A Thief in Venice by Tara Crescent Page A

remind myself that he had feelings as well, feelings that were just as capable as mine of getting hurt.
    I smiled at him, and lifted my hips up slightly, and lowered myself down on him again. “Will you let me pay?”
    He growled at the movement, and rolled his eyes at my request. “If it matters to you, Lucia, then pay. It’s just money.”
    “Okay,” I said, smiling sweetly up at him. “I’m going to take you to my favourite restaurant in all of Venice tomorrow night.”
    “That’s tomorrow night, my pretty little thief,” he said, his voice dominant. “Right now, move those hips and ride me.”
    I laughed. “Yes Sir,” I said and complied.
    “Hands behind your back, sweetness,” he ordered. His eyes gleamed. In this position, we were so close together. Our noses were almost touching, and it was strangely the most intimate thing we’d ever done. I leaned forward on impulse and kissed him. “I’m happy about the monogamy thing,” I said. Honesty was nerve-racking. I swear my heart was stuck in my throat as I said those words.
    He smiled at me, and kissed me back, his hands around my hair, pulling me into him. “Me too.” We stayed in that position for a little while, just touching each other. Then, he moved his hands off my hair. He stroked my arms, and laced his fingers in mine, and he pulled my hands behind my back, and held them there.
    “Now, Lucia,” he said evenly. “Move those hips. I’m not going to tell you again.”

Chapter 20
    Antonio:
    The restaurant she took me to was the tiniest hole-in-the-wall. She eyed me with a faint challenge in her eyes as we took our seats. “Are you okay?”
    I laughed at her. “Lucia, did you miss the part when I said I grew up an orphan? When I was a child, the idea of having the freedom of being able to walk into a restaurant and order anything off the menu was something I couldn’t even begin to imagine.”
    I could tell that she was immediately abashed. “Sorry,” she said. “You are really rich, and evidently, I have a chip on my shoulder about it. I didn’t think.”
    We placed our orders and sipped our wine.
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
    I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it,” I advised her. “Tell me why me being rich bothers you.”
    “We don’t live in the same world,” she said. “I worry about things like rent. I count my pennies to pay for Casanova’s membership.” She frowned at me. “Casanova is ridiculously expensive.”
    “You are paid up for the year,” I pointed out with a grin.
    She furrowed her forehead. “Why aren’t you asking me not to go to Casanova?” she asked.
    “I thought we were talking about why you don’t like me being rich,” I said.
    She looked at me with a level gaze, and I knew we were going to get back to that conversation at some point. “I don’t have bodyguards following me around. I don’t own four cars.”
    I frowned in slight embarrassment. I should have never told her that. Four cars was a little ridiculous, especially in Venice, where you could barely drive anyway.
    “Can I disagree?” I asked her. “Me being rich – that’s just a distraction. Because I think we are very alike. For starters, we both like art.”
    She giggled at that, and my heart fluttered.  “I like art,” she pointed out with a smile. “You like stealing art.”
    I winked at her. “I’m the museum’s biggest donor.”
    She took a sip of wine. “Are you serious?” she asked. I nodded.
    “Why?”
    “I really do like art, Lucia,” I replied. “Besides, I don’t actually steal art. Just the Madonna, that one time. I steal other stuff.”
    “You stole my painting,” she laughed.
    I grinned at her, and I reached out to hold her hand. “I borrowed your painting,” I corrected. “That was to make a point. One that didn’t take, evidently.” I had no doubt she was planning her next attempt at stealing the Madonna.
    “Four cars,” she muttered. She’d noticed my embarrassment, and she