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‘I’m not going to do anything about it.’ She lifted her chin stubbornly. ‘Let me out,fils de pute.’
‘Such language,’ Cristiano reproved, entertained despite himself. ‘Where did you learn your manners?’
‘I’ll call the police myself. Tell them you’re holding me against my will.’
She dug into the voluminous pockets of her hoodie, brought out a battered-looking cellphone and held it up triumphantly. ‘Ten seconds to let me out and then I’m calling the emergency services.’
Cristiano was unmoved. ‘Go ahead. I know the police quite well. I’m sure you’ll be able to explain why you were crouching in front of my car, spray-painting foul language all over it, and then pulling a knife on me when I tried to stop you.’
She opened her mouth. Closed it again.
‘What’s your name?’ he went on. That nagging familiarity was still tugging at him. He’d seen her before—he was sure of it.
‘None of your business.’
Clearly she’d thought better of calling the police, because she lowered her hand disappearing her phone back into her hoodie.
‘Give me back my knife.’
Cristiano was amused. She was a brave littlegatita, asking for the knife he’d only just disarmed her of after she’d tried to stab him with it. Brave to stand up to him, too—especially considering she was at a severe disadvantage. Not only physically but, given her dirty clothes and feral air, socially, too.
Then again, when you lived at the bottom of life’s barrel you had nothing to left to lose. He knew. He’d been there himself—if not physically then certainly in spirit.
‘Sadly, that’s not going to happen.’ He shifted, taking his hands out of his pockets and very slowly leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, his fingers linked loosely between his knees.
A wary look crossed her face.
And that was good. She was right to be wary. Because he was losing his patience, and when he lost patience he was dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.
‘I’ll ask one more time,’ he said, letting a warning edge his voice. ‘What’s your name,gatita?’
The man sitting opposite Leonie—the rich bastard who’d scooped her up and put her in his limo—was scaring the living daylights out of her, and she wasn’t sure why.
He wasn’t being threatening. He was simply sitting there with his hands between his knees, eyes the same kind of green as deep, dense jungles staring unblinkingly at her.
He was dressed all in black, and she didn’t need to be rich to know that his clothes—black trousers and a plain black cotton shirt—had been made for him. Nothing else explained the way they fitted him so perfectly, framing wide shoulders and a broad chest, a lean waist and powerful thighs.
He reeked of money, this man. She could virtually smell it.
And not just money. He reeked of power, too. It was an almost physical force, pushing at her, crowding out all the air in the car and winding long fingers around her throat and squeezing.
There was another element to that power, though. An element she couldn’t identify.
It had something to do with his face, which was as beautiful as some of the carved angels on the tombs in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Yet that wasn’t quite it. He seemed warmer than an angel, so maybe more like a fallen one. Maybe a beautiful devil instead.
Night-black hair, straight brows and those intense green eyes...
No, he wasn’t an angel, and he wasn’t a devil, either. He seemed more vital than a mythical being. More...elemental, somehow.
He was a black panther in the jungle, watching her from the branch of a tree. All sleepy and lazy... Until he was ready to pounce.
That frightened her—but it didn’t feel like a threat she was familiar with. Sleeping on the streets of Paris had given her a very acute sense of threat, especially the threat of physical violence, and she wasn’t getting that from him.
No, it was something else.
‘Why do you want to know my name?’
She wasn’t going to just give it to him. She never gave her name to anyone unless she knew them. Over the past few years she’d developed a hearty distrust of most people and it had saved her on more than one occasion.
