Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
The night winds down as the club empties, and we make our way to the waiting limo. The streets of Paris glitter in the midnight hour, and I let my head rest against Sylvain's shoulder as we drive toward the marina where his sailboat is docked.
My phone chirps with a message, and I smile when I see who it's from.
My Dearest Frenemy,
Bonjour! How fares Paris's most cowardly little pickpocket? You had every opportunity to steal that man's watch at the embassy dinner! Shame on you.
All the best,
Sarica
P.S. Say hello to your Maman for me. I still can't believe a lovely woman like her has a daughter like you.
Sylvain shakes his head when he reads this. "It is clear to everyone that both of you like each other."
I let out an offended gasp. "That's such a horrible thing to say." Can't he see how hard Sarica and I are working at being catty? Our plan is doomed to fail if we don't get this right, and I'm still shaking my head at his words even as I type my reply.
Hello to Boston's Pink-Haired Curse!
That man you're talking about is the leader of STRAKH. Only an idiot would steal from him. Which you obviously are.
Sincerely,
Liana
P.S. I still have a hard time believing Giancarlo Marchetti married someone like you.
I've just hit Send when my phone rings, and Erin's name flashes on the screen.
"Bianca is having nightmares again," she says without preamble. "Sophie thought you might want to know."
My heart squeezes. Our current houseguest is an eighteen-year-old girl recovering from witnessing her father being gunned down in front of her. Just a year younger than I am in age, but we're a thousand light years apart when it comes to what we've seen and know about the brokenness of our world.
"I'll call her tonight," I decide.
"Compris, madame."
Sylvain takes my hand after the call, and my heart flutters at what I see in his eyes.
"Thank you," he says simply.
"Thank you." And I mean it, too. I would never have known this was what I was meant to do if not for him.
The limo pulls up to the marina, where Sylvain's sleek sailboat awaits. We board quickly, and my heart lightens up as the scent of saltwater envelops me. This may be wishful thinking, but I just feel in my heart that our first trip to St. Marianne is going to change all of our lives.
About an hour passes before we glide to a stop at the island's private dock, the engines falling silent as Sylvain secures the final rope and moves to stand beside me.
I look up at him with a smile. "We're here."
"Indeed."
"Aren't you excited to meet your cousin?"
"As excited as someone like me can be." The wind ruffles my husband's dark hair as he speaks. "I'm still not used to thinking I have...family."
"He's had a hard life like you."
"I know. It's what makes me trust him." Sylvain turns to me, his finger tracing my cheek. "And speaking of trust..."
Uh oh.
"What is this I hear from Calixte?"
The Prince of Killers has a big mouth.
"Is it true that you and Sarica have this plan to take down—"
I'm already moving, pretending his words are lost to the wind as I leap from the boat, my feet hitting the wooden dock with a satisfying thud. Spray from the sea sparkles in the air as I spin around, offering my most innocent smile.
"May I help you, sir?" I extend my hand with exaggerated formality, bowing slightly like a servant from another century.
Sylvain regards me with a raised eyebrow. "Is this your way of calling a truce?"
"Absolutely."
He reaches for my hand, the corners of his mouth curving upward—
I spin away, my laughter ringing across the water—followed by a magnificent splash.
(Heh.)
That should teach him.
Tit for tat, Monsieur le Dernier.
SYLVAIN BROKE THE SURFACE of the water with a growl, decades of training kicking in as he hauled himself onto the dock in one fluid motion. Water cascaded from his expensive clothes, but his eyes—those dangerous blue eyes—never left her.
His darling little thief, with her fearless reprisal.
She had grown bolder with him, this wife of his.
But boldness had consequences.
Liana was already running toward the stone path leading to the mansion, her laughter carried on the Mediterranean breeze.
Peu importe. Didn't matter.
He pursued her with predatory grace, his pace unhurried, his every move deliberate. It was easy to calculate her trajectory as his wife darted between palm trees, and...there.
She could only gasp his name out as he caught her from behind, and she half-choked, half-sputtered when he tossed her over his shoulder...just like old times.
"Sylvain!"
He turned back to the dock, and his wife shivered, but this, he knew, had nothing to do with how his wet clothes were plastered against her skin.
This was his wife, after all, and he knew her, inside out.
"Please put me down."