His response isn’t immediate. He considers my concerns, his chest expanding with a deep breath before he speaks. “Because if you got caught, they might connect me to you.”
It’s not a question, but I pause with the glass halfway to my lips. “Yes.”
“And because you thought I couldn’t handle the risk.” This time, there’s a subtle challenge beneath the casual inquiry that brings my head around to catch his expression.
In the dim light, the line of his jaw is set with a stubborn determination that demands an honest answer.
“Both.” Truth comes awkward to my tongue, unvarnished by the usual lies I wrap it in. “Your family has a name. A legacy. I don’t want to be the reason it gets tarnished.”
Ezra laughs, the sound vibrating through both our bodies. “The Rockfords are far from pristine, Ren. We’ve weathered worse scandals than an art thief in the family.”
“Not just an art thief.” I take another sip, liquid courage for words I’ve never said aloud. “A forger. A con man. A liar by profession and practice.”
His fingers paint idle patterns on my stomach, dipping down to where the sheet covers my hips before returning to safer territory. “And what did you think, exactly? That I’d run screaming if the cops came knocking? Or that I’d sell you out to save myself?”
Put that way, it sounds absurd, but fear needs no logic. “I thought you deserved better than to spend your life looking over your shoulder. Better than wondering if today’s the day it all falls apart.”
Ezra hums, the vibration sending small shivers down my spine. “Ever think about retiring?”
The question takes me by surprise. Retirement is for normal people with 401K plans and pensions, not for men who change their names as often as others change their shoes.
I turn enough to see his face. “What, you trying to convince me to go legit?”
His shoulders lift in a casual shrug that ripples through both of our bodies. “Could you afford to?”
A calculated interest fills his eyes, alerting me that this isn’t an idle question. He’s fishing for information, testing waters I’ve kept murky.
“I might not be Rockford rich,” I say after a moment, tipping back my glass to finish the whiskey, “but I’ve got enough stashed away in a dozen places to live a dozen lives.”
Ezra refills my glass without comment, his own barely touched. I wonder if it’s a tactic, keeping me loose-tongued while he remains sharp. It’s a trick I’ve played more than once, but the paranoia is distant, muffled by the warmth of his body and the alcohol.
His lips caress my ear. “How many lives are we talking about?”
I lean back into him, allowing myself to enjoy the solid strength of his chest against my spine. “Enough to travel the world. Paint in silence. Hell, I could buy this building if I wanted to.”
His hand pauses in its exploration of my skin. “This entire building?”
“Well, not the whole thing without liquidating some assets,” I concede, honesty coming easier with the whiskey. “But a good chunk of it. Enough to have veto power over whoever tries to move in next door.”
His laughter vibrates through me again, genuine this time, and warmth blooms in my chest at the sound. “That’s rather specific. Bad experiences with neighbors?”
“Had a drummer in Turin once. Right above my studio.” I grimace at the memory. “Three weeks of disrupted work before I convinced him his talents would be better appreciated in Milan.”
“Convinced how?” Ezra’s teeth nip at my earlobe, and heat pools low in my belly.
“Paid his rent for six months. In a nicer apartment. In a better neighborhood.” I smile into my glass. “Money speaks louder than drums.”
Ezra makes an appreciative sound, the kind that acknowledges not just the story but what it reveals about the teller. “So youdohave fuck-you money.”
“I have strategic relocation money.” The correction is automatic, but not defensive. “There’s a difference.”
“Semantics.” He caresses my collarbone, followed by a kiss on my shoulder. “The point is, you could stop. If you wanted to.”
Could I stop? Walk away from the only life I know, the skills honed since childhood, the rush of becoming someone else, with creating something so perfect it fools the experts?
“Maybe.” It’s as much as I can offer right now, more honest than a false promise, less final than a refusal.
Ezra doesn’t push for more than I can give. His hand slides up to cup my jaw, turning my face toward his for a kiss flavored by expensive whiskey and possibility.
