Chris | Diamond Miss Lexa

The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside, and just before they closed, she added, “Oh, and Chris? The tracker in your shoe? I was lying about that. The real tracker is in your watch. Vane’s men already know where you are.”

He blinked. That was the first crack. “The client was a shell corporation in the Caymans. Male name. ‘Mr. Smith.’”

“Dinner is for survivors, Chris.” She pressed the elevator call button. “Try not to die before dessert.” chris diamond miss lexa

“Because, Chris,” she said, stepping close enough that he could smell her perfume—oud and gasoline, like a billionaire’s funeral, “I don’t need a thief anymore. I need a bodyguard. One who thinks on his feet. One who noticed the frame was wrong.”

He walked to the penthouse window, raised the duplicate card like a toast, and whispered to the rain, “Miss Lexa, you magnificent devil.” The elevator doors opened

“Seven million,” he said. “And you buy me dinner first.”

“I’m not a cop, Chris.” She walked past him, running a single finger over the gilded frame of the Monet. “I’m the woman who hired you.” I was lying about that

Miss Lexa tilted her head. “Then I tell Silas Vane that you’re the one holding the real card. And I’ll enjoy watching him peel the skin off your very handsome face.”