Under Pressure (No Pressure, No Diamonds Book 1) Read online

  Days of permanently rumpled sheets flash through his mind. Soft, tattooed skin and long limbs entwined with the white linen, and more often than not, with him. Only once, right at the start, had they made it to the rooftop restaurant instead of ordering room service. But all of the most stunning views of Venice hadn't been enough to take his eyes off Sebastian for more than two seconds. The way he moved, the way he held himself, the way he smiled, and the way he talked slowly and deeply and… sensually. It’s all burned into London’s brain, memories he doesn’t want but can’t help recall.

  It had been perfect: several amazing days, an exciting con and more orgasms than he can remember. London had fancied himself in love.

  He remembers waking up on that final day, arms stretching automatically in search of the young man he'd become accustomed to so quickly. He'd encountered nothing but the stolen statue, the one they kept nicking from each other while laying low in the hotel. He’d smiled, fingers blindly groping for more – a warm body, a smile like sunshine. But his fingers only gripped at cold sheets, Sebastian's smell lingering but no longer vibrant, nothing more than what clung to the bedding. His heart sank when he found Sebastian's note, stuck to the statue in a macabre way of ending that game between them, too.

  "Trustworthy," he mumbles and arranges his face into a neutral expression. "When it comes to a job, Sebastian is extremely reliable and trustworthy, yes. Good in a pinch."

  Frankie nods, absentmindedly fiddling with her short hair while looking off into the distance.

  "Will it be a problem for you? Seeing him again? Working with him?"

  It’s uncomfortable, this feeling of shame, uncomfortable and alien. Of course he knew the question was coming and yet he wishes it hadn’t.

  London clears his throat. "No. It won’t be a problem."

  Frankie watches him for a long moment before nodding. "I like the little group we have, and we work well together. But we need one more, a con man that can get into anywhere."

  London rolls his eyes and grimaces when he takes another swig of the lukewarm crap Frankie calls beer. It's not like he asked for an explanation. He trusts Frankie’s judgment and if she wants someone else, she should get them. "Yeah, yeah, I know the spiel, you like your cons to run at the lowest possible risk."

  Frankie is about to retort when they both freeze at the sound of a key sliding into the lock. Moments later Veronica shoulders her way inside, backpack almost falling off, the books in her arms tipping precariously to the side as her glasses slide down her nose. Frankie jumps up, setting her beer down so hard it wobbles and falls over, the last dregs spilling across the table. She doesn't even give it a second glance. London guesses it's not like the coffee table will look any worse with a few more beer stains added to it.

  "Hey, babe," Frankie says easily, the thoughtful look from moments before sliding off her grinning face. By the time Veronica looks up all she sees is the happy-go-lucky girl she fell in love with. "How were classes? Here, let me help you."

  She passes Frankie her books gratefully and slides the backpack from her shoulder. It makes a heavy thudding noise as it hits the ground. Veronica rolls her arm, pushing the glasses back up her nose, leans in and pecks Frankie's cheek. "They were good, thanks."

  Veronica’s smile is bright, transforming the harried look from moments before into something far softer as she watches Frankie place the books on the rickety side table. The moment she’s done, Veronica catches Frankie’s hip and pulls her close, both softening even more as they finally kiss hello, not even bothering to wipe away their love-struck expressions.

  London looks away, an ugly feeling clenching his gut. It's not like he isn't happy for Frankie. They've become true friends over the years, of course he's happy for her. But he's also jealous. He’s jealous of what they have, having wanted that same thing so desperately once. Now he can’t stand to watch it for too long and reflects that it probably makes him a horrible person and shitty friend to boot.

  Just to prove to himself that he's not a complete arsehole, he agrees to stay for dinner. Maybe it's also to prove to Veronica he really has turned over a new leaf. Finding the root cause of his jealousy has also ended his deep-seated dislike of the woman in Frankie’s life, a decent girl and a definite upgrade from her previous choices.

  Once he’d stopped blindly disliking her solely for being Frankie’s girlfriend, London and Veronica had actually become fast friends. He'd been lucky to turn it around before their relationship was irreparably damaged by his loud, sarcastic and sometimes downright mean comments. He'd taken to Veronica’s hard working, diligent side and she appreciated London’s mischievous streak. They'd talked it out – which still numbered as one of the most awkward moments of London's life – but he’d known he had to push through – for the sake of his friendship with Frankie, if nothing else.

  He gets Veronica a beer from the fridge and watches her collapse onto the couch with a sigh of exhaustion.

  "Thanks," she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose where her glasses have left little indents in her skin. She takes the beer gratefully, her smile weak but genuine.

  London settles himself back down, watching Veronica tip her head back and roll it to peer at the kitchen, or more specifically, at the two hot plates and single kitchen counter. "What's for dinner?"

  "Pasta," Frankie says while turning the dial to start reheating the pot. She'd just finished preparing dinner when London had knocked earlier. London thinks it's maybe a little cute, to see how seriously Frankie takes the evenings when it's her turn to cook. Especially since she's utterly shit at it.

  "Yum," Veronica replies and there isn't even a smidgen of sarcasm in her voice.

  All talk of work is suspended due to Veronica's presence and London relaxes and grins, relieved he can enjoy their simple happiness and bask in their easy love. The stars might not have it in the cards for him, but that's okay.

  This is fine, he keeps telling himself.

  This is enough.

  Venice, almost a year ago

  Sebastian can’t help but stare – London isn’t at all what he’d expected. Others several years older than him in the business show the stress of the job obviously, little ticks or simply deeper wrinkles than their age would warrant. London sits on a crate in the darkened warehouse, the heels of his Converse rapping against the wood. He’s small, with a low centre of gravity and a well-trained body. His cheekbones and stubble wouldn’t be out of place at the high-fashion parties Sebastian likes to frequent. To top it all off, there’s an impish glint in his eyes, making him appear even younger than Sebastian himself.

  So, London has his attention. He’s gorgeous to look at with the sort of reputation that piques Sebastian’s interest, an impressive feat given that his interest is generally in short supply. Growing up getting everything he ever wished for has its drawbacks. He wants London’s attention now, even a look to let him know London has noticed him and seen what he has to offer. An affair would grant them a mutually beneficial distraction from the monotony of recon. The fact that London hasn’t so much as looked at him so far just fuels his desire. He’s used to admiring eyes on him, the fleeting glances and hopeful looks. He plays on that; in fact, he has built most of his reputation on it.

  William Potmore has called them all together and is leading the meeting by standing at the front of a warehouse in Venice that smells uncomfortably of day-old fish. They’re discussing the plan to steal from a private collector named Benson who lives in the city.

  Sebastian is bored, so it’s only natural his eyes keep returning to the pretty guy he’s heard so much about, praise whispered behind raised hands. There’s no doubt London’s good, he wouldn’t be here otherwise. But part of his talent has to be due to keeping so private, an enigma all on his own. It’s certainly conflicting, seeing him perched there in ripped jeans and plain black t-shirt. Looking like that, no one would see him as the great thief he actually is – the best in this generation, if the rumours are to be believed. />
  Unlike Mr. Trying-Hard-To-Look-Average over there, Sebastian is dressed head-to-toe in designer clothing. He knows people stare surreptitiously at him when he walks by, making them wish he’d give them the time of day. But everyone in the game knows London, if not by sight then by reputation. Everyone wants to meet him, wants to see if he lives up to the hype. And yet here he is, boyish, with unruly hair, clearly uncomfortable in a room with this many people, a haphazard crew thrown together, some because of their reputation and skill, others simply because they’d been available.

  Sebastian himself has already met with four of the five beforehand, to get a feel for them, establish a sense of camaraderie that might be beneficial. London had flat out refused to answer any emails regarding a pre-heist dinner. Maybe some of the attraction stems from that, from the mystery of this big name compressed into such a small, although undoubtedly gorgeous, person. Sebastian doesn’t often get rejected, either by his marks or his colleagues. His name might not yet hold as much weight as London’s – something he wouldn’t admit out loud under any circumstances – but he’s managed to amass his own credentials over the years and his success rate speaks for itself.

  “You should thank Walker for your upgraded rooms,” Potmore says, concluding their meeting on a lighter note than the talk of heists and thievery.

  Sebastian smiles slowly and nods at the faces turning towards him. “It was nothing,” he says with an easy drawl that he never had to learn because it came with the silver spoon, the nannies and private tutors of his youth. “Practically an accident. I just complimented the right receptionist at the right time.”

  He doesn’t mention the subtle bribe to the night concierge or the two bottles of ‘84 Merlot to the head receptionist. He likes the idea of people underestimating him, reducing him to nothing more than his looks and money. He cultivates his image carefully and is delighted when he gets asked on yet another job because he’s considered the luckiest guy around. His attention slides back to London, trying to gauge the thoughts behind those quick eyes. He’s still not looking at Sebastian, seemingly intent to not miss a single beat of his heels against the crate he’s sitting on. It’s AC/DC’s Back in Black, a song Sebastian can definitely appreciate.

  The meeting breaks up naturally, Potmore chatting to the others, pulling them to the front of the room. London makes no move to join in the easy banter. Sebastian wonders if it’s all an act, something similar to the various personas he cultivates with backstories he can recall in intricate detail because he’s actually lived them.

  Sure, London is a thief, someone who works out of sight, which isn’t compatible with all personality types. Sebastian would be utter rubbish at it – door locks are so hard to charm, after all. He understands the distance London is keeping, even if Sebastian can’t shake the feeling that the thief is one step away from bolting and disappearing down a secret alley of Venice, never to be seen again.

  The other four are clustered around the blackboard, scribbles in red marker depicting their plan for stealing one of the most highly prized imitations of Michelangelo’s David. Thankfully this one is only a foot high, which makes it much easier to acquire than the original 17-foot marble statue it was modelled after. It’s still worth millions, but then again, maybe the hefty price tag is because it’s such a perfect replica in all but size. London had seemed bored when Potmore, pompous arse that he is, had talked of its importance in the art world, of its history and value far beyond any monetary comprehension.

  Sebastian moves towards London. “The David doesn’t seem to interest you.”

  London’s heel, still rapping against the crate, misses a beat. He looks at Sebastian - finally. His gaze isn’t shy or anxious, as Sebastian had been expecting. Instead, London meets his eyes straight on, almost challenging in intensity. “I don’t need to appreciate something to steal it.”

  “But surely the history is what appeals to you? Acts as an incentive for you to steal it?”

  London easily bounces off the crate, his Converse hitting the concrete ground almost silently.

  “The money I get from the sale is incentive enough.” London speaks while walking away, like Sebastian is just that easy to ignore.

  Were his ego more fragile, or his belief in his own good-looks less solid, he’d be hurt at the clear brush off. But they aren’t, so Sebastian follows him to where the others stand chatting, enjoying the view because London has a great arse, no two ways about it.

  “Hey Will? I’m leaving,” London tells Potmore, apparently not caring that he’s interrupting an intense discussion involving the electronic security protecting their David.

  “Already? We wanted to go for dinner.”

  “It’s better if we’re not seen together.” London jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “And this kid keeps staring. It’s creepy.”

  “Hey,” Sebastian interjects, mock-hurt, drawing out the word. “I’m not creepy.”

  London rolls his eyes and walks straight past him again. He hops onto the crates in the far corner with an easy grace, jumping for a higher ledge and pulling himself up. In seconds, he’s reached the upper window and squeezed his fantastic arse straight through it.

  “What’s he doing?” Sebastian asks.

  “He likes to take the rooftops,” Potmore explains. “He can be a bit weird.”

  “No kidding.”

  Potmore smiles, clapping him on the back. “Don’t take it personally, kid. He’s not good with new people, doesn’t trust them.”

  “People usually like me,” Sebastian says and his voice is dangerously close to sounding petulant.

  Potmore grins wider, nudging his shoulder. “Tough, isn’t it? And he’s so pretty, too.”

  He is, but Sebastian doesn’t like the implication. He’s here to do a job, not for others to analyse his behaviour or judge him by his actions. He doesn’t have to dig deep to pull out the rich, bored kid, uninterested because he’s seen it all before.

  He is, and he has.

  “‘S alright.” He shrugs. “I’ve seen better. Fantastic arse though, I’ll give him that.”

  Will’s laugh is obnoxious and Sebastian extricates himself from his grasp. “You’re staying at least? Dinner?”

  “I don’t think I shall, forgive me.” He’s used to getting what he wants and London’s quick exit doesn’t sit well with him. With the plan already forming in his mind, he smiles a placating smile. “He’s got a point, we really shouldn’t be seen together so much. And I need my beauty sleep.”

  “Get any more beautiful and you’ll cause traffic accidents,” comes Cordelia’s clear voice from the front of the room.

  Sebastian blows her a kiss, knowing full-well she’s not interested. “I’ll leave you a spare key at the reception, darling. Come up any time.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” she replies easily.

  Potmore watches the banter before turning back to Sebastian. “You’re really leaving us already?”

  “Yes,” Sebastian says firmly, “I’ve got things to do.” And plans to forge.

  With his mind made up, he saunters outside, pulling his knee-length cloak in for extra warmth. His heels click along the cobbled street as he makes his way towards his hotel.

  It’s not the same one the others share as he’s opted to make use of his fathers’ usual place. It’s good to show his face there again, further establish the persona. It’s his true one, the one he tells no one about. He’s got several well-developed indentities set up to look like real people, with incomes and taxes and speeding tickets. It all takes a lot of work, which is why he makes sure never to burn through them on a whim. That’s why he’s told no one about Sebastian Ford, son of an earl and next in line for the title - that, and because his real name is ridiculous.

  He’ll be Sebastian Walker to his colleagues, the separate hotels making sure there’ll be no chance of them accidentally hearing his real name. He knows the main streets and bridges of Venice by heart. He’s been here often enough, for both business a
nd pleasure, so it doesn’t take him long to find his way back, yet he can’t help but glance up at the rooftops from time to time, imagining a small figure crouching in the shadows. Sebastian smiles, not even a little bit weirded out by that thought. He’s an exhibitionist – the idea of London, famous and elusive and, apparently, incredibly hot, following him just to see where he’s staying is exciting more than anything.

  He nods at the concierge brusquely and takes the steps two at a time up to the second floor, throwing his door open and flooding each room with light by turning on every lamp he can find. The floor-to-ceiling windows are heavily draped but he pulls the material back. He can’t make out anything except his own reflection in the window now, but if there’s anyone looking in…

  After his frantic entrance, he makes himself slow down. He undoes his coat slowly, letting each button slip through his fingers as he walks in front of the windows. The material pools around his boots with satisfactory drama. He toes those off next, followed by his socks, before making his way to the bathroom, past the plush couches and armchairs of the large living room. The bathroom is nothing less than magnificent, in its centre a raised bathtub that could easily hold four people. He turns on the lights and opens the drapes in here as well. The huge windows open onto the river, so he’s not at all sure if London, should he indeed be watching, will find a perch to see him from.

  Sebastian hopes he does.

  Once the water is running, all the candles are lit, and room service has brought him his customary nightcap, he pulls off his shirt. Music. He needs music, something to distract him from the silence in his rooms. Soon the soft notes of Chopin drift over the speakers and spread throughout the suite. The candles get arranged strategically around the tub while it fills with water, the lavender scented bath oil tickling the back of his throat pleasantly.

  After a short period of deliberation, he slowly, one by one, turns off the lights in the living room as well, making sure to walk into the brightly lit bathroom with his hands already undoing his trousers. He lives a pretty hectic lifestyle, never in one place long enough to settle down, so he's learned to make himself feel at home wherever he may be. If it's not the same place, then it's the same music, the candles he can get anywhere, the easy routine. That’s what makes him feel at home, not the shape of the bath or the width of his bed.