Page 41 of Misadventures with a Duke

“About what?”

“All of it. The variety. The colors. The speed. All of it…all of them…going by so fast.” By now he’s returning my rough grip with climbing energy. But while his hold is still harsh, his words are uneven.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, wrapping my other hand around our clasp. “You made it. Congratulations. You’re no longer a virgin to the New York train system.”

“Hmph.” His fast glance is a screen capture of beautiful irritation. “Giving up my real virginity was less frightening.”

“Let’s hope so,” Drue drawls before popping her attention to me. “You know the really scary thing? They caught this big boy on camera after all that. He was full-on Pompeii all the way from Allie’s neighborhood to Grand Central and then hopped on the Lexington line for three stops. If he’d been a real barbarian out for blood, there’d be a mighty miserable blood trail up the middle of Manhattan’s belly.”

Bastien tenses. “If a blood bath was my intent, there would be no evidence after the fact.” He scrutinizes Drue again. “Barbarians leave messes. Trained warriors do not.”

“Touché,” Drue replies. “Oh, my, my. You’re more in touch with your snarly side than your brother.”

Unsurprisingly, that rips the wind out of Bastien’s gruff sails. Also not a shock: the way he quietly turns back to me, his noble features possessed by stark emotion.

“How long ago?” he pleads. “Maximillian. How long has he been here? In this…world?”

He stumbles on that last noun, but not before I sense where he was really headed with it.

In this time.

He’s starting to believe it, though he doesn’t want to say it. And that has to be okay too.

“About a year,” I offer. “But obviously, strict linear logistics don’t rule the magical mystery era-jumping armoire. If they did, then none of this—your own trip—would’ve been possible.”

He frowns. “How so?”

I sigh. My God, even his confusion is beautiful. “Well, because you’d be—”

“And that feels perfect for this episode’s cliffhanger.” While D saves me from myself without a second to spare, she claps her hands just once. But with that kind of authority, once is enough. “Especially because you’re good to go now, Pompeii. Uh, wow…in all the best ways.”

There’s not a sliver of room to argue as she gestures to Bastien with a one-armed sweep. Though he’s squelched the Pompeii factor by slipping into the T-shirt and a pair of scuffed loafers that D miraculously managed to find in his size, he’s still a beautifully scruffy hottie. The shirt’s hem hides the outdated crotch of his pants, making it look like he simply splurged for a pair of khakis on his way up 5th Avenue. Even the loafers look like they were styled on purpose to “relaxed” mode.

“Web of wonders,” I utter.

“Looks so much better than a spider can,” D adds.

“Very nice work, Miss Kidman.” I’m the one cracking my hands together now, leaving them in prayer position while amending, “And you know there’d be heaps more mush where that came from, if only—”

But the prayer hands aren’t any help, illustrated by the new swing of the kitchen’s door. This time, it’s not the good one that leads directly outside. It’s the portal that connects back to the consulate’s bookstore and then the rest of the building. Oh yes, including the atrium where we left Detective Logan and Bastien’s original aggressors.

Who are now here.

Mercifully—thank you, prayer hands, for working this time—not all of them. One of the guards has stayed behind, but Dick Gorgeous has clearly vowed to make up for it with the force of his glare. The livid look is copied by the pair of security goons behind him.

Shit, shit, shit.

They’ve definitely taken off their diplomatic gloves. But hell if that’s made them forget they have fists. At least the two officers. Logan’s too busy recovering his balance after his stunned skid. Clearly, he didn’t plan on finding us so soon.

As the guards collide into him at top speed, creating a Larry-Moe-Curly moment that I long to enjoy for longer than a second, I seize Bastien’s hand. In turn, Drue seizes my elbow as if hellbent on dislocating it. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen.

And that’s where our luck runs out.

After twisting from my grip, Bastien refuses to move. The hothead stubbornly stands his ground, barking at our intruders in rapid-fire French that I don’t understand—and probably don’t want to.

“No,” I sputter. “No, Bastien! Please. There’s no way you’ll win this!”

He arches one sharp brow my way. “Then you do not know me very well.”