Reluctant thief Baz Barret is tasked with stealing from the formidable archaeologist Rei Collingwood--who happens to also be his college crush and rival--but when Rei goes missing after the burglary, Baz must find her before he's blamed for her disa...
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Chapter Two: The Party
Even the doorman looked down at Baz when he arrived at the building in the plainest tuxedo the tailor offered.
Baz preferred his black facepaint and split-toed shoes. Patent leather felt heavy and awkward on his feet. The odd layers underneath, the layers of the thief he was, only exacerbated how unnatural black tie formalwear was on him. He imagined himself walking around like a cat with tape stuck to the bottom of its foot. A cat dressed like a penguin. It felt comparable, though he carried himself passably no matter what the doorman's narrowed eyes implied.
Baz's invitation said enough. The doorman begrudgingly let him continue on to the elevator where a young uniformed man used a key to let guests up to the penthouse suite. The elevator was the first glimpse that the strategy of keeping plain did not serve the purpose he hoped. Boutonnieres dotted breasts, vibrant squares jutted from pockets. Cumbers were bunded. Shoes were brogued. One gentleman even wore a long-tailed jacket.
"Did you hear about Simmons?"
"No. Should I have?"
"He was hit. Thief knocked the whole security system out. Even the nanny cam didn't catch his face."
Baz looked up, choosing to look anywhere but at the elevator's occupants.
"His face? It couldn't possibly have been a woman?" a lady in lace piped up.
"Marjory, do you really think this is the time to argue feminism?"
The conversation very quickly devolved into an argument over when it was appropriate to bring equality into question.
Baz wondered the names of these people. Would ever have to slip into their homes in the dead of night to lift open their showcases? It was best not to wonder too hard.
He'd avoid their nanny cams.
"I haven't seen you around before," a woman said, and the moment Baz tore his gaze away from upper corner of the elevator, he recognized her.
Seeing her 'around' didn't quite explain their relationship, unless 'around' included billboards and department store ads for perfume lines and lingerie. In the most elaborate of Baz's daydreams, he didn't have the imagination to find himself in an elevator with a woman he had seen airbrushed and in high-end unmentionables.
"Do you talk?" Gwen Ferrero was not dressed in lingerie. She was in pearls and a floor length gown, a slit revealing the long line of her famous legs. In heels, she was slightly taller than he was, her green eyes nearly even with his. She raised a feline brow.
"I'm a newcomer. Basil. Baz, actually," Baz offered a hand out, keeping his grimace internal. Basil. So painfully English and so far from his name. It would've broken his mother's French heart. It might've struck her harder than if she knew what he did for a living.
