Page 19 of Stolen Goods
Forget about it.
Focus on what matters—beaches and Brazil and freedom.
He pulled off the highway and into the Atlanta suburbs, mind alert, happy to be back in action where he was comfortable. When his thoughts were left free to roam, they often went places he didn’t like. Maybe that was why being a thief had come so easily. His line of work left little room for ruminations. There simply wasn’t time for worry—hesitate for one second and it could be his last, and that was exactly how he liked to live.
In the heat of the moment.
No time to think, only to act.
Which was where he found himself as he drove through muted dawn light, the sky growing brighter and brighter with each passing second. Soon, the sun would be over the trees, taking any shot of stealth with it. He studied the houses as he drove through this blue-collar neighborhood at the outer edges of the city, a little more rural and a little less likely to have expensive security systems, and searched for telltale signs of absence. Newspapers piled at the foot of the drive. A package sitting outside the front door. A lawn that looked a little overgrown. It was the middle of the week, which meant anyone who was gone, probably would be until the weekend—more than enough time.
After about twenty minutes, he found the perfect target. Obviously empty, with a seemingly detached garage and a long driveway that curved around the back side of the house, providing the perfect spot to ditch the car he was currently driving. Sparing a second to search for neighbors, he turned onto the drive and followed it all the way to the end, not shutting the engine off until the street was out of sight. Silent as a hunter on the prowl, Thad slipped out of the car and crept around the side of the garage, grinning when he found a window. A good shove and he got it open, then crawled inside. He blinked, adjusting to the darkness. The smile on his face deepened as a car gradually came into view. It wasn’t too new or too old. The paint was an inconspicuous slate gray. It was exactly what he’d been looking for.
Life would be so much easier if I had a set of keys…Thad pushed a button on the wall to open the garage door and crossed the lawn. He pressed his face against the windows of the empty house.If I were keys, where would I be?
There.
Inside the back door.
A little sign that readHome Sweet Homehung on the wall, and two sets of keys dangled from the hooks attached to its bottom edge.
He took another minute to study the ceiling, searching for a motion detector, but didn’t see one. There were no stickers in the windows hinting at a security system. The house practically screamedRob me!Out of pure curiosity, he tested the knob. Locked. Though that was hardly an issue. Getting through a deadbolt had been one of the first things his father had taught him, and Thad carried his trusty pick wherever he went—a gift, a good luck charm, and one of the few things that hadn’t failed him yet. A twist. A wiggle. A jerk. Andclick. Thad pushed the door open, waiting for a beep, an alarm, anything. He was greeted with silence.
Finally, a little bit of good luck.
Five minutes later, he pulled out of the driveway with all his important cargo safely tucked away—the Degas and the debutante, in that order.
- 8 -
Addison
Addy winced as the bright morning light stung her eyes and pressed them shut. Her entire body was utterly spent, achy and sore and heavy like she couldn’t believe.
Dang. I was out cold.
She sighed and stretched her arms over her head, arching her back and extending her legs until her tired muscles burned with some life.
And I had the strangest dream…
She took a deep breath as the images lingered, unusually vibrant. A handsome stranger. Two armed assassins. Bullets. Plumes of flour. A getaway car.
Oh, Lordy, Lordy. I need to stop watching so much TV. Wait until Edie hears about this. She’s going to die. Just die. Maybe I do need a vacation. Wait, what time is it? My alarm never went off.
Addy threw her arm to the side, searching for her phone on the nightstand as panic burned deep in her chest, but her palm sailed through open air.
Huh?
She blinked as the blurry ceiling slowly came into focus—and then she froze. That ugly cream popcorned surface with a rusty stain in the corner wasnother ceiling. Her apartment didnothave a musty odor. And the sheets covering her bare legs were far too scratchy to be the eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton set she’d splurged on as a Christmas present to herself last year—pink, of course.
Addy shot up, catching the gasp in her throat as her gaze landed on the man asleep on the floor with his fingers laced behind his head and his ankles casually crossed, as though he were taking an afternoon nap without a care in the world. His lean body was stretched before the door, guarding the exit. She tried not to notice the deep grooves of his six-pack, visible where his shirt had hitched to reveal planes of tan skin and a smattering of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants.
Oh my God!
It was real! It was all real!
Because that was Thaddeus Ryder. A known fugitive. The most wanted man in America. Here, in what by all accounts seemed to be a very cheap motel, with her.
That’s sort of sweet that he slept on the floor.Addy’s defenses softened the longer she stared at his perfectly relaxed face.He didn’t have to—
