His Obsession

Raquel

BOOM!

The ceiling shatters and the walls crumble, burying me beneath thick dust, chunks of concrete, and splinters of glass. I hit my head hard against the cracked tile floor, unable to tell if the ringing in my ears is the building's alarm system going off or if I've blown an eardrum.

Knowing my luck, probably both.

I suppose it serves me right for getting my hopes up. The gods of thievery are fickle bitches, and I've apparently done something to piss them off today. Months of planning -literally- up in smoke, and in under five seconds. I've probably just made the world record for fastest time for a heist to go tits up.

Somebody better call Guinness.

"Rocky!"

Dad's voice reaches me, a muffle against the foggy haze clouding my mind. It's too hard to concentrate, black encroaching on the edges of my vision. Which way is up, and which way is down? It's anybody's guess. I'm tempted to close my eyes and go to sleep, the crushing weight on my chest easy to succumb to, but a pair of strong hands pulls me out from beneath the rubble.

"Rocky? Talk to me."

"What happened?" I croak. My throat is painfully dry and scratchy. I wonder if I accidentally breathed in some of the glass.

Dad helps me to my feet in a hurry, slinging my arm over his shoulder for support. Everything hurts. If I manage to walk away today with a couple of fractured ribs, I'll count myself lucky. I ignore the salty tang of blood on my tongue and force my feet forward.

"We have to get out of here," he says, leading me away.

In the distance, police sirens wail. Even in my concussed state, I know we have to get the hell out of dodge. Thieves and cops mix like oil and water. It's best to avoid them at all costs.

As Dad drags me over to the window, I blink away my confusion to take in the mess. The rest of our crew is buried underneath the destruction. I can see Martin's foot sticking out from under a fallen support beam. Harry's unconscious on his side, his face painted white from disintegrated drywall. I can't see Laura, and I worry she's caught under the heaviest of the debris.

"We can't leave them here!" I rasp. "We have to go back!"

"There's nothing we can do," he snaps, kicking open the window to stick his head out.

The thick Parisian air wafts into my nose, bringing along with it the smell of cigarette smoke, car exhaust, and the faintest hint of pastries from the bakery about a block away. It's nighttime, but a crowd of curious and startled pedestrians is forming. I know as well as anyone that we need to get away without any witnesses; otherwise, it's game over.

"Where the hell is Lucius?" Dad hisses under his breath.

Lucius, our getaway driver, had very specific instructions to block off the main road with a boosted box truck to give us extra time for a hasty exit. Now that I can see the blue flash of police vehicles, something tells me he didn't hit his mark on time.

I've only been a part of the Red Raven crew for a little over three years -Dad wouldn't let me join until I turned eighteen- but I know enough about the business to tell when we're royally fucked. We couldn't steal the painting -which was our whole reason for being here in the first place- more than half the crew is out for the count, I'm pretty sure I bruised my ribs in the explosion, and we have no escape route. Everything that can go wrong has, so I don't think anyone can really blame me when I start to panic.

Like I said, royally fucked.

"What do we do?" I ask Dad, frantic.

In the blink of the eye, he pulls something out of his jacket pocket. He hastily places a black flip phone in the palm of my hand and closes my fingers around it tight.

"Listen to me very carefully, Raquel," he says.

My body tenses. He never uses my full name unless he means business. We always use code names while on a heist to protect our identities. He quickly spouts an address which I commit to memory with ease. Even in my shell-shocked state, my photographic memory will never fail me.

Dad taps the phone in my palm. "Go to the location I gave you and find Gabriel Lacroix. Tell him this exact phrase: it's raining in the Sahara. He'll know what it means."

I frown, my brows knitting together. "I don't understand."

"He'll keep you safe," Dad continues. "Lay low and wait for my call."

"Lay low... You're not coming with me?"

"We need to split up. Something's not right. I need to get to the bottom of it."

"Do you think someone set us up?"

"No more questions. Get a move on. Don't stop until you get there."

"But how am I supposed to get down-"

It's in this exact moment that Dad pushes me out the window. I yelp, plummeting three stories... Right into a truck full of mattresses marked for disposal. Dad must have seen the vehicle approaching and calculated the rewards over the risks.

Talk about impeccable timing.

The vehicle speeds away before I can call out for Dad to follow. My heart twists when I see him head back inside the building. The violent sound of sirens wail, police cars racing past my last-minute getaway car as we navigate the narrow Parisian streets. There's nothing I can do for him now.

My only option is to run.

I hang on as tight as I'm able despite my bruised and swollen knuckles. I was in the middle of cracking the safe when the bomb went off. It's a miracle I didn't lose any of my fingers; that would have meant the end of my career.

My joints ache and my muscles burn, but I refuse to let go until we're on the other side of the city. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the tip of the Eiffel Tower due north-west, which means I'm in the south of Paris's 13th Arrondissement. I still have a ways to go before I reach the address Dad gave me, so at the first opportunity, I slip off the mountain of mattresses and briskly duck down a narrow alleyway, wincing with every step.

I keep my gaze cast down and my hoodie up over my head to obscure my hair and face. I may be an expert at hiding amidst the crowd, but that doesn't stop the paranoia from creeping in. What if someone spots me? What if someone is tailing me? I've never served hard time, but I'm not exactly eager to find out what it's like behind bars.

"Excusez - moi," comes a weak, fragile voice.

I stop mid-stride and look at a woman huddled beneath the stoop of a building with a child wrapped in her arms, fast asleep. I can tell just by looking at them and their tattered clothes that they're homeless. I know the world sees Paris as the City of Love, as some fantastical metropolis where fashion and food and fragrance reign supreme, but they neglect to realize that there's a sadder, uglier, crueler underbelly that leaves the most vulnerable out in the cold. The same can be said of all major cities around the world. There's the side that's featured on postcards to send home, and the other half that's tucked away and ignored, like all large cities.

The woman looks up at me with hope in her eyes. My French is basically non-existent, but I can tell she's asking me for some spare change.

I know I'm in a hurry, but I stop and reach into my pockets regardless. I've got a handful of Euros that I place in her palm. It's not a lot, but it should buy her and her little one something warm to eat. In all likelihood, I'm the first person today who's bothered to show her even a sliver of kindness.

Thisis why the Red Ravens do what we do. Yes, we're criminals, but we're criminals with heart. It's our mission in life to take from the corrupt and greedy and give to those who truly need it. The money we would have earned by selling the Picasso painting would have been split between the local food banks, underfunded hospitals, and homeless shelters -save for the small sum we pocket for ourselves to keep our operation running.

"Merci," she says with a grateful smile.

"You're welcome," I reply.

Her expression quickly shifts when she notices something. She taps her forehead. "You're bleeding!"

I reach up quickly, my fingers brushing against my temple. They come away sticky with blood and dust. "Ah, shit. Um, don't worry about it."

"Do you need hospital?" she asks in broken English.

"No, no. I'm okay. I'm-"

I cut myself off at the sound approaching footsteps. When I look up, I see two patrol officers stopping pedestrians to show them a picture. The sight of their uniforms makes my heart leap into my throat. I hastily round the corner and press my back against the wall. They approach the homeless woman and show her the picture next. It's blurry, taken from a traffic cam, but it's very obviously me.

Well shit.

They speak too quickly for me to understand anything, but you'd be surprised how much you can interpret through tone alone. They're looking for me, interrogating the homeless woman to see if she knows anything.

"Non," she says over and over again. "Non, I see no one like this."

With a frustrated grumble, the patrol officers continue down the street. Only when they disappear around the corner do I let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"Thank you," I whisper to her.

She nods knowingly. "Run, girl. They will be back."

She doesn't have to tell me twice. With one final nod, I'm off like the wind, racing down the street in the opposite direction of the officers.

When I come across a line of older model cars, I throw a cautionary glance over my shoulder. The coast is clear. The address Dad gave me, and this Gabriel Lacroix guy, apparently resides in the south of France near Montpellier. While it's a hard rule amongst the members of the Red Ravens to only steal from other criminals, I can't very well walk to the hideout location in my banged-up state. I don't want to have to boost some hard-working blue-collar worker's ride, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I walk up to the driver's side of a light grey 2007 Peugeot 208. Its front and back bumpers are dented to hell, but she looks like she'll handle just fine.

Reaching into the inside pocket of my jacket, I pull out my lock picking kit. Everything fits in a discreet black leather case no bigger than most large wallets. I've got a handful of differently shaped picks and tension bars of various thicknesses to choose from. I'm quick to select one of each, working on the door as nimbly as I can. It's hard getting it on the first try because my hands are still shaking with adrenaline, but my second attempt pops the lock free.

I hastily slip into the front seat and get to work on the ignition. It's far less eloquent than the door, a matter of jamming my longest pick in at the right angle and wriggling it around until the engine rumbles to life.

The gas tank is three-quarters full. If the traffic's good, I'll be able to reach Montpellier within eight or so hours. I hit the pedal and pull away from the curb. The more distance I put between myself and the scene of the crime, the better. If I don't make any stops and drive through the night, I may get there by morning.

Even when I get out onto the highway, I refuse to let myself relax. I keep my eyes on the road and anxiously fiddle with my silver necklace, turning the drop-shaped pendant over and over again between my fingers. I concentrate on my end goal and the man I need to find. I don't know who he is or how Dad knows him, but his name echoes inside my skull.

Find Gabriel Lacroix.

He'll keep you safe.

Gabriel

Odette crosses her arms and pouts, refusing to eat her food.

"Ma chérie, Penelope worked hard to make breakfast for you," I tell my daughter patiently. "She even made your favorite: oatmeal with cinnamon sugar."

My little girl shifts in her seat, working her jaw. Her eyes flit between Penelope, our housekeeper, and me, but she doesn't say anything. In fact, she hasn't said anything in almost two years.

Not since the accident.

We're gathered around the kitchen table. All in all, it's shaping up to be a lovely Friday morning. It's peaceful out here, exactly the way I designed it. Odette turned five shortly before September, but given her condition, I didn't feel comfortable enrolling her in maternelle - the French version of kindergarten. The specialists I've been speaking to assure me that exposure to other children her age might help her affliction, but I've been exceedingly cautious since Marianne's death.

What if Odette needs to ask a teacher for help? Her inability to properly communicate will only stress her out further. Hell, it'll stress me out further. As her father, I have a duty to protect her. Keep her safe. And if that means keeping her home with me and teaching her personally, so be it.

"Would you like something else, my dear?" Penelope asks sweetly. She's a tiny woman pushing seventy years old. Her thinning silver hair is pulled back into a tight, severe bun atop her head. Despite her otherwise snooty appearance, Penelope is nothing but warm and kind. She's been in my employment for a little over five years now, helping me keep an eye on Odette while staying on top of the household chores.

Odette eyes the gingerbread house kits that sit on the kitchen counter, waiting to be opened. There's a mischievous glint in her eyes that tells me everything I need to know.

"It's only the first of November," the housekeeper teases. "If we eat them too early, the gingerbread men won't have a place to call home."

My daughter gives me an expectant look. She's cute as a button, but I don't budge. I may love her to the moon and back, but I draw the line at poor nutrition.

"Eat your oatmeal, chérie, and then I'll think about it."

Her mouth opens slightly. I hold my breath, hoping this is the moment she finally chooses to speak. Instead, Odette snaps her mouth shut and moves to grab her spoon.

So close.

"Perhaps after breakfast we can decorate the living room?" Penelope suggests. "I know we don't have a tree picked out, but we can still decorate the mantle with ornaments. What do you say, my dear?"

Odette nods, happily kicking her feet back and forth beneath the table. She doesn't even reach the floor.

Penelope looks to me next. "Care to join us, Monsieur Rochefort?"

"I have some work to do in the office, but I'll be free in an hour."

"Oh, wonderful. I assume your clients are keeping you busy?"

I nod. "Everyone's trying to get their documents in order ahead of tax season. Boring stuff. I should be able to crunch the numbers and-"

The thunderous sound of something crashing through our front gate cuts me off. While Odette and Penelope jolt in their seats, I'm already springing into action. My new life is one of quiet domesticity, but there's always a small part of me that hasn't been able to let go of what I used to be. The need to be prepared is ingrained into me, much like breathing or blinking -automatic.

"Stay," I command, quickly making my way to the front door of the house to peer outside. I peek out the window, but I don't see anyone. I don't lower my guard.

Could it be Favreaux?

Even after twenty years, that man still haunts me. He's my own personal specter. I gave up everything I had to ensure he'd spend the rest of his days behind bars, but I know as well as anyone that nothing can keep that beast locked up. Not forever, anyways. Is today the day my past finally catches up with me?

"What is it?" Penelope asks, her voice shaking. "It felt like an earthquake."

Three sharp knocks sound at the front door, the ghostly silhouette of a person lingering on the other side of the thick frosted glass. I hesitate to reach for the shotgun stored on the top shelf of the entryway closet. If it really is Favreaux, surely, he'd be smarter than to show up at my front doorstep.

"H-hello?" The voice belongs to a woman.

Curious, and against my better judgment, I open the door. I'm speechless. Standing on the other side is a young woman in her early twenties. She has long black hair and deep brown eyes. She's about a foot shorter than myself, her slender legs and long arms giving her an indescribable grace. She's strikingly beautiful, but I'm too preoccupied with the brownish-red staining her clothes to admire her.

"Gabriel Lacroix?" she croaks.

My heart seizes. I haven't used my real name in over twenty years. Concern lances through me. Who the hell is this woman and why is she bleeding all over my welcome mat?

"My God!" Penelope gasps behind me. She's holding Odette's hand, her other hand over her mouth in shock. "Does she need help? Pierre, we must get her to a hospital!"

"No hospital!" the woman snaps in English. Some words don't require translation.

I frown. "An American?"

Before she can answer, her eyes roll back. Her whole body cants toward me, her legs giving out like wet matchsticks. I catch her, cradling her soft body in my arms as I carefully lower her to the floor. Her eyes flutter as she struggles to stay conscious.

"What is your name?" I ask her in her language. English feels weird on my tongue after going so long without using it, but I'm sure I'm clear enough to understand.

She winces, clutching the front of my shirt in her fingers. "Chester McHale... He told me to come find you. He said you'd keep me safe."

My head spins. Now that's a name I never thought I'd hear again.

"Chet?" I mumble in disbelief. "Who the hell are you?"

"It's raining in the Sahara," she rasps before she goes limp, unconscious.

The air whooshes out of my lungs. It's a code. I owe Chet McHale my life, and it seems he's finally calling in that favor. It looks like my past really has caught up to me, just not in the way I expected.

A sane man would turn this woman away. Call the police, get her to a hospital -anything other than carry her upstairs to my room.

That's exactly what I do, though, because I'm not a sane man. I gave Chet my word all those years ago, and I'm nothing if not a man of my word. I may not know who this woman is or what trouble she's in, but the fact that she knows my former best friend's emergency phrase has to mean something.

"Penelope," I say hastily as I bound up the steps. "I need the first aid kit."

"R-right," the housekeeper stammers.

"Bring it immediately. And keep Odette downstairs."

"Yes, of course."

I carry the woman down the hall and practically kick my bedroom door off its hinges. She weighs nothing at all. I waste no time setting her down on my bed, working quickly to inspect her injuries.

She groans softly as I help her out of her jacket and shirt. The skin over her left-side ribs is purple and red. There are several cuts on her hands and face, a deep gash just over her temple. The poor woman has dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks hollow and her overall complexion is alarmingly pale.

Most noticeable is the intricate floral tattoo that snaked down her right arm to the wrist and the one inked onto her shoulder blade: a raven with red feathers and an arrow in its beak. It feels strange seeing the design on someone else. It's cleaner, the linework neater than it used to be, but its purpose is still the same.

She's a part of Chet's crew.

Penelope runs into the room with the first aid kit. I rip into it and get to work, cleaning up the worst of her wounds before applying bandages.

"Check her pockets," I instruct the housekeeper. "See if you can find an ID."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Penelope mutters as she sifts through the woman's belongings. She pulls out a black flip phone -a burner- followed by a small black case. Penelope unzips it, revealing a selection of lockpicks. "I have a very bad feeling about this."

"Anything?" I ask, applying an ice pack to her ribs.

"Nothing. Should I check the car outside? She crashed straight through the front gate."

I shake my head, brushing the woman's hair away from her face. It's caked with dried blood and dust. "No, don't bother. Just make sure to keep Odette away from the wreck. I don't want it triggering anything."

"O-okay. Are you sure we shouldn't call the police?"

Penelope doesn't know about my past. Neither does my daughter. If they did, they'd know that turning to the police for help is the worst thing to do. I'm not particularly worried about any of our neighbors calling the cops since we live just outside of the city's limits. We have a good handful of acres on all sides of the property for privacy, so I doubt we'll have to deal with any nosy witnesses.

"No," I say firmly. "Stay with Odette downstairs and distract her. I'll handle this."

"Distract her? How?"

I grind my teeth, my patience running thin. "Let her eat the damn gingerbread. Turn on some cartoons. I don't care. Whatever you do, don't let her up here."

Penelope nods stiffly before turning on her heels, scurrying away like a mouse. I get that she's frightened, but I don't have time to coddle her right now.

If Chet really did send this woman to come find me, something major must be going down. It was my choice to leave that world behind -and my old friend along with it- so deliberately getting me involved after all this time must mean something seriously dangerous is happening.

I'm just about finished patching her up when her eyes snap open. She gasps, body jolting.

"Who are you?" she shrieks, wincing in pain. "Where am I?"

I put my hands up, a tamer calming his lion. "Relax. You're safe."

She looks around the room, lost in confusion. She props herself up on her elbows, struggling to sit up. "I have to go back for him. He needs me!"

"Lie down," I snap. "Before you hurt yourself further."

"I need to find Gabriel Lacroix."

"You found him."

She blinks at me. The poor thing reminds me of a little bird, lost and broken and at the mercy of the world. "You?"

I nod. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Raquel," she whispers. "Raquel McHale."

My throat goes dry. "Raquel," I echo, equal parts amazed and bewildered. It suits her, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. A thought rips me from my thoughts, however. "Wait a second, you're Chet's daughter?"

She passes out again before I get an answer, but I don't need one. Now that I've wiped most of the dried blood off her face, I can see the resemblance. She has Chet's straight nose and high cheekbones. I'm fascinated by her full lips, her long lashes, and the light scent of peaches beneath the salty tang of blood in the air.

Now that I have a moment of calm, it's hard to deny her beauty. Raquel is...

Wow.

Stunning is probably the best way to put it. I have to tear my eyes away as I pull the blankets up to cover her body, ignoring the strain in my pants. Just because she's out cold, that doesn't give me the right to ogle her. I'm not a fucking creep, and if she really is Chet's daughter, that makes her doubly off-limits.

I take a seat on the edge of the bed and breathe a heavy sigh.

Well, shit. So much for our peaceful Friday morning.

Raquel

While I'm glad I'm not dead, the raging headache makes me wish I was. The pounding pressure behind my eyes is so overwhelming that I'm nauseous. Gulping air, I summon all the strength I can muster and sit upright in bed. The blanket slips from my shoulders and bunches around my stomach. It's then, and only then, that I realize I'm wearing nothing but a man's oversized shirt. I don't even have underwear or pants on.

Someone undressed me.

Heat floods my cheeks, my rabbit heart racing like it has a marathon to win. Embarrassment weighs heavily in my chest as questions race through my head.

Where am I? Where are my clothes? Who undressed me?

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty."

A man's deep voice rumbles straight through me. I crane my neck to the side, startled to find a man seated casually in an armchair next to my bed. I have half a mind to scream, but then my memories rush back in with the force of a tidal wave.

The explosion. My getaway. Crashing through someone's front yard because I drove straight through the night and could barely stay awake.

I instinctively clutch the blanket to my chest with a gasp.

The man simply chuckles. "Relax. I had to patch up your wounds and make sure you didn't ruin the sheets."

My tongue doesn't work. No matter how hard I try to speak, I can't bring myself to form sounds. This man is drop deadgorgeous. If I weren't feeling like a splintered mass of bones, I'd already be on my way to steal him from a criminal's private collection because -damn- is he a work of art!

He has cropped chestnut brown hair and green eyes. His strong jaw is accentuated by a seductive five o'clock shadow. There's an air of severity to him, a stoicism and silence that is actually a bit uncomfortable to sit in for too long. I think it's the concentration of his gaze and the way that he sits completely still, a statue of fine marble caught in a contemplative pose. He looks to be around Dad's age, maybe in his early forties, though his rigid stature and seemingly permanent scowl makes it hard to tell.

The longer I stare at him, the hotter my skin burns. He smells delicious, like vanilla and sandalwood. A wet heat pools between my legs at the thought of being surrounded by his sheets in his bed. He said he patched up my wounds, so does this mean he was the one to take my clothes off?

I don't know why the idea turns me on so much.

"Gabriel?" I whisper, unsure.

He nods. "Yes. Though I must ask that you call me Pierre while you're here. The other members of the household don't know me by that name."

I momentarily get lost in the sound of his voice. His English is almost perfect, though he has a slight accent where any hard R's are concerned. It's the most seductive thing I've ever heard in my life.

"Uh, okay... How long was I out?"

"Three days."

"Three days?" I echo, my stomach flipping uneasily. "Shit. Shit, did my phone-" I look around. "Where is it?"

He lifts the black flip phone from his pants pocket and tosses it gently onto the bed by my thigh. "No calls," he assures.

I want to get out of bed, but I'm uncomfortable with the idea of standing half naked before him. I haven't been given pants. I look down and inspect my hands. Gabriel's taken great care to clean my cuts and wrap them in fresh bandages. While I'm grateful for his efforts, I've never been with a man before. The thought of Gabriel -a stranger- handling me in my sleep...

My pussy throbs with another pulse of wet heat.

I suddenly can't stop thinking about his big, rough-looking hands.

I want them all over me.

Wait, what?

"W-where are my clothes?" I stammer.

"Tossed them."

I frown. "Excuse me?"

"There was no salvaging what you arrived in. I've sent my housekeeper out shopping for you. She'll be back shortly."

I stare at him. His intentions... seem to be honorable? I remember there being a lot of blood. Not mine, I don't think, but that's hardly a reassuring thought. Maybe he's telling the truth about not wanting to ruin the sheets. It feels like Egyptian cotton. It'd be a shame to destroy them. Still, I'm not naive enough to take him totally at his word. He might not give off creeper vibes, but neither did Ted Bundy.

My hand flies to my neck. My necklace is gone. "Where-"

"Bedside table," Gabriel informs me.

I sigh with relief. That necklace is all I have to remember my mother by. I'd be beside myself if I ever lost it. "Why did my father send me to you?" I ask him. "Who are you? What is this place? Why has he never mentioned you to me before?"

Gabriel clicks his tongue. "I'm not going to answer your questions until you answer a few of mine."

I bristle at his response. As a thief, I'm not in the habit of giving out answers willy-nilly.

"Where is Chet?" he asks me. "How did you sustain your injuries? Why have you come here?"

I chew on the inside of my cheek, debating how much information I should and shouldn't give. "I don't know where Dad is," I admit. "There was an explosion, and I was caught up in the aftermath. I came here because Dad said you'd keep me safe."

Gabriel frowns steeply, his brows knitting together. "An explosion?"

I don't know a thing about Gabriel, but if Dad trusts him enough to send me to him, then I should trust him, too... right?

"We were in the middle of a heist," I say slowly, carefully. I watch his face for any sort of reaction. He gives none. He doesn't seem the least bit fazed, which tells me two things: he's familiar with the fact that Dad is a thief and he's comfortable associating with criminals.

The only questions now are how and why?

"Chet's still into that stupid modern-day Robin Hood schtick, huh?"

Something defensive sparks in my chest. "It's not stupid," I retort hotly. "It's honorable. We only steal from-"

"Other criminals," he finishes for me, waving one hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Who was the target this time?"

"Ronaldo Bianchi. He has a stolen Picasso in his private collection back in Paris."

Gabriel whistles, a flicker of recognition behind his dark green eyes. "Bianchi? I didn't know that the bastard made it out of Sicily after the whole Altegro fiasco..."

My mind reels. He really knows his stuff. Who the hell is this guy? At first, I think he has to be some sort of cop. Ronaldo Bianchi is the type of big bad whose name only circulates in the most secure of circles -those of his own people and those trying to catch him. But then I think better of it. Dad would never send me willingly to the home of a law enforcement officer.

Maybe he's a fellow thief, then? Dad has no shortage of 'business' contacts, after all.

The more I think about it, the less that makes sense. He's too... put together. Too normal, what with his big house and fancy suit and the general lack of any chaotic air about him. Most thieves I've met are all skittish creatures -myself included- eyes always darting around to locate the nearest exit while keeping running totals of all the luxury goods within arm's reach. Our jittery quality may not manifest in overt physical movements, but our eyes are usually our biggest tell.

Alert, scheming. Surviving.

This guy? He's staring right at me like I'm the only object in the room, unwavering.

"I answered your questions," I state firmly. "Now answer mine."

He cocks his head to the side, his gaze drifting over me steadily. "All you need to know is that this is a secure location," he says, deep voice like distant thunder. "Chet's called in a favor, and I think it's to keep you safe until he can make contact."

"But why? Who are you to him?"

Gabriel stands from his seat, his eyes still lingering on me. There's something almost... hungryabout the way he looks at me. It's a blink and you miss it sort of thing, though, because the next moment he's turning away to leave.

"Nobody important," he answers.

I huff. "You do realize that only makes me more curious, right?"

"There are a few rules you need to follow while you're here."

Is he ignoring me?

"Like what?"

"You're not permitted to go outside."

"Don't worry. I won't be getting very far without pants."

He shoots me a glare. "You're also not allowed to wander around the house. You'll stay in this room. You're permitted to use the attached bathroom just over there."

I frown. "This is starting to sound less like a safehouse and more like a prison. How am I supposed to eat?"

"Meals will be delivered to you."

"Yep. Definitely a prison."

"You've clearly never seen the inside of a cell."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because this is the lap of luxury in comparison. If you're really Chet's daughter, then I'll spare no expense in ensuring your comfort. I will, however, insist that you remain in this room and this room only."

"Why?" I challenge. "Got something to hide?"

"You're the one intruding on my life, Ms. McHale. I'm giving you the opportunity to lie low, no strings attached. All I ask in return is that you respect my privacy-"

The bedroom door creaks open. A little girl with big green eyes and chestnut brown hair pokes her nose into the room. She doesn't say anything, but she peers at me with particularly starry-eyed interest.

"Oh, um..." I clutch the blanket close. "Hello, sweetie. Who might you be?"

Gabriel's entire disposition shifts so quickly it almost gives me whiplash. One second, I'm talking to a tall, brooding hunk of a Frenchman, and the next he's scooping the little girl up into his arms and speaking softly to her in rapid-fire French with a kind smile on his lips.

I can't stop staring at the width of his back and the bulk of his shoulders. Something strange inside me stirs, though I can't for the love of God figure out why. There's just something about a big man holding little things that makes me burn inside.

Jesus, Rocky. Pull yourself together.

Gabriel carries her out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. All I can hear after that are his heavy footsteps quickly retreating down the hall.

When he returns a few minutes later, he looks well and truly annoyed.

"Was that your daughter?" I ask.

He ignores me completely. "Focus on rest. I will have a meal and fresh clothes sent up to you." And with that, he's gone like the wind.

I remain seated, taking in my surroundings. It's a large room with minimal furniture. Everything about it is dark, from the wood flooring to the burgundy wallpaper. It doesn't help that the curtains have been drawn shut, likely to keep any potential outsiders from knowing I'm here. There isn't a lot in terms of decoration -no family photographs, no vacation memorabilia, no nothing. I feel like I'm in a hotel instead of a family home. Everything's so... impersonal. There's no character here, no evidence of the past, only the present.

The other members of the household don't know me by that name.

I've never been more eager to know a person. Enthralled doesn't even begin to describe my level of curiosity. I want to crack Gabriel Lacroix open like a safe. The more I learn about him, the more I want to know. I'm a parched woman stranded in the desert, anxious for every little drop of information I can get my hands on.

What is he hiding? Who is he really?

For now, though, I really should get some rest. There's no telling if I'll need to run again. It could all happen at the drop of the hat, and I'd rather not run for my life while in pure agony.

I reach for my mother's necklace and slip it on before laying my head down on the pillow. Three days... Three days and not a word from Dad. We've had a couple of close calls in the past where we had to go into hiding after a heist until the heat let up, but never under circumstances like these.

Rolling over onto my side, I tuck my knees to my chest.

I hope everyone's okay.