A butterfly chose that moment to flutter past them. It came to rest on one of the rosebushes planted in a neat line beside the large terrace. She had herself a real Forrest Gump and Jenny moment. Except that she didn’t want to be a bird and fly far, far away. She wanted to be that butterfly. Beautiful and free and without a thought or care in the world.
For too long now, she’d had too many thoughts. Too many cares.
“I knew this man had only stolen a set of gemstones because he’d been forced to. Because he’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place,” she explained. “And I knew he’d never do anything like that again, so yeah…” She shrugged.
“Where does Grafton fit in?”
Another question. It was a banner day.
“My superiors at Interpol suspected I’d helped the fugitive escape, but they couldn’t prove it. Grafton, however, could. I mean, he can. Somehow he got his hands on phone records showing the communication between me and the thief. If I don’t continue to work for him, he’ll turn over the evidence to the authorities. I’ll be locked up quicker than you can say ‘traitor.’ Interpol doesn’t take kindly to rogue agents.”
“Do you love him?”
Sonya’s jaw slung open. Partly because that was three—three—whole questions. She heard Sesame Street’s Count von Count’s bwa-ha-ha echo through her head. But mostly because… Was the guy totally Nutso Bismol?
“Of course not.” Glancing around, she lowered her voice. “Grafton is a dirt merchant. Worse than that. He’s the single-celled organism growing on the dirt the dirt merchants sell. And no matter what he says or what he promises you or how long you work for him, don’t think you can trust him for a second. He’ll smile and shake your hand while driving a knife in your back.”
“No. Not Grafton. The jewel thief.”
The sun, which had been hidden behind a big, fluffy cloud, peeked out and shined brightly on Angel’s swarthy face, into his eyes. She was startled to realize they weren’t hell-black like she’d thought. Instead they were a deep, dark brown, reminding her of strong Turkish coffee.
For a couple of tense seconds, she considered telling him the truth. Oddly enough, in that moment she wanted to tell him the truth. But logic—and self-preservation—prevailed. “I do. I mean, I did,” she lied.
Angel popped his jaw, a jerk of his chin to the side and an accompanying snap of sound. It was quick. Over in a second. But it was enough to have her turning into a block of ice.
The wind whispering over the Cornish countryside was warm and inviting for the first time in months, but it might as well have been an arctic blast. Goose bumps erupted over her arms. Her scalp tingled. Dozens of memories crowded her brain.
She searched Angel’s eyes, looking for a hint of something, anything familiar. “Do you speak Hebrew?” she asked him, having switched to that very language.
“Sorry. What?” He still spoke English.
She shook her head, laughing at herself for seeing ghosts. “Nothing. Sometimes I think the six months working for Grafton have made me cuckoo in the cranium. Know what I mean?”
“No.”
“Ha!” He was so…serious with his answer. Without thinking, she placed her hand on his arm. “That was a rhetorical question.”
Or at least that’s what she meant to say.
She only got halfway through the sentence. The instant her fingers made contact with his forearm, she was struck mute by the lightning bolt of awareness that slammed through her. The back of her neck beneath her hair misted with sweat. His hot skin made her palm burn and itch.
She wanted him. Like…wanted him. The intensity of it shocked her into wide-eyed silence.
“You should be careful.”
His raspy words had her eyes jumping from her hand, so pale against his arm, to his face. As always, his expression was unreadable, but there was no mistaking the flash of emotion in his eyes. Whether that emotion was anger or disgust or answering lust, she couldn’t say.
“Careful of what?” she asked breathlessly as she pulled her hand back and curled her fingers around the heat his skin had left behind.
“Me.”
That one word seemed to reverberate around the terrace and lawn. And inside her.
She was terrified…and a little turned on.
It’s official. I’m losing my marbles.
“Are you going to do it?” she asked in a desperate attempt to get the conversation—and herself—back on track. She had to clear her throat because it sounded like someone had taken a Brillo Pad to her larynx.
