Page 23 of Runaway Queen

He read out his number, and I typed it into my phone and then set it down.

“New number?” I mused as he tucked it away. It was odd to see someone read their number out by looking at it.

He grinned. “New phone.” The cell in his hand rang, and he answered it.

“Hello! Now you have her number,” Chiara said across from me.

I took a moment to realize that she’d called the stranger’s number immediately.

I snatched my cell from her and gave her a death look that made her roll her eyes.

“Relax, what’s the harm?”

“What should I save your number as? I’m Bran, by the way.” He extended a big, long-fingered hand to me.

I shook it uncomfortably. Bran? The unusual name was vaguely familiar. I wondered where I’d heard it before.

“Sophie, and this is Cici.”

“Sophie and Cici, nice to meet you.”

Bran’s phone chimed in his hand, and he glanced at it and then flashed us a brilliant smile. Yep, it was official. The man was charming as hell. He stood and gave us a better view of how tall and broad he was. His arms were inked with Celtic designs, and they gave me a pang. I hadn’t seen someone with so much ink in a long time. Seven years, to be exact.

“I’ve got to take this,” Bran said. He brought his phone to his ear as he started away. His eyes lingered on mine. “I hope I’ll be seeing you again soon, Sophie.”

* * *

DroppingLeo off at the hospital was the worst part of the day. I hated when he was admitted and I was home alone, but this time, it was more important than ever. Ironically, he loved the vibe in the children’s ward. He was together with a lot of sick kids he saw often. There was no staring or whispering about him and his spotty school record. He was with his own little community, and he treated it more like an extended sleepover than a hospital stay.

I said goodbye quickly, so I wouldn’t get overly sentimental and upset him, and headed toward Edward Sloane’s house. It sat on a high cliff overlooking the ocean. It was a beautiful spot. I had to give him that. Huge gates surrounded his property, and I didn’t feel like trying to drive my car inside. I parked out on the quiet street beyond the wall and got the portrait out of the car. I was on my way toward the gate when it buzzed open.

I stared up at the security camera mounted outside, taking in the entire street. I knew I was expected, but there was something vaguely creepy about the idea of Edward waiting for me to arrive and buzzing me in before I’d pressed the damn bell.

As the enormous gate rolled slowly open, I felt an itching feeling on the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched. I turned and glanced back at the street, pressing the lock button on my car keys again, suddenly paranoid. No matter how long I lived away from Mafia life, I didn’t think the unease would ever truly leave me. The feeling of phantom eyes crawled over me, and I turned back to the camera, realizing what it must be. Edward, watching me, waiting for me to enter. Understandable, but creepy.

I strode across the paved forecourt outside the vast house. It was all glass and wood, a real architectural dream. The view behind it was even better. The ocean rolling away, huge and uncaring about the petty problems of people. The salty air hit my nose and calmed me.

I headed toward the huge doors at the front of the house. They opened before I reached them.

“Good afternoon.” Edward appeared in the doorway, smiling at me with that arrogant ease of a man who knows he can buy everything he wants in life.

“Hello. Where would you like the painting put?”

Edward smiled, even though that muscle kept ticking in his jaw. “This way.”

He stepped back, allowing me into the house.

Inside was just as beautiful as the outside had promised it would be. Edward herded me through the long, arched corridors. We emerged onto a deck with a stunning view. Food was laid out on the table, salad and cold meats, bread and wine. I turned and stared at him.

“I thought I was here for work?”

“I never could separate work and pleasure.” Edward smiled, as if there was something charming about what he’d said.

“Well, I can. I can’t stay for lunch.” I gripped the painting and stepped back. This asshole kept pushing at my boundaries, and I had no idea how far he was going to go.

“I insist. I’m going to eat before I see the painting, so if you don’t want to, I guess I’ll have an audience.”

“Edward,” I bit off, exasperated.

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