask my daughter in French. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Odette nods slowly. I’ve learned by now not to expect any elaboration.

“Take your drink upstairs and go back to sleep. Do you need me to tuck you in?”

She shakes her head, stepping up to kiss me on the cheek. She throws Raquel a cute little wave before heading back upstairs, her eyes glued to the edge of her glass to keep the water from spilling.

“Cute kid,” Raquel comments fondly. “What’s her name?”

I grind my teeth. “Odette.”

“Like Swan Lake? That was my favorite ballet growing up.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“You do not strike me as the type of person who enjoys ballet.”

“That’s a little elitist, don’t you think?” she asks dryly. My grasp on American humor isn’t the best, but I’m fairly certain she’s teasing me.

“You should be resting upstairs.”

“Can’t a girl help herself to an aspirin?”

“I will bring it to you.”

“Thank you, but last I checked, my legs work perfectly fine.”

I cross my arms over my chest. This woman is frustrating as hell. Stubborn and all too sassy for someone who showed up half dead on my doorstep just three days ago. A normal person would be bedridden and barely functioning. She’s bounced back exceptionally fast.

“The aspirin is on the top shelf to your right,” I tell her.

She glances up and turns, determination sparking across her face. She opens the cabinet and stands up on her tiptoes, reaching as high as she can for the pain killers. She’s too short, but she doesn’t stop trying, nudging the small white bottle with the tips of her fingers. She’s got spunk, I’ll give her that much.

“Need help?” I ask, partially amused.

“No,” she grumbles, continuing to strain.

“You are going to hurt your—”

Raquel winces, one hand shooting to her bruised ribs. With a sigh, I step up behind her, reaching past her smaller frame to grab the aspirin. When she takes a step back, her ass backs into my crotch, awakening something in me that I thought was long dormant.

“Oh,” she moans, soft and breathy.

Raquel turns, tilting her chin up to look at me. There’s just enough light in the dark kitchen to see the blush blooming across her cheeks and neck. Her eyes flit down to my lips, her chest rising and falling with heavy, slow breaths.

I know this is dangerous. Getting involved —more than I already am— is not a good idea. And yet.

When did I become a man who doesn’t take exactly what he wants?

I dip down but don’t kiss her. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to claim her on my kitchen floor. I have to remind myself that while she may be up and about, she’s still recovering. No matter how rough I want to be, no matter how badly I need to feel her, grab her, take her in this moment, it cannot be.

My lips hover just over hers, close enough to feel the heat of her skin and the warmth of her breath. Raquel leans her body against mine, her hands gripping the front of my shirt. Her half-hooded eyes peer into mine, a little confused but definitely aroused.

“Gabriel,” she whispers my name, soft and timid and not at all like the stubborn spitfire she was just fifteen seconds ago.

I press my hips forward, trapping her between myself and the kitchen counter. The cute little gasp that escapes her lips almost makes me lose it.

“What do you want from me?” I growl.

“I want…” She swallows hard. “I want…”

“Say it.”

“I want to know who you are. Who you really are.”

I pull away, glaring at this infuriatingly beautiful woman before me. “Never going to happen.”

Just as I’m about to turn away, Raquel grabs me by the upper arm. My shirt’s sleeve rides up an inch, exposing the bottom portion of my old tattoo. She frowns, a flicker of recognition flashing across her eyes. She doesn’t let me escape, moving so swiftly that I have no time to react. She pushes my sleeve up to expose the entire composition: a raven with red feathers and an arrow in its black beak.

Her mouth falls open. “You’re a Red Raven.”

“No,” I stress. “I am an accountant.”

“That’s how Dad knows you,” she rambles on.

“Drop it.”

“You were a part of his crew!”

I shake my head, something inside me fracturing. “No. You have it all wrong.”

“What?”

“I wasn’t a part of his crew.”

“I don’t understand. You’re tattoo means—”

“Chet used to be a part of my crew,” I snap. “The Red Ravens were mine until I let him take over.”