You can’t con an honest man, but I’d never met one of those.
Until I met Micah Shine.
I come from a long line of con artists. Grifters, if you will. Card cheats and honey traps and catfishers. My mother married wealthy men who died suddenly, and Dad counted cards at blackjack in Atlantic City until the Mafia offed him.
Like father, like daughter.
I was working marks in A.C. when I met Micah Shine, who seemed as if he might be that mythical beast, an honest man. I threw out the bait, and he didn’t bite.
Micah was tall, ripped, rich, and hot, and when he took off his sunglasses, his eyes were the green-flecked silver of opals.
That night, he seemed sober, conscientious, and kind, scrupulous in his honesty, and a freaking magician in bed.
That should have been my clue. Magicians are just another kind of con artist, but it didn’t register. I was smitten until it all fell apart.
I should’ve known.
Because I should have realized that if I wasn’t the con artist that night, I was the mark.
When Micah Shine showed up again the next weekend, I should have left him alone and walked away. But game recognizes game, so I sat down beside him at the poker table.
He offered to cut me in on the biggest con I’d ever heard of.
And that’s when I fell in love.
But that didn’t mean I was a sucker.
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