Page 79 of Full Throttle

Great.

That was brilliant.

Her phone was her only way to reach Baz, and she’d been planning to use Apple Pay to get home. So that left her in a real pickle.

Juliette glanced at the nearest restaurant. La Maison Vert. The polished marble exterior and floral archway gave off “I’m a fancy French restaurant that doesn’t allow jeans.” Still, the other options were a closed bank or a designer store, so she started through the doors, pulling her baseball cap lower over her eyes.

She could feel the stares of other diners, all dressed in suits and casually undone bow ties. She flagged down a disgruntled-looking maître d’, and she was in the middle of asking—well, begging really—to use their phone when someone called her name.

“Juliette?”

She froze.

As if this day couldn’t get any worse.

“Juliette Marchmont,” the male voice repeated, with more confidence. “It is you.”

And then a second voice: “For god’s sake, Sinclair. Say it a bit louder, why don’t you?”

Juliette closed her eyes.

Scratch that. Her day could get worse. Because she’d recognize that arrogant, almost-French-but-not-quite-French voice anywhere. Mostly because it haunted her nightmares. And sure enough, when she turned, Dominic Hastings sat at a table.

Dominic wore a smart white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattoo. He was tanned, which had the unfortunate effect of making him even better looking. Dark curls fell into his eyes. He was sitting with a middle-aged man who she recognized as Vance Hastings, his father, as well as…

Juliette blinked.

As well as Anthony Sinclair. What on earth was happening?

“Hastings.” Her brain whirred. “I didn’t know you were in London.”

Dominic looked at his dinner plate and said nothing, which was concerning. She’d expected a raised eyebrow and a “Been keeping tabs on me, Marchmont?” or “You know you’re not meant to swim in the Thames, right?” Silence was never good.

“Ah, the famous Juliette,” Vance said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He was swirling a glass of red wine. There was nothing particularly menacing about the way Vance was sitting, but the look in his eyes was like a hot wire slicing through a glass bottle. The Spider, people whispered, and Juliette could see why.

She shifted her weight. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Were you caught in the storm?” Vance asked politely.

No. I dress like this for fun. “Yes. I was coming back from a pub, and then it started raining…” She held up her dead cellphone. “Anyway, I was just asking to use the restaurant’s phone. My brother has my house keys.”

Anthony set down his fork. “So you’re locked out?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well,” Anthony said, “you’re welcome to stay at my flat tonight if you need a place. It’s just round the corner.”

“Oh.” Juliette paused. “That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be okay.”

She glanced at Dominic. If this was an ill-disguised attempt to get under his skin, it wasn’t working; he was buttering a bread roll, looking entirely unbothered. But then again, why would he care? He’d spent the summer break hooking up with supermodels on a yacht. He’d probably forgotten about what happened between them in Monaco entirely.

“I have a spare room,” Anthony added. “It’s already made up.”

Dominic speared a potato. “She said she’s fine.”

His gaze was fixed on his plate, which was organized into neat little sections, wedges of lemon-soaked chicken and buttery potatoes. None of the sections touched. Vance shot his son an admonishing look.