Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,6

about something they love.

“You don’t care about dresses,” she says, laughing softly at herself.

“No,” I say. “Not really. I like listening to you, though.”

“To me?” She laughs again. She forgot to be scared when she was talking about the dress.

“Yeah,” I say. “Is that surprising?”

“Well . . .” she says. “Everything about this is a little surprising.”

Now that I’m sure no one followed me, I’ve turned north and I’m driving almost aimlessly. I should get rid of the car—it’s probably been reported stolen. I should get rid of the girl too, for similar reasons. I could drop her off on any corner. And yet, I don’t.

“Do you have an accent?” I ask her. I think she does, but I can’t tell from where.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve lived a lot of places.”

“Where?”

“Well, I was born in Paris—that’s where my mother’s family lives. Then we moved to Hamburg, then Accra . . . after that, I think it was Vienna, Barcelona, Montreal for a while—god, that was cold. Then to DC, which wasn’t much better. After that I went to boarding school in Maisons-Laffitte.”

“Why were you always moving?”

“My father’s an ambassador. And a businessman.”

“What about your mom?”

“She was a chocolate heiress.” Simone smiles proudly. “Her maiden name was Le Roux. You know Le Roux truffles?”

I shake my head. I feel ignorant and uncultured next to Simone. Even though she’s so young, it sounds like she’s been everywhere in the world.

“How old are you?” I ask her.

“Eighteen.”

“Oh. You look younger.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

She laughs. “You look older.”

“I know.”

Our eyes are locked in that rear-view mirror, and we’re smiling at each other. Smiling much more than I usually do. I don’t know why we’re both so amused. There’s a sort of energy between us, where the conversation flows easily, and nothing we say seems out of place. Even though we’re strangers, in this ass-backward situation.

“Are you staying at The Drake?” I ask her.

“No—we rented a house in Chicago for the summer.”

“Where?”

“Lincoln Park.”

“I’m in Old Town.”

The neighborhoods are right next to each other.

I shouldn’t have told her that—if she talks to the cops afterward, if she gives them a description of me, I won’t be that hard to find. There are only so many Italian men the size of a draft horse in Old Town. Plus, the Gallos are hardly unknown to the Chicago PD.

“I better get going,” I say to her.

My mouth says the words. My body’s not quite in agreement. I’ve pulled the car into the nearest parking lot, but I’m not getting out.

I see those tawny-colored eyes, watching me in the mirror. She blinks slowly, like a cat would do. Mesmerizing me.

“I’m going to leave you at the History Museum,” I tell her. “Do you have a phone?”

“Yes,” she says.

That was sloppy, too. She could have called the police while we were driving, without me noticing.

What the fuck am I doing? I’m never this reckless.

Quickly, I wipe down the steering wheel and paddle shifters with the front of my shirt, making sure to remove any prints. I do the door handle, too.

“I’m getting out,” I tell her. “Do me a favor and wait a couple minutes before you call anyone.”

“Wait!” Simone cries.

I turn around, facing her fully for the first time.

The sight of her in the flesh, not just reflected, takes my breath away. I literally can’t breathe.

She darts forward across the seats and kisses me.

It only lasts a second, her delicate lips pressed against mine. Then she sits back again, looking almost as startled as I am.

“Goodbye,” she says.

I stumble out of the car, into the park.

3

Simone

I press my face against the window, watching the man jog off into Lincoln Park. He moves quickly for someone so massive.

Then I sink back in my seat, feeling like the whole car is spinning around.

What on earth just happened?

I can’t believe I kissed him.

That was my very first kiss.

I went to an all-girls boarding school. And while that didn’t stop any of my classmates from finding romantic partners—male or female—I never met anybody I liked enough to date. I never had the time, or the interest.

In all my wildest imaginations, I never thought my first kiss would be with a criminal. A kidnapper. A carjacker. And who knows what else!

I don’t even know his name. I didn’t ask him, because I didn’t think he’d tell me. I didn’t want him to lie.

My heart is slamming against my ribs. My dress feels too tight around my chest, and I keep breathing faster and