Page 17 of Undercover Star
"Shut up." The red spots made a reappearance on Matisse's cheeks. Anger this time, not embarrassment. "You're not me. You don't have the first idea what it's like to be me, so don't think you can tell me what to do. Just because you're out and proud, doesn't mean it works for everyone."
"I wasn't going to say that," Josh objected mildly.
"No, of course not. Were you also going to dispute that you're gay?"
"No. And yes, I'm out. But there's a difference between admitting your sexuality and waving it in everyone's face. You don't have to flaunt boyfriends, but surely your fans would understand—" He stopped there, realising that he had no idea what Matisse's fans might or might not do.
"Exactly." Matisse let him off the hook with a quiet sigh. "Now, tell me what you want me to do tomorrow. You want to catch your thief, and I want to help."
Chapter Five
Matisse had never seena thief in action. He hadn't believed Josh's assertion that the man would turn up at the gala, nor did he think he'd be able to spot him. A high-calibre thief had to be ace at blending into his surroundings. Not something Matisse could ever be accused of, but learning to be noticed took just as much work as being virtually invisible, and Matisse appreciated effort.
When he spotted the man the moment he entered the long gallery, Matisse was happy to eat his words.
The thief didn't stand out—not in the way Josh, in his perfect tux, drew the eyes of male and female guests alike. He looked unremarkable: a stocky form of medium height, with short, sandy hair. What caught Matisse's eye was the way he moved. Not languidly and aimless, like a guest, but with slow purpose, like one of the wait staff working the room. Had he been dressed like the event's catering team, Matisse would have looked right past him. But he was dressed like a guest, and Matisse knew everyone in the select, and increasingly inebriated, crowd, at least by sight.
Matisse drifted closer to the cabinet where the jet cameos were kept, masking the movement by aiming for one of the servers offering flutes of champagne and exchanging his empty glass for a fresh one. He kept going until he reached the corner Josh had pointed out as having the best view just as the man approached the cabinet.
The thief didn't spare the jet a single look. He ran his hands around the back of the cabinet—disabling the alarm?—then slid a pick into the lock. The lock was a paltry excuse for security, easy enough for an amateur like Matisse. The thief needed only a single turn with his pick to open it. He raised the lid an inch, reached inside, and lifted the silver cross from its velvet bed. Then he set the lid back into place and turned away.
The whole transaction had taken mere moments.
"He's taken the cross." Matisse breathed the words in almost-awe, then jumped a mile when Josh's voice boomed in his ear.
"What?"
So used to being watched all the time, he'd completely forgotten that he could talk to Josh. "Your thief." He started after the man. "He ignored all the fancy jet and took that ugly cross."
"He isthere?"
The profound disbelief in Josh's voice raised Matisse's hackles. "Well, no. Not anymore. We're heading for the stairs. Do you think he means to go out the way he came in? How did he come in anyway?" Matisse realised he was babbling and stopped. This was more fun than the whole boring gala. And nothing like any movie he'd ever seen.
The thief didn't run. He didn't rush out of the house now that he'd gotten what he'd come for. Instead, he accepted a flute of champagne from a passing server and wandered along the row of curio cabinets as if he wanted nothing so much as to admire outdated Victorian jewels, Renaissance miniatures, and murdered butterflies.
Matisse avoided a smarmy record producer bearing down on him by circling a small smoking table with a beautifully inlaid top, slipped past two mini-skirted young women busy texting—each other?—and had the thief in sight once more.
