She ignores the offer and pulls herself up—quite impressively, I might add. This woman has muscles. I usually find the unsuspecting, delicate ladies beautiful. Easier to manipulate. But Serena Cruz is her own woman. She doesn’t need me; she doesn’twantme. In fact, she detests me and would like to kill me. And yet, I’ve never been more attracted to a woman. Is childhood trauma to blame for that?
Serena splashes up the cement and squeezes out her pantsuit. I try not to laugh at her drowned rat appearance and frightening scowl to match. The blazer comes off, and I get a second peek at what she’s wearing underneath that white shirt. To be fair, everyone in a fifty-foot radius is getting more than just a peek. I’d offer her my shirt, but it’s just as wet and white.
“You should put that back on,” I say, gruffly. Gruff wasn’t something I even knew I could achieve. Am I… jealous? No, simply protective.
“I’m done listening to you.” Serena snatches the bag out of my hand and heads down the street. But one block and several appalled looks later, she puts her jacket on and crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t stop walking, and I don’t stop her. She needs a minute to process her near-death experience in relative peace. I would have appreciated that the first time I found the unfortunate end of a gun. But sometimes one doesn’t get that luxury.
Her shoes squeak with each step she takes; as she turns down one alley, the squeaks speed up.
I speed up, too.
We hit another alley, and it happens again. Is she trying to get rid of me?
I’m not letting this woman out of my sight. She has my box with the forty-million-dollar ring inside.
We turn another corner and this time she takes off at a sprint. I groan and race after her. Why does she have to be so fast?
She dives into a corner alley and then…
Where did she go?
Serena
I hold my breath from my hiding spot as Liam’s footsteps race by me. Once he’s cleared the alley, I duck back in the direction we came. I retrace our steps, stopping short at the building that caught my attention a few minutes ago. It’s a deserted boutique. Every other business down this street is open right now, except this one. There’s a sign on the door in French, something about a family emergency, but I don’t stop long enough to translate it.
The door is locked, so I go around the side alley and climb the steps behind the shop. There’s a window. I press my hands flat against it and push.Yes. The window releases, and the whole panel tips in.
I slip inside, gently dropping the seven feet, and close the window behind me.
I’m free.
Well, except for the fact that I’m stranded in France without my phone or money. Freaking Liam Hawthorne.
I wander through the boutique, searching for signs of life. No phone. No fridge with food. There’s a staircase to what I assume is an apartment, and I creep up the wooden steps. I listen at the door for two full minutes before cracking it open.
No screams or living things greet me. There’s a couch, a fridge, and a bathroom. I sigh with relief. For now, that’s all I need. After searching the house to ensure there are no bodies, alive or not, I use the restroom. Car chases and small bladders do not go hand in hand. Then I strip my wet clothes and scrub the mud caked on my ankles. I rinse off my suit then leave it on the curtain rod to dry. It’s not a dry cleaner, but it’s all I’ve got. I shake out my hair and wrap a towel around my body, listening at the closed bathroom door for sounds of life.
Once I’m content, I slip into the hallway and cross the hall to the bedroom.
Something is off. I sense it immediately. The air feels different—more alive than it did when I first got into the apartment.
My heart stops beating. Someone is here.
I backtrack, raising my gun as I move. My back hits the doorjamb, alerting whoever else is here with me. A figure steps out of the closet, and I aim my gun at…
“Liam?”
“You know, a gun is not the best way to greet people. Has anyone taught you the French way?” he asks, but his words fall on deaf ears.
He’s shirtless, his wet slacks hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding a pair of clothes in one hand.
I’ve always been good at observing my surroundings, and apparently right now, that’s all my eyes want to do as they drop to his torso. His arms and shoulders are lean but wired with muscles and veins like an artist sculpted him and only him, so uniquely. His abdominals protrude from his skin like a washboard. Goodness, they should have their own threat level. But what’s most surprising are the tattoos running down his right side. Like that’s where he keeps all his secrets.
“Is it my turn to shower?” he asks. “Or do you need me to stand here for a few more minutes while you get your fill?”
“What are you doing here?” I spit, not dropping my gun from where I’ve got it aimed at his naked chest.
“I suppose the same thing you’re doing. When you ran away from me, I remembered this closed shop we passed and figured I’d get a change of clothes. Though, I was hoping for something a little more reliable than a towel.” His eyes dart down my body.
