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CHAPTER ONE
THELASTTHINGCristiano Velazquez—current duke of an ancient and largely forgotten dukedom in Spain, not to mention playboy extraordinaire—wanted to see at two in the morning as he rolled out of his favourite Paris club was a gang of youths crouched in front of his limo as it waited by the kerb. He wanted to hear the distinctive rattle and then hiss of a spray can even less.
God only knew where his driver André was, the lazybastardo, but he certainly wasn’t here, guarding his limo like he should have been.
The two women on Cristiano’s arm made fearful noises, murmuring fretfully about bodyguards, but Cristiano had never been bothered with protection and he couldn’t be bothered now. Quite frankly, some nights he could use the excitement of a mugging, and at least the presence of a gang of Parisian street kids was something out of the ordinary.
Although it would have been better if they hadn’t been spray-painting his limo, of course.
Still, the youths were clearly bothering his lady-friends, and if he wanted to spend the rest of the night with both of them in his bed—which he fully intended to do—then he was going to have to handle the situation.
‘Allow me, ladies,’ he murmured, and strolled unhurriedly towards the assembled youths.
One of them must have seen him, because the kid said something sharp to the rest of his friends and abruptly they all scattered like a pack of wild dogs.
Except for the boy with the spray can, currently graffitiing a rude phrase across the passenger door.
The kid was crouched down, his slight frame swamped by a pair of dirty black jeans and a huge black hoodie with the hood drawn up. He didn’t seem to notice Cristiano’s approach, absorbed as he was in adding a final flourish to his artwork.
Cristiano paused behind him, admiring said ‘artwork’. ‘Very good. But you missed an “e”,’ he pointed out helpfully.
Instantly the kid sprang up from his crouch, throwing the spray can to the right and darting to the left.
But Cristiano was ready for him. He grabbed the back of the boy’s hoodie before the kid could escape and held on.
The boy was pulled up short, the hoodie slipping off his head. He made a grab for it, trying to pull it back up, but it was too late. A strand of bright hair escaped, the same pinky-red as apricots.
Cristiano froze. Unusual colour. Familiar in some way.
An old and forgotten memory stirred, and before he knew what he was doing he’d grabbed the boy’s narrow shoulders and spun him around, jerking his hood down at the same time.
A wealth of apricot-coloured hair tumbled down the boy’s back, framing a pale face with small, finely carved features and big eyes the deep violet-blue of cornflowers.
Not a boy. A girl.
No, a woman.
She said something foul in a voice completely at odds with the air of wide-eyed innocence she projected. A voice made for sex, husky and sweet, that went straight to his groin.
Not a problem. Everything went straight to his groin.
The grip he had on the back of her hoodie tightened.
She spat another curse at him and tried to wriggle out of his hold like a furious kitten.
Cristiano merely tightened his grip, studying her. She was quite strong for a little thing, not to mention feisty, and he really should let her go. Especially when he had other female company standing around behind him. Female company he actually wanted to spend time with tonight.
Then again, that familiarity was nagging at him, tugging at him as insistently as the girl was doing right now. That hair was familiar, and so were those eyes. And that lush little mouth...
Had he seen her before somewhere?
Had he slept with her, maybe?
But, no, surely not. She was dressed in dirty, baggy streetwear, and there was a feral, hungry look to her. He’d been in many dives around the world, and he recognised the look of a person who lived nowhere but the streets, and this young woman had that look.
She had the foul mouth that went along with it, too.
Not that he minded cursing. What he did mind was people spray-painting his limo and interrupting his evening.
