Page 14 of Misadventures with a Duke

“Oh my God.”

The inside of Allie and Max’s armoire thingie has caught on fire. I’m surely going to vocabulary hell for calling it a thingie, since the baller-sized monstrosity used to be in a stadium-sized bedroom at the De Leon estate in France and dug deep into Allie’s savings when she had it shipped over as Max’s Christmas present. Weirdly, it’s always looked at home in here too—except for now. In this moment, it’s like someone’s idea of a bad Mars rocket, with gold and purple light spilling from the seam between the doors.

And that’s before it starts quivering.

“Nooo…freaking…”

I gulp and skitter backward.

And fixate on the rest of the story behind the huge museum piece.

The part about the cabinet actually being Maximillian’s time travel machine.

Ohhh, yeah…that part.

The wardrobe into which he crawled, hiding from a mob circa 1789, only to emerge into the insanity of this day and age. But that report has never been corroborated, since Allie and her secret prince decided to celebrate his arrival by banging each other until dawn.

They’re probably doing exactly the same thing right now in one of the VIP lounges at JFK—a realization that isn’t helping my scared confusion one bit.

“Oh my God.” The moment merits the repetition. “What is going on?”

I try answering myself with logic. It must be a play of the room’s lighting, or even some newly installed lighting inside the wardrobe itself, going haywire on dying batteries. Or maybe Allie and Max have stored something in there and it’s in need of fresh batteries.

I let out a low growl. “Alessandra Fine, if I’ve almost peed myself in terror because one of your sex toys simply needs—oh, holy shit!”

The response to my growl…

Sounds more like another growl.

Only deeper. Harsher. And more real than I want it to be.

I kick off the Jimmys while cutting sharply left, toward the dresser. At once I grab my lipstick-case-that-isn’t, twisting the tube to expose the blade concealed inside. It’s not much, but I’ll make it work. I have to make it work.

The resolve sets in as I whip back around—and confront a shirtless man who’s pushing free from the wardrobe.

To rephrase, a man.

His hair’s too long to be trendy. His muscles are too stunning to be gym-grown. He’s new in town; that much is clear. The rugged edges haven’t been primped out of him yet. But here he is, so enormous that he’s ducking to step free from the cabinet.

But none of this can be right either. No way has he just materialized from the thin air inside that thing.

My brain must be more tired than I think. The logical explanation is right here in front of me, after all. Somehow, in some insane way, he’s gotten in from the balcony and was hiding in the corner, just waiting—

To do what?

“Oh God,” I rasp—already confronted by that answer from the gaze that locks on me. His irises are as rich as a Godiva sampler, except with twenty-four carat gold stirred in. But not the liquid dessert kind. The flecks that glint beneath his ungodly thick eyelashes…they’ve been extracted from the hardest stone. They’re attentive and ruthless, not missing an inch of any move I make.

Of course they are. Because he’s a criminal.

Which means I should be screaming. At the least, using my blade to back him off long enough to grab my phone and run for the bathroom. Behind that locked door, I’ll at least be able to punch the emergency button and give someone enough information to—

But I’m not doing any of that. Because apparently, I’m an idiot.

I just continue to let this gorgeous Gigantor hold me in his stealthy thrall. I keep standing here, unmoving, as he shuffles another step closer. I quiver, which makes my blade noticeably wobble, encouraging him to scrape forward by another inch.

Wait. He’s shuffling? And scraping?

Against all my better instincts, I glance down. Sure enough, the man isn’t wearing shoes. On a March night. In New York City.