Swindled (Close Contact Book 1) by Megan Mitcham Page A

quality hugged her so tightly it cut off circulation to her brain. At eight years old, she’d read A Study in Scarlett and had wanted to be Sherlock Holmes ever since. She’d used logic and Declan’s developed patterns from years of swindling women in Europe to formulate the perfect trap for the man. He hadn’t even shown his face much less taken the bait. Feeling more like Addison Holmes than Sherlock, Harper closed her eyes, balled her fists, and willed him there.
    “I’m callin’ it, Lang.”
    “ No, Russ. Give me ten more minutes,” she begged.
    “He’s usually in some lady’s bed by this time of night. Whether he pegged us from the door or didn’t hunt these waters, we missed him.”
    “Five more minutes?” she negotiated.
    “Girly, this job is rife with disappointment. Better get used to it now and invest in hair dye. Your black locks are gonna go gray before you know it. I mean, look at my hair.” He chuckled at himself. “Oh, wait, I don’t have any.”
    “Ha. Ha.” She groaned.
    “I’m outta here. Want a ride?”
    She plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing server, took a step toward the backdoor and her partner, but stopped short. The department had already paid for the limo. It’d be a shame to waste it on account of a no-show. “I’ll see you Monday, ole man.”
    “Be safe. Some of these highbrow types are mean bastards,” Russell warned.
    “I’m meaner.”
    “Sure are.”
    Harper chugged the contents of the first glass and left it in the care of another waiter. The suckers crawled through the place like worker ants. She pulled the transmitter from her ear, dropped the thing into her clutch, and snarled as it clinked on the gun and handcuffs. Seemed like none of them were getting any action tonight.
    Disappointment cut deep. Spinning in a leisurely circle, she cataloged the remaining patrons, craving something to dull the edge of disappointment. The bubbly wouldn’t work on her Italian and Japanese roots. They’d been saturated in sake and limoncello from a young age. Adding defeat to desperations, none of the fellas seemed fit for the job. Neither, the barely pubescent servers nor the ego-inflated suits wagging their brows would do. Tonight, she needed a man to toss her onto, well, anywhere and make things happen.
    Too bad her best chances of orgasm tonight came from Danny the Drawer Dick. Harper tipped back the other glass of wine, sipping this time. She savored the taste of liquid money and mentally shrugged.
    At least, Danny’s reliable. Until there’s a battery shortage.
    As the bottom of her glass came into view, something brushed her upper lip. She righted the flute in a blink and braced for the bug or who-knew-what that surely sat at the bottom.
    “What?” she hissed.
    In the dregs of her champagne sat a big ass canary yellow diamond. Her gaze shot left and flew right in search of Declan. But no one paid her any attention. Not even the lanky waiter.
    “Son of a bitch. He was here, and he knew we were, too.”
    She poured the remainder of the champagne into a planter and pinched the three-and-a-half carat rock between her thumb and index finger. The only thing she hated more than losing was being made to look like a fool. Magnus Declan had succeeded where most failed. She held one of three diamonds reported stolen by Declan’s ex-wife, Baroness Genevieve DuMau, and bit back a curse.

    * * *
    M agnus peered through the one-way glass overlooking the dwindling crowd, but saw only Detective Harper Lang. The woman sucking his lobe faded deeper into the background. Wasn’t it a dangerous thing when a woman could draw you in with a slant of her brow while an heiress couldn’t faze you by offering a blow job?
    Hell, yes!
    But it wouldn’t stop him. He’d been pursued by women since before his balls dropped. Yet, never quite like this. Harper had been on his heels for weeks, and all he wanted was hers tossed over his shoulders. Well, not all. He wanted to watch her