Will didn’t sleep that night.

He faked it well enough, and he definitely wasn’t faking the exhaustion in his limbs. He’d led Patrick to the bathroom after their first mind-blowing round, and then he’d blown Patrick in the shower and worked him open again until Patrick was clawing at the expensive tile and sobbing for Will to get inside him again. Then they’d done it a third time, Patrick riding him on the bed, keeping it slow until Will thought he’d go cross-eyed and start to be the one to beg.

He’d always planned on basically fucking Patrick into a near coma, but he hadn’t planned on nearly losing the use of his legs. Patrick was bendy and lean and absolutely gorgeous, and Will was going to remember this night for the rest of his life.

Pity he had to sour it by sneaking out at four in the morning.

Will waited until Patrick’s breathing became deep and even. He stroked down Patrick’s back, keeping him soothed, and waited until Patrick was an absolute deadweight before slipping back into his clothes.

A quick search got him Patrick’s passport and I.D. He grabbed some Euros and a credit card and a few other papers for good measure, both for money and for added security to prove that he was, in fact, Patrick instead of William, wanted pickpocket and thief.

He did pause as he started to head towards the door. The soft lights from the streetlamps outside and the moon above were giving Patrick’s pale skin a kind of glow. He looked so peaceful, blissfully asleep and stretched out on the bed, the sheets rumpled around him.

Will crossed back over and pulled the blanket over Patrick, gently running his fingers through Patrick’s hair. Patrick sighed into the touch, and Will caught himself smiling dopily down at him. Back at the bar, Patrick had looked hard and brittle, all clean lines, almost dangerous—untouchable. Now he looked soft and pliant and young.

He snapped out of it. Get yourself together, Will. Oh my days. It was just a one night stand. Who knew what kind of person Patrick actually was. Sex told you a lot about someone but certainly not everything. It wasn’t a no-holds-barred key into their psychology. He had to stop treating Patrick like a proper lover and just get the fuck out of dodge.

Still, he couldn’t resist a last, lingering kiss to Patrick’s shoulder blade before he turned and forced himself to walk out the door. He closed it silently behind him, and then used the elevator ride to knot his tie properly.

In just a few hours, he’d be home free.

* * *

A few hours later he had to amend that statement.

He’d gotten across the border and had made his way to Italy well enough. That wasn’t the problem. Customs had barely taken a second glance at his passport. The trouble had started when he’d hailed a taxi and told him to take him to the flat of a mate of a mate.

The taxi had instead taken him to a very posh estate somewhere in Tuscany.

“Um…” Will stared out the window as the taxi came to a halt outside the massive house—or was it mansion—and two intimidating looking men in stylish suits approached the car. “This isn’t the right place.”

“Actually, it’s precisely the right place,” the taxi driver told him as one of the men opened the back door for Will.

“William Taron?” the man said in heavily accented English.

Will’s stomach churned. That was his actual last name. How did they know that?

“We’ve been expecting you,” the man told him, offering him a hand up.

Will had the sudden impression that he was in deep, deep shit.

The two men didn’t say anything more as they led him into the house and down the hall, through opulent rooms that were dark and shuttered. Whoever owned this house, they obviously didn’t use it much. That made it the perfect place for a mob hit, Will’s brain unhelpfully reminded him. Will tried and failed to think of any reason why the Italian mafia, of all people, would want to kill him. Had Jordyn, his mate, done something to piss them off? Jordyn could be a right tosser, but she was a smart one. He didn’t think she’d be the kind of person to piss off the Italian mafia and then fail to warn him about it.

Finally they took him into a small room with a balcony overlooking some kind of garden, or maybe that was a grape field. There was a man standing with his back to them out on the balcony, but Will couldn’t make out much about him from this distance. One of the men—Will was calling them Tweedledee and Tweedledum in his head—shoved Will inelegantly into a chair.

Surprisingly, though, they didn’t tie him up. And he didn’t see any guns, either. Huh.

“You have something that belongs to my friend,” someone said, and Jesus, Will jumped a mile, twisting around to see that there was another man in the room, standing behind the chair off in the shadows where Will couldn’t see him.

What was this, a crime film? Were they trying to be as dramatic as possible about this?

“I haven’t stolen anything of yours, bruv,” Will said, opting for his natural accent because hey, these men clearly knew who he was. They probably knew that he’d grown up in a council flat in Brixton, that he couldn’t exactly go back to England right now because he’d robbed a few too many places and picked a few too many pockets, and that his middle name was Bertram.

He hated his middle name.

“Swear down, I ain’t even been to Italy before,” he went on, figuring that talking was the best way to get out of this.

The man walked around to face him, and Will could see that he was an older man, paunchy, with heavyset eyebrows that made him look kind of like an owl. “Yesterday, or rather this morning, you stole the identity of one of our esteemed associates. We’d like those back.”

Every train of thought in Will’s head ground to a halt. “Wait, what? Is this about Patrick?”

“Normally we’d provide a fitting punishment when a friend such as Patrick calls in a favor and tells us that his passport and money has been taken, but luckily for you, there’s another way to work off your debt.”

“My debt?” Will laughed. “Look, right, I took his stuff for a lark, yeah, but I ain’t in no debt to anyone. I’ll give the stuff back, yeah?”

The man shook his head. “You are a small-timer, Mr. Taron. You do not understand how these things work. But a small-timer is still a member of the criminal world. You want to play in this world, you learn the rules. You do not mess with the big fish in the pond. So when you do, you owe them. And maybe the big fish don’t devour you. Understand?”

Will bit his lip to hold in the various cutting remarks he could say to that. “Man, this is bare long. What am I supposed to do for this debt, huh?”

The owl-like man turned and looked over at the balcony. The man standing out there turned and walked inside… and all of the breath left Will’s lungs.

It was Patrick. But now he was back in a suit, a different one from last night, his hair slicked back and a glittering hardness in his eyes.

“Grazie, Don Motisi,” Patrick said in flawless Italian.

Will didn’t know a shit ton about the mafia but he did know that “don” meant “boss.” Well, shit.

The owl-like man bowed his head and then he and the two goons left. Patrick stared down at Will, looking at him with a cool, assessing gaze as if they’d never even met before, never mind kissed or slept together.

It really shouldn’t have been such a turn on.

“I thought I heard your accent slipping,” Patrick mused. “You did my voice as well, in the elevator. How many accents can you do?”

“As many as you like,” Will replied. He could sound like pretty much anyone in the United Kingdom, Canada, or the U.S. He could do a passable Afrikaner, a good French, and an even better Russian. It’d started as a way to impress guys in clubs when he was looking to pull but it’d come in handy on a few jobs since then.

“And you’re from Brixton,” Patrick said.

“Yeah.” So they’d done a pretty thorough background check. Will expected nothing less from the competent looking man in front of him.

“You managed to keep up your fake accent while you were fucking me,” Patrick said, almost musingly. “That’s pretty impressive. You’re a thief, obviously, and your record says you’ve got a couple ASBOs and robberies under your belt, and suspected pickpocketing. Any other talents? Counting cards, for instance?”

Will thought about lying, but then he figured if Patrick had tracked him down this quickly, called in a favor to a mob boss to capture him, and knew about where he was from, he probably also knew about how Will used to haunt all the gambling dens in Chelsea. “I can. I can deal, too. I’m good enough without it though, ain’t I? No point in losin’ a finger for counting when you can just play normal and win, innit?”

“Which would you say you’re better at,” Patrick asked. “Dealing, or playing?”

“Dealing,” Will replied. He’d served as the dealer for most of the games to save himself the temptation of trying to win all the time.

“Good.” Patrick frowned for a moment, thinking. “All right. Get up, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Wait, we?” Will stared up at him. “No offense, mate, you’re fit and all but I ain’t going anywhere with you.”

“Mr. Taron, you stole from me, which is bad enough, but you stole from me,” Patrick said, emphasizing the last word in a way that made a chill creep up Will’s spine. He told himself it wasn’t sexy. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could have gotten yourself into with my passport?”

“No more than I usually get into,” Will replied hotly.

Patrick looked like he was seriously considering throwing something. “Could you just—come with me, please?”

“Thought we already did that,” Will said, standing up and winking at him.

Patrick’s cheeks got a little pink, but then his eyes narrowed. “You’re on thin ice, Mr. Taron.”

“Will,” Will replied.

Patrick swallowed. “Will.”

That felt a little like victory, so Will allowed Patrick to lead him back through the house. He even handed Patrick back his passport and I.D. and credit card, although Will kept the cash.

“So what exactly is this all about?” Will asked as they exited, only to find the taxi was still waiting for them. Patrick politely held the door open for him, and Will tried not to glare at the false show of politeness. As if this wasn’t practically a kidnapping. “Who are you?”

Patrick tapped on the driver’s seat, and the taxi took off. “You’ve probably heard of The Jackal, right?”

Will laughed. “Man, who hasn’t? Jewels, art, guy’s done it all. Rumor has it, he’s a pretty good con man too, but that’s harder to prove, innit?”

Patrick nodded. “That is harder to prove, yes. Partially because often times when you’re conning someone worth conning, they’re either a rather powerful businessman or someone on the opposite side of the law, and in either case they can’t allow their reputation to suffer, nor can they let the police investigate the robbery.”

That caught Will as odd, and he turned to look at Patrick. The guy was in Monte Carlo, where there were plenty of rich people to both con and steal from. He was close friends with an Italian mob boss, and he’d tracked down Will in less than a day.

“Shit.” Will stared at him. “You’re him, innit? Or he’s you?”

Patrick didn’t say anything or even nod, but that was all the answer that Will needed. He collapsed back against his seat, all of the fight gone out of him.

Everyone had heard about The Jackal. He was the best in the business. Or she, nobody knew the actual gender of the thief. All that was known was that most of the famous art and jewelry heists, and a few of the bank heists, around the world had been committed by him/her. In the criminal side of the world, Will had also heard of the cons that The Jackal had run, all kinds of them, pocketing millions of dollars from the mafia and CEOs and nobility alike. It was the kind of glamorous thieving life that usually only existed in books and movies, the kind that only happened once in a generation.

But Patrick couldn’t possibly be The Jackal. The Jackal had started operating fifty years ago. The real Jackal must be an old man or woman by now, in their 50s or 60s, not barely thirty.

Unless this was a Dread Pirate Roberts situation, which at this point, Will was not above believing. He was ready to believe anything, after how fast Patrick had caught him and the fact that he’d been kidnapped by a fucking mafia boss.

This was bare long, man.

“I usually work alone,” Patrick said. “And by usually, I mean always. But I’m working a job now where I need a partner, someone I can rely on. It’s a long con, so I can’t use anyone who’s already an expert in the field. My mark will find out who they are. I also can’t train someone who’s completely green. That will take too much time and there’s too many ways to slip up. You’ve run a few long cons yourself though, going by what your associates have told me.”

“Associates?”

“I contacted some old friends of yours in prison back in the UK. Don’t worry, they didn’t give up anything about you until I promised them that I was looking to hire you for a heist.”

“That’s what we’re doing?” Will asked. “A heist?”

Patrick shook his head. “A con, like I said. A long one. You’ll need to follow all of my instructions, but in exchange, you’ll get a share of the profits and I’ll train you on how to be a proper conman.”

Will snorted. Like he needed any help. What kind of arrogant toff was this man? What had happened to the sly, eager thing he’d held in his arms last night, or the pliant, soft creature he’d kissed before leaving the hotel room? Which one was the real Patrick?

Patrick gave him a look that seemed half-frustrated, half-annoyed. “Oh, so you like pickpocketing random people and breaking into hotel rooms and running from the police all the time? You’re setting yourself up to be in prison, just like all of your other friends. Nobody’s caught me yet. Nobody even knows The Jackal is me.”

“And your name’s really Patrick, issit?” Will asked.

“Actually, yes,” Patrick replied. “I try to be legal when I can. It avoids problems at customs, and it’s awkward when someone calls you a fake name in bed.”

Will grinned at that. Yeah, that would be awkward. “You begged real pretty last night.”

It was worth it to see Patrick’s cheeks get pink again, even if he then leveled a glare that could melt a wall of concrete. “Could you stop acting like a child for two seconds? I’m trying to help you. At the rate you’re going, all that’s in your future is jail time. I’m giving you a way to graduate, to get to a higher level. I have contacts that I can set you up with.”

“And in turn all I gotta do is be your partner in this thing,” Will said. “Sounds like you’re puttin’ in a lot of work for me. How much are you getting in return, ey?”

“Plenty,” Patrick assured him.

“No, really.” Will turned to face him. “I liked you last night, mate, you were a real fit slag.”

Patrick made a face. “I’m not a slag.”

“Sure you weren’t.” Will grinned at him slyly, and waited for Patrick’s cheeks to get pink again. “But I know how this works. You toffs, you’re all the same, whether you’re on this side of the law or not. You pick up a guy with a couple ASBOs, you give him just enough rope to hang himself, and then you let him take the fall when you run off with the haul. You get the take and he gets the make and Bob’s your uncle, but he’s in the slammer. I know I don’t look like much but I ain’t twatted, and I know when shit ain’t safe. You ain’t bredren, you ain’t safe, so how do I know you ain’t going to just turn around and use me for a patsy?”

Patrick had a strange look on his face like he was trying to decipher hieroglyphs. “I only understood about half of that.”

Will laughed, sliding into his proper Queen’s English. “I said, love, that I can’t help but be suspicious that you’re offering this. How do I know you’re not going to just screw me over? Teach me just enough to let me think I know what I’m doing, and then watch me walk right into the arms of the law, taking the blame while you’re sitting safe and pretty on whatever it is we’re trying to win.”

“That one,” Patrick said. “Use that accent. Not your natural one.”

“Man, that’s bare long,” Will said, using slang just to spite him.

“You’re supposed to sound educated.”

“Oh my days.” Will rolled his eyes. “You can’t judge a man by his accent, bruv, that’s just cold. You picked me up in fuckin’ Monte Carlo.”

“Yeah, in a stolen suit that didn’t fit.”

Will glared at him but switched back into the more proper British accent. “And I saw your I.D. You’re only two years older than I am, darling, so you can stop talking to me like I’m a child.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said, and he seemed to mean it. “I’m not—that’s not my intention. It’s just…” He breathed in slowly through his nose, then out again. “I need this con to go well, and you’re not exactly being cooperative.”

“You’re the one who arranged for my kidnapping, bruv.”

“I’m not going to leave you hanging,” Patrick explained. “I need a partner to pull this con off, and so I need you. And in exchange, I’m going to give you part of the take, and training and connections so that you can stop running from the police and start actually moving in the right circles in the criminal world.”

“And what if I say no?” Will asked. Against his better judgment, he was already considering it.

“Then I’ll drop you off and I’ll go back to Monaco and figure out how to do this on my own, or with someone else.”

For some reason, the idea of someone else working with Patrick made Will’s blood run hot. Patrick had said that he always worked alone, and the idea of getting to be his first real partner made something possessive and hot surge up in Will’s chest.

And the truth was, most of his friends were in prison. He couldn’t get back into the UK, so the few friends he still had he couldn’t visit. He was tired of running. He hated that he had to stalk a guy in a bar, sleep with him, and then steal his passport to get out of the country before the police locked him up. He wanted to be moving in the kind of circles that Patrick clearly moved in. He wanted to be the one keeping the media and Interpol on their toes, stealing high-end things, living the high life. The thrill of the con and the heist was all he’d ever loved, but he was tired of scrabbling for scraps. He wanted what Patrick offered.

And, to be fair, he wanted Patrick as well. The idea of getting to spend more time with a guy who was not only gorgeous and sexy, but apparently also the world’s most accomplished thief was like a dream come true.

“All right,” Will said. “I’m in.”

Patrick gave him a smile, his eyes lighting up, and oh, there—that was the guy he’d met at the bar last night, that reluctant smirk turning up the corners of his mouth despite his best efforts, his bright blue eyes gleaming and full of promise. Will found himself grinning back before he even realized.

“Perfect,” Patrick said, his tone holding plenty of promise.

Will settled back into the taxi. He was going to enjoy this.

“Oh, one last thing?” Patrick added. “We’re not sleeping together. I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

He was going to hate this.