Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Something like that.” He ducks his head, peering out into the dark, wet night. “We’ll need to make a run for it.” He glances across at me as I begin to contort myself a little, reaching down to loosen the strap of my shoes.
“I already broke the heel,” I explain. “I don’t want to add breaking my neck into the bargain.”
“I half expected you to want to stay in the car.”
“Never promise a girl wine and expect her to cry off.”
The little devil named Charles cackles from his position perched on my shoulder. Wine and a chance to watch him take off more than a little tyre, cheri?
“There.” Ignoring his—my subconscious—insinuation, I drop my shoes into the footwell and reach for the door handle. “On three?”
Before I can begin to count down, he’s out of the car and rounding to my side, though I meet him before he can reach my door, sliding the long strap of my purse over one arm and then my head.
“Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and begins to jog across the parking lot then into the labyrinth of pink-cobblestoned streets.
Oh, Jesus. I’m not sure which burns more, my lungs or my calves, as I dash along beside him. On second examination, I decide it’s my feet as they slap against the wet cobbles that shine slick in the moonlight.
The path opens out to the town square, the stuccoed Hôtel de ville, or local town hall—not to be confused with a provider of temporary accommodations—displays a very soggy drapeau français, or French tricolour, from its flagpole. In the centre of the square stands an ancient water feature, the kind that was, at one time in a very distant past, functional rather than decorative. We cross the lamp-lit square and turn left into a vaulted alleyway where two rows of narrow houses snake up ahead. Despite the obvious aging of the buildings, the immaculately kept doors to these little houses have trailing bougainvillea and neatly trimmed greenery.
“I hope you know where you’re going,” I pant out, wondering if I should summon the energy to be suspicious of his answering nod. If he’s in the habit of kidnapping women, his choice of lair leaves a lot to be desired. The people who live here must have the stamina of mountain goats, and this coming from a woman who runs Hiit, Barrecore, spinning, and all manner of torturous exercise classes for a living.
We turn a corner, the village’s second most imposing building looming ahead. Stucco paintwork and sash windows framed by niçoises style louvered shutters, the hand-painted signage boasting:
La Belle Auberge
Hôtel. Restaurant. Salon de thé.
Thank the Lord! Though they can keep the thé, or tea. This girl needs a roof, a towel, and a bucket of wine, stat!
We burst into a tiny foyer, our laughter and exuberance filling the space.
“Man, the weather is ridiculous.”
“So bad,” I agree, slicking the rain from my bare arms with my hands. I shiver as I twist my hair over my shoulder, wringing it out over the fibrous doormat. A scarred wooden reception desk faces the doorway with an old-fashioned mail cubby hanging on the wall behind it, a half dozen or so old-fashioned keys occupying the brass hooks. My chilled skin registers the heat of an open flame and the stone fireplace at the far side of the room. A pair of leather wingback chairs stand like sentinels guarding the one other occupant of the room, a basset hound lying prone on the well-worn hearth rug.
“Someone paid attention to the weather forecast,” I say, drawn like a moth to the proverbial flame. “Come and warm up.” I throw the invitation over my shoulder as my companion presses the troublesome door closed, pivoting to face me.
I’m very suddenly no longer moving. Or cold, come to think of it. In fact, I’m very much the opposite, rain probably turning to steam on my skin. I suppose you could say I’m having a moment—a TV adaptation Mr Darcy wet from the pond kind of moment—as I stare at the way his pale shirt clings to his torso and all its deliciousness. Pectorals, shoulders, and biceps, and so, so much more. Droplets of water slap the terracotta floor as he slides his hand through his wet hair, the action painting his shirt to the ladder of his abdominals.
A ladder to the kind of heaven my fingers twitch to find.
“Are you okay?”
I swallow before mumbling something about being thirsty. Suddenly, very thirsty.
He doesn’t answer. Not with words, at least, as his lips curve into a shamelessly wide smile. A smile that is the kind of perfect only enhanced by sharp bicuspids, canine teeth providing him with an air of wolfishness.
“How about you put those cheap thoughts on hold until I find the guy to take care of your car?”