I steal things.”
“You do what?”
She wanted to smile at the incredulous tone. “Is stealing worse than killing? I thought it was all bad.”
“You just surprised me.” He didn’t flinch at her candid assessment of what he did, but it bothered him—and people’s opinions didn’t bother him. He had his own moral code, a code of strict honor. It shouldn’t matter what she said . . . but it did. She wasn’t accusing or even judgmental, just matter-of-fact and perhaps that was what got under his skin. That she just accepted what he was. One-dimensional, as if that was all he was. And all he would ever be.

Author: Christine Feehan