Sticky Fingers: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 2

  Chapter Two

  Sonia

  Gasps and a few screams fill the air around me. I smirk. I bet they’re going crazy about something other than the painting…something like someone’s wife being fucked in front of an audience.

  The crowd gets louder, outrage in everyone’s voices, and I hear Picasso’s name repeated over and over again.

  Alright, maybe they do care about the painting.

  “What the fuck is going on here?!” I hear a shrill voice cut the air.

  My guess is he’s the husband of the woman Mr. Hot Stuff was banging as I stole the painting right under their noses. I saw a ring on her hand but none on the guy she was messing around with. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that whole situation out.

  I sigh. Why bother getting married if you drop your panties whenever a hot guy looks at you?

  I hear the crowd beginning to get rowdier. Feet are stomping as people run around, likely trying to locate where the painting has run off to and who is to blame. With any luck, they’ll just blame Mr. Hot Stuff and that’ll be the end of it.

  Still draped in shadows, I carefully tuck the painting under my elbow and start running as fast as I can, hightailing it out of the Clarendon Tower building’s art gallery.

  Slightly behind me, I hear the distinctive sound of a zipper breaking through the noise, as the man I locked eyes with earlier puts himself back in his pants. God, that man has some balls…screwing a woman behind the very curtains that would reveal the painting. Maybe he doesn’t give a fuck…or maybe his cock is stronger than his brain.

  Ah, men.

  Smiling to myself, I dash down one of the service corridors, and that’s when I hear heavy footsteps right behind me. Glancing back, I see him giving chase.

  And he’s fast. Crap.

  I speed up my pace. No way am I getting caught.

  I’ve never been caught before, and I’m not about to start now. No matter how hot my potential captor is.

  He might have a powerful stride, but I have a head start, giving me the upper hand. Besides, I know this building better than I know each line on the palm of my hand.

  For half a second, I imagine him grabbing me, his strong arms pushing me back and pinning me against the wall.

  C’mon, now’s not the time for that, I admonish myself, trying to stop my brain from venturing down fantasy lane.

  But, really, can you blame me?

  Whoever that guy is, he really is a sight to behold. Coal black hair styled in a messy way that makes him seem rugged yet put-together at the same time and piercing blue eyes that pull you in completely, with no hope of breaking away. Accompanied by a chiseled jaw, the man is the epitome of dark, mysterious, and sexy…exactly the three secret ingredients to melting a woman in her panties.

  More than what’s visible, he’s built like a muscle machine. His defined muscles fill out his tailored suit, from the bulging biceps to his powerful thighs. I’d bet all the money I have on me that he even has a six pack underneath his dress shirt.

  The man clearly has some skills, too, if you know what I mean. If the moans coming from the woman he was screwing are any indication, he sure knows how to handle what’s between his legs.

  Back when I was taking the painting, I ignored the woman and just focused on him for a split second…and that was enough to get me all kinds of hot and bothered. I mean, my thong feels completely drenched as I run through the building.

  I wouldn’t mind experiencing him. Not at all.

  Focus on the task at hand, Sonia, I tell myself again. Don’t let some sexy guy screw this up for you.

  Weaving through the halls of the building, I follow the escape route I laid out before coming here.

  You see, I’m no rookie when it comes to art theft. I’ve been doing it for years.

  Stealing art always gives me a thrill. There’s that rush of adrenaline, the way my pulse quickens when I pull off something risky… It just adds a spark of color to my life, you know? For most people, the normal humdrum of life is all black and white. But add in some burglary and…well, let’s just say that things start to get interesting.

  Life is too boring if you’re not living on the edge. And believe me, I know what I’m talking about.

  I’m the daughter of the police commissioner, and that’s the least thrilling life ever. No adventures, no being wild, and no taking chances on anything with Daddy and 65,000 of New York City’s finest watching and guarding your every waking move.

  It gets really boring really quick. Sure, having money and all that expensive crap is fine, but there’s nothing fun about a life with no challenges, wouldn’t you agree? It came to the point where I almost wanted to blow my brains out due to boredom just for the hell of it.

  So, that’s why I moved into this building, away from dear ol’ Dad, looking for a more adventurous life. And in case you didn’t notice…it’s all going pretty well.

  I refuse to get stuck in a mindless existence, going through the motions. You know the drill: wake up, go to work in a stuffy office, come home, go to bed, and repeat all over again the next day.

  Where the hell is the fun in that?

  I have one life goal that will ensure I don’t get stuck in that kind of life—become the best damn art thief I can. Go big or go home, right?

  In the basement area of the building now, I make a hard turn and step inside a custodian closet. With my back against the door, I hold my breath as I hear those heavy footsteps fading in the instance.

  See? I’ve never been caught.

  I push a shelf to the side to reveal a small hidden hole that leads to the service elevator shaft. Going down on my knees, I crawl inside the wall; just a few feet later and I emerge in the elevator shaft, the sound of my steps echoing in the darkness.

  Before jumping out, I fasten the painting to my back with a dark rope I had laced around my waist. Only then do I reach for the cables holding the elevator just one floor below me.

  Making sure my grip is tight, I slide down till my feet hit the top of the elevator. I open the panel that leads inside and, before going in, I make sure to detach the cable powering the CCTV camera installed there.

  Once inside, I connect a small handheld device I brought with me to the control panel and command the elevator to take me up without stopping.

  “Whew, that was close,” I say with a sigh as I lean back against the wall, beads of sweat pooling on my forehead.

  I take a moment to catch my breath and, once I stop at my floor, I pray for just a bit of luck. I force the doors open, disconnect my handheld device, and walk out into the corridor.

  Empty.

  Holding my breath, I get inside my apartment without being seen.

  I sigh in relief and lean against the wall of my living room. That was closer than I would have liked, but the plan went off with only a slight hitch or two caused by Mr. Hot Stuff.

  Either way, mission accomplished. Somehow, though…something tells me that this story isn’t quite over.

  In fact, it feels like it’s just starting.

  Chapter Three

  Malcolm

  “Please, tell me it wasn’t you.”

  And here we fucking go. Just because I run a criminal organization it doesn’t mean that I don’t have any fucking self-restraint.

  What? Just because I call myself a crime lord, do people think I can’t help but steal maniacally? Like I have some compulsive desire to abscond with anything in sight?

  As if I go around to McDonald’s and steal bagloads of paper napkins and hot mustard sauces after buying a hamburger from the dollar menu.

  Besides, this was one of Daphne’s paintings—and I sure as fuck don’t go around fucking my friends over.

  Yeah, it might not seem like it, but I have morals.

  “C’mon, man,” I tell Dominic, frowning as I place my elbows on the counter of his wet bar. “I didn’t fucking do it. In case you didn’t notice it, I had my hands busy.”

  “Hey, I had to ask,” Domini
c replies, raising both arms in the air and showing me the palms of his hands. He shrugs, almost too casually, and grabs a bottle of scotch; sighing, he pours a glass for him, me, and Daphne.

  I’m at his apartment—the one that Daphne is trying to buy even as he’s trying to buy hers—and I still can’t get the image of that thief out of my fucking mind. I mean, did you see how fucking hot she was? Curves that went on for forever, thighs that seemed to be begging for my hands, and an ass that should get gold in the Ass Olympics.

  And for a girl that hot, she had some massive fucking balls. I mean, who the fuck would be stupid enough to try and pull a stunt like that? Steal a fucking Picasso in the middle of the day, right when the fucking thing’s about to be showcased?

  I don’t know if I should be clapping or just shaking my head at the fucking stupidity.

  “That was one expensive painting,” Daphne says with a frown as she grabs her glass. “It cost me over—”

  “A fucking mountain of money, I can imagine,” I end her sentence, downing my whisky all at once. “Trust me, I know how expensive these things are.”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t cheap,” Dominic agrees. He refills my glass and then drapes one arm over his Daphne’s shoulders. “If you want to make that money back, Daph, I guess you could accept my offer to buy your place.”

  “Dream on, asshole,” Daphne says with good natured ribbing as she wiggles her ass against him.

  Yeah. Like I said. This shit is weird between them. Like some sort of frenemies or enemy lovers or some shit.

  Swear to God, it’s so fucking weird to see Dominic being all lovey-dovey. Dude was a consummate pussy slayer, and now he’s all hung up on this one chick. Who knows what’s going on with them but I hope he isn’t just keeping himself to her. Sure, Daphne’s cool and shit, but still.

  Yeah, you’ll never see me this crazy for a chick. I don’t hold hands with chicks, I don’t fucking tuck them in at night and kiss their foreheads, and I sure as fuck don’t do love.

  It shouldn’t come as a shock to you anyway. It’s not like I ever pretended to be a nice guy. Besides, my skill set is limited to three simple things, or what I like to call Malcolm Push’s Triangle of Badassery: I work hard, I play hard...and I fuck hard.

  “I still don’t understand,” Daphne starts, swirling the whisky in her glass. “How the hell could the painting disappear like that? One moment it’s there and the next…”

  “It was a chick,” I tell her. “A chick, dressed up like some fucking ninja. She came in and took it.”

  Daphne looks at me with one cocked eyebrow, lips pursed as she tries to read my fucking soul. No wonder she’s the killer queen of corporate lawyers. Daphne’s fucking scary when she wants to be.

  “I don’t know how, Malcolm, but I believe you,” she finally says with a sigh, lowering her gaze back to the whisky. “But who the hell could she be?”

  “No fucking idea.”

  I walk out from inside the wet bar, glass in one hand, and walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows on the condo’s living room. No wonder Dominic and Daphne are at each other’s throats to buy each other out—these views are the best in all of fucking New York.

  I look out into the city, my mind drifting back to half an hour ago.

  I have no fucking idea who that chick might be, but now I can’t forget about her. The moment my eyes locked onto hers... I don’t know, but it felt like there was a fucking spark.

  My pulse quickened, my blood started to boil, and even my cock got harder. If I came in that moment, it had more to do with the fucking burglar than with Debra.

  I need to find her.

  Whoever she is, I need to fucking find her.

  Thing is, I don’t know where to start. I have my connections, sure, but I don’t know if anyone’s going to be of much help. See, I know all about the players making moves in this country...and last time I checked, none of the guys that run art-thieving schemes employ a chick like this one.

  Maybe she’s working on her own? Trying to make a name for herself?

  “Dude, you know what’s going to happen now, don’t you?” Dominic asks me, coming up from behind and derailing my train of thought. “Everyone’s going to try and pin this on you. You know, you have the reputation and all that shit.”

  “Fuck that shit,” I say with a shrug.

  I don’t give a fuck about the cops. They can try to put some cuffs on me, but I’ve never been stupid enough to let myself get caught red-handed. Besides, this time I’m fucking innocent.

  “Anyway, you guys saw how I was ball-deeps in Peter’s wife,” I remind them.

  “God, I know you’re an asshole, but do you have to brag about it?” Daphne sighs, rolling her eyes at me. “She’s a married woman.”

  “Yeah, she is,” I reply, “but her husband wasn’t exactly taking proper care of her, you know? I just did a good deed. In fact, I should get a fucking commendation for that. Making women’s lives better, one orgasm at a time.”

  “Peter’s going to be on your case now, you know that,” Dominic joins in.

  Back when I was trying to buy an apartment at Clarendon Tower, Peter did his best to stop the sale. Even before he was president. He even managed to get the condo board president seat after the last one was forced to resign by saying that Clarendon Tower was letting in crooks.

  He didn’t want someone with my reputation sullying Clarendon Tower’s good name.

  “Yeah, fucking asshole hates my guts.”

  “Yeah, well...last condo board president hated my guts,” Dominic laughs. “The greasy fuck did his best to kick me out of here. He wanted to get this apartment, have enough votes in the board to sell the whole building, and then turn Clarendon Tower into a hotel.”

  “What the fuck is up with that? Can’t the board elect someone with a fucking head on his shoulders for a change?” Seriously, why the fuck do these assholes get such a massive hard-on for being president of something as trivial as a condo board?

  I’m about to reach for the bottle for the third time in a row when someone knocks on the door. Not gently, but harshly—almost as if they were using a fucking jackhammer.

  Daphne and Dominic exchange a glance, probably wondering who the fuck’s out there, but I just refill my glass.

  I know exactly who the fuck’s out there.

  The fucking cops.

  Chapter Four

  Sonia

  With adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I start moving around the apartment like I’m on speed mode.

  I head straight to the secret compartment I set up on my bedroom wall. Behind the wall is a steel-enforced safe with a lock that requires a ten-digit code to unlock. The safe is water-proof, fire-proof, smoke-proof, and any other proof it needs to be.

  After all, that’s where I hide everything I steal.

  The keypad beeps with each number pressed and gives a whoosh of soft air with a barely audible click as the door opens.

  I slide the Picasso painting in, and it fits perfectly in the safe with room to spare. Once I’m sure the painting is safe from harm, I gently close the door and put the wall panel back in place to hide the safe once more.

  Mission accomplished.

  Stretching my back, I get ready to take off my clothes.

  Even though it isn’t something you’d wear on a night out, I love this outfit…not just because it helps me blend in with the shadows but also because of the way it hugs me in all the right places. It accentuates all my assets and curves, making me feel damn sexy and confident.

  Because I am sexy and confident.

  I toss the mask onto the bed, lift the shirt up and toss that too, and then sit on the mattress to get my boots off. They’re knee high, practical, and have a zipper. The zippers growl as I pull them down my legs.

  I take off my boots and stand up once more to peel off the tight leather pants.

  Standing in the middle of my room, now in nothing but a black lacy bra and matching thong, I glance at my reflecti
on in the full-length mirror with a smirk, and I do a little shimmy.

  Yeah, I’m hot without the clothes, too.

  After gathering each piece of the outfit, I stuff them into a box I keep at the back of my closet, and then I slide it into a secret partition.

  As I make my way out to the kitchen, still dressed in nothing but my underwear, the sexy mysterious man from before pops up in my mind.

  I can’t seem to forget about him, and that’s a first for me. I don’t even think twice about the men I date, let alone some random stranger. I mean, this guy chased after me and he failed.

  End of story, right? At least it should be.

  I sigh as I pull a bottle of wine from the fridge, followed by a wine glass out of a cupboard. The white wine pours smoothly into the glass, and when I take a sip it slides down my throat like cool silk.

  I have to admit…whoever that guy was, he was pretty badass. No man has ever been a match for me, and he came so close. Besides, being chased like that was kind of…exhilarating.

  In fact, it was fucking amazing…even if it threw a slight kink in my plans.

  Always be prepared, though—that’s my motto and likely the only reason I outran him. After all, I had an escape route that would get me out of there no matter what. Although I’m that damn good, I’ll give the man a little credit.

  The bastard really came close.

  Walking back to my room, I take another sip of wine. My body is still thrumming with adrenaline from the heist, but there’s…something more. Something wicked.

  Thinking about Mr. Hot Stuff now turns me on quicker than anything else. He was sexy, powerful, and skilled.

  And the way he looked at me, as if he wanted to take over my mind, body, and soul…well, what can I say? Somehow, I don’t think I’ve ever met a man like him.

  I unlock the safe and take out the painting. I sit on the bed to admire it.

  It really is a beautiful painting. But as beautiful as it is, that’s not the reason it has captivated my attention.