Chapter Thirteen

October 9

Lucien Kite Estate

L ucien Kite paced his expansive office, no less enraged than when his men allowed The Lynx to escape the warehouse. With his painting . In the past three days, he had executed a rival, fucked three of his whores into oblivion, and watched while his man tortured a guard he suspected was disloyal. Nothing eased the roiling pit of lava within.

He had planned to capture The Lynx red-handed, film his execution, and earn the thanks and respect of colleagues and billionaires worldwide who had been victimized by this self-proclaimed Robin Hood. The thief had outsmarted him and vanished.

In the hallway, two of his guards were standing shoulder to shoulder, watching something on a phone. He returned to his desk and withdrew the lugar from the hidden holster beneath the center drawer. Maybe shooting these two idiots in the head would improve his mood.

Lucien left his office and came up behind the two men who were trying and failing to stifle their laughter. Glancing over their shoulders, Lucien saw what had so captivated them: a video of a naked woman struggling to cover herself with one hand over her face and the other across her breasts while yelling at whoever was filming her.

“She is hot, no?” Lucien murmured.

The guards jumped apart, the one holding the phone quickly pocketing it.

“Is she your girlfriend?” Kite asked.

The other guard, a blond-haired German who couldn’t have been older than twenty, responded, “No, Herr Kite. We found her hiding behind an outbuilding at the restoration facility. She was there for one of the other men.”

Something inside Lucien itched. Beckoning with a two-fingered motion, he instructed the man to show him the clip. His immediate thought was, What guard could get a woman like that? Despite the darkness and her frenetic movements, Kite could tell she was a great beauty. And another thing, why was she hiding her face rather than covering a more private area? “Which man?”

“We don’t know.”

“Send me the video.”

The other guard withdrew the device. “Yes, sir.” Then, fearfully added, “The number?”

Lucien shoved the pistol into his pants and snatched the phone away. He forwarded the file and returned to his office. After settling behind the desk, Kite played the video again. This time, he wasn’t ogling the girl’s partially covered breasts or admiring her long legs. Well, he wasn’t only doing that. He was squinting at the dimly lit area behind her where dark clothes were piled in a heap. On the ground by her bare feet, Lucien could just make out…

…a ski mask.

Kite shot to his feet. Of course! It all made sense—The Lynx’s ability to slip in and out of the most secure apartments and enter parties with exclusive guest lists.

The Lynx was a woman.

Kite’s rage doubled at the thought. He never held females in particularly high regard, tolerating them at best and only when he had to. The fact that this woman more suited to a bed or a beach had outwitted him was unthinkable.

“Clever little bitch.” Lucien Kite watched the video ten times, then another five before sending it to his tech analyst. He was now the owner of a precious secret—the most surprising identity of The Lynx. Lucien pondered his next steps, the endless possibilities. He had enemies and colleagues across Europe who would pay dearly for the opportunity to extract information from The Lynx or, at the very least, dole out revenge.

He himself had been the victim of this elusive thief; she had stolen a Matisse from his country home while he slept . He watched the clip of the woman again. She looked vaguely familiar. Had she cased his home posing as a decorator or maid? As he squinted at the footage, Kite caught just enough of her features to know she was stunning. Perhaps he would have a go at her first, then auction her to interested parties.

Yes, Lucien Kite very much liked the idea of breaking this girl. Her outward appearance was extraordinary, but it was her mind that held her true allure. She would fight him. Kite smiled at the thought.

There was plenty of time to plan his next move. First, he needed to identify the woman, then find her—no small feat. He certainly wouldn’t underestimate her skill. She had outwitted him twice—first when she stole his Matisse, then at the restoration house.

He sent a brief text: My office, 9 a.m. tomorrow.

The reply came immediately: Confirmed .