Game On (The Bod Squad Series Book 1) by Gabra Zackman Read Free Book Online Page B

appeared Susannah and Chas were going for round four, Jackson moaned and then got to his feet. “I’m gonna go grab some more beer. Anyone need anything?” Secretly, he hoped Lisa Bee would come with him—he’d had his eye on her for months, but he couldn’t tell if she’d even noticed.
    “How ’bout some air freshener?” Lisa Bee said with a smile. “It smells like the bayou in here. And if you can find me a Dr Pepper and a Slim Jim, I’ll go double on both.” Then she turned up the volume on her iPod to blast “Like a Virgin.”
    ‡‡‡
    PIERRE DESCARTES SAT in the sunken living room of his Paris apartment and downloaded the new specs. It was going to be a big job, involving most of his usual crew, with a few more added for security. As a general rule, he was uncomfortable doing jobs in his own country. He preferred not to shit where he ate, as the saying went, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped. He had been given intel involving a famous Hollywood producer’s estate in the south of France, and it would be a heist valued at more than $50 million. This was enough to cover the costs of his team, pay them and himself handsomely, and give the Italian enough to make him stop complaining. If there was one thing Pierre could not stand, it was an irate Italian. Particularly an irate Italian who was taking out his anger on him.
    Pierre looked at the clock. It was twelve noon—six a.m. in New York. He would wait a bit, then call his contact. He’d need a lot of prep work done. Only one man he knew could hack into a security system like this one, as well as doctor the online files, create fictional profiles for his men, and sort out the sale of this much stolen art. He posed as a rich businessman, but inside he was nothing more than a filthy little street thief. Pierre had known Chas Palmer since he was a boy, and he was just like his father, Chuck—polished, suave, and easily turned. Pierre laughed, a short, sharp, dry sound, like the scrape of a knife on wood. “Smart and useful, just like Papa,” he mused aloud. “Let’s just hope you don’t make his mistakes.”
    With that he closed his computer and stepped out into the startling Paris sunlight.

5
    SUSANNAH WOKE WITH a beam of sunlight in her face and the powerful scent of coffee in her nose. Shading her eyes, she looked up to see the silhouetted form of Chas Palmer holding a cup of coffee and smiling down at her. He wore a pair of sweatpants and no shirt, and she took a moment to admire the sculpted muscles of this extraordinary specimen. He wasn’t perfect—he was human, after all—but he was all man, top to toe. His cut chest boasted just enough hair to be entirely masculine without being overwhelming. His arms were perfect, biceps that looked like carved tree trunks. A tattoo band around the top of his right arm sported writing that looked Gaelic.
    “Morning, sexy,” he said with a smile. “Like some coffee?”
    “Love some,” she responded, hair falling down around her shoulders as she sat up, sheet slipping down to her waist. “Oops.”
    As she tried to wrap the sheet back around her, he stopped her. “Wait,” he said, huskiness in his voice, “let me just look at you.”
    She sat there in a sunbeam, naked from the waist up, hair in her face. She liked watching him watch her. He was very taken with her, burning her with his gaze, raking every part of her skin with his searing deep blue eyes. Then they held eyes for a long moment, as they looked deeply within each other’s soul. She wondered if he was seeing more than just her body—was he seeing the woman inside as well? Finally, he handed her the coffee and breathed, “You look like a painting, Susannah. Like something done by one of the old masters.”
    She blushed, feeling it from her collarbones to the top of her head. She pulled the sheet around her self-consciously, and tried to change the subject.
    “What’s on the arm?”
    “Oh,” he said, coming to join her on the bed.