Chapter Seven
“I don’t know whether to be mortally afraid of you, seriously impressed, or incredibly turned on.”
Dorian stood on the front porch of Vincent Estas’ home on the outskirts of Woodstock, watching in awe as Charlotte slid something she’d called a bump key into the front lock.
She was dressed head to toe in tight black clothing, a small leather satchel slung over her shoulder that held her tricks of the trade. Dorian had taken her into the city yesterday to retrieve it from a small storage unit in Chelsea where she kept her professional gear—gear she claimed she hadn’t used in years. Not since she’d been promoted to the much more lucrative art scenes she currently worked.
Most recently worked, he silently amended. Those days, she’d promised him, were behind her.
Though he ha
