Page 3 of Borrowed Bride

It’s so unexpected that I nearly overbalance. People in New York don’t look me in the eye. They can sense my homelessness just by being in my vicinity so they never, ever look me in the eye.

He does, and for a brief second I’m completely entranced by the gemstone-like shimmer in his icy eyes. Just as quickly as he looks at me, he looks away.

Shit.

Get it together, Gianna.

Shaking the strange, entranced feeling away, I tilt my head down and pretend not to see him. As soon as I’m close enough, I stumble into him with a surprise cry.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! These shoes are killer, I swear.” My hands subtly grasp his coat for balance and I push into him, trying to throw him off-balance. The man is like a rock and a wall of solid muscle presses against my body as I fake my loss of balance.

Within three seconds, his slim wallet is in my grasp and tucked into my shirt as I straighten up.

“Sorry!” I don’t glance up at him, not wanting to be caught in that icy stare once more, and then continue down the street as if nothing happened.

The weight of his wallet rests against my collarbone, safety tucked under a strap.

Suddenly, a large, rough palm grabs my bare forearm and jerks me backward. My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around, and the tall, handsome stranger bears down on me.

Shit!

He throws me backward, and I hit the brick wall hard enough to knock all of the air out of my lungs. I gasp hoarsely. The man gives me no space. He presses right up against me with his hands firmly gripping my waist and pinning me to the wall. The rough brick scraps against my lower back as my T-shirt rides up.

My heart races.

“Not so fast,” growls a deep voice so gravelly that a strange, warm shiver curls up my spine and skitters across my shoulders. Muscles strain against his expensive white shirt, and as the fabric pulls at the buttons, I glimpse some dark ink underneath.

Hesitantly, I look up, and I’m instantly trapped in those icy eyes.

Around him, the men from earlier close in like shadows, blocking all possible escape routes.

“You picked the wrong man’s pocket, sweetheart.”

2

MARCO

Apickpocket. It’s not unheard of, but this one is either stupid or damn suicidal.

“Was it worth it?” I demand, my voice low enough for only her to hear as my hands sweep up her waist. Where did she stash it? A pickpocket as fast as her surely didn’t have to hide my wallet somewhere I couldn’t reach. The fabric of her T-shirt rises with my fingers, briefly exposing her midriff.

“Worth it?” she hisses back. Her head jerks away from where my lips tease the shell of her ear and I’m faced with thick auburn curls.

“In some cultures, you’d lose a hand for what you’ve just done. Stealing like some filthy street rat.”

She doesn’t reply. Coward.

My knuckles brush against the weight in the left pocket of her jacket just as I find a firm bulge near her breast tucked just underneath her shirt. I’m not kind as I roughly seek out both items and pull them from her. Taking half a step back, I glance down.

Two wallets. One is brown, worn and frayed at the edges. It’s heavier than my own sleek, black card holder. It seems this thief has an array of talents.

Traffic beeps behind us, and the air fills with the slick sound of tires on a road that’s getting wetter by the second. I don’t have time to delay, but I’m also not walking away from this just yet.

“Is it a death wish you have? The last person to steal from me was cut into tiny little pieces and fed, bit by bit, to the hippo at the zoo,” I say, studying her from head to toe.

She’s trembling.

Her knee shakes against my own despite the firm set line of her lips and the sharp edge in her gaze. She’s not what I would expect from a pickpocket at all.

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