That irritated her more than anything else.
He stood beside a gleaming red Ferrari in the circular driveway of a three-million-dollar mansion, his wrists locked behind his back, two police officers standing close enough to prevent him from moving.
His olive-green polo shirt fit neatly across his broad shoulders. His dark tailored trousers were immaculate, and an expensive silver wristwatch caught the afternoon sunlight whenever he shifted his weight.
He was forty-two years old, tall, athletic, and strikingly handsome, with deep-brown skin, a sharp jawline, closely faded black hair, and a neatly trimmed beard.
He had the controlled posture of someone accustomed to making difficult decisions.
Even with handcuffs around his wrists, he looked more like the owner of the property than a man accused of stealing from it.
Which, as it turned out, was exactly what he was.
But the woman pointing her finger inches from his face had not bothered to establish that fact.
She was twenty-nine years old, exceptionally beautiful, and dressed as though she had stepped directly out of an exclusive fashion magazine photographed in Monte Carlo.
Her long ash-blonde hair fell over her shoulders in silky waves. Narrow tinted designer sunglasses rested low on her nose, exposing blue eyes filled with furious disbelief. Diamond earrings flashed beneath her hair.
She wore a white strapless designer mini dress with delicate pale-blue floral patterns, a structured sweetheart neckline, and a dramatic layered skirt that moved whenever she took an angry step forward.
A quilted powder-blue handbag hung from her forearm.
The small gold emblem on its clasp gleamed in the sunlight.
Her watch cost more than some families earned in several months.
Her shoes were narrow white heels that clicked sharply against the stone driveway.
Everything about her suggested money.
And everything about the way she spoke suggested that she had spent her entire life mistaking money for authority.
"Look at him!" she shouted, turning toward the officer holding the man's wrists. "He's standing there like he owns the place!"
The officer tightened his grip.
The Black man winced slightly as the handcuff chain pulled against his wrists.
But he did not resist.
"Ma'am," he said evenly, "I've already told you that I own the house and the vehicle."
The woman laughed.
It was a sharp, contemptuous sound.
"Oh, please."
She glanced toward the enormous cream-colored mansion behind him.
Tall windows.
A two-story entrance.
Decorative stone columns.
A carefully maintained courtyard.
Mature trees rising above manicured hedges.
A property that would have looked entirely at home in the wealthiest neighborhoods of suburban Connecticut.
Then she pointed toward the Ferrari.
"And you expect me to believe that belongs to you too?"
The man met her eyes.