Page 42 of Misadventures with a Duke

He’s wrong. I don’t know him at all, no matter what I’m told by the most bizarre visions I’ve ever had in my life. The only visions I’ve ever had. “I know them, okay? The jig is up now—for all of us!”

“Well, would you listen to that, boys?” Logan’s free from the human pile-up and stomping at us again. “Something from Agent Degas other than a lie.”

“Crap,” I choke out, though barely—because now Bastien is hauling me out the door with more impatience than Drue.

Wait. No. Not Drue. Not anymore.

Where the hell did she go?

I want to echo it in a full shriek but don’t dare. If Logan’s already doubled back with the FBI and dissolved our masquerade, the wait time on our real identities likely won’t be long either. No need to give him any more help. More exigently, I’ve got to focus on keeping up with Bastien as we run toward the end of the narrow alley behind the consulate.

Wasted urgency.

We see that before we even get there. Together, we stop and gape at the very tall and very locked gate in our way.

That’s before fate screws us again.

When two cops appear on the other side of the black iron barrier and make short work of unlocking it.

“Damn it,” I spit out.

These boys look more fomented than their air-conditioned buddies on the inside. They’re sweaty and harried, probably pulled from media mob duty out front on orders to hold us off at the urban pass if need be. As soon as they see us, they rig up for the challenge. As if pre-choreographed, they unsnap their holsters and whip out their batons. One of them brandishes his to our left. His buddy does the same, only down and to the right.

“Holy shitballs,” I say, louder this time. “They’re serious this time.”

“Good.” Bastien twists his grip around my fingers until it hurts. But not half as much as my intimidated heartbeat. “So am I.”

“Oh, God. Why don’t I like the sound of that? Bastien?”

He pivots until he’s fully facing the stern-faced pair. But he doesn’t let me go, instead curling his arm so I’m flush against his honed slab of a back. But all these muscle striations, along with the sinfully soft breeches beneath, aren’t the leading reason why I choose to stand by him.

Bastien De Leon… Once more, he just feels more right than anything else. So bold and mighty. So arrogant and confident. So inexplicably wonderful.

Yes. This is exactly where I need to be. Even if that means going to jail with him.

“Okay, everyone take it easy now.” From behind us, Logan assumes high command. “De Leon, I’m talking to you too. To both of you.”

Remarkably, the decree brings me an easier breath. I’m still just a you in the detective’s syntax, meaning he’s not yet determined who I am. I can enjoy the anonymity for at least thirty more seconds, until one of the officers closes in enough to grab my crossbody—damn it, I probably won’t get the gorgeous new Fendi back either—and hunt down my ID.

After ten seconds, because I may or may not be counting down on my freedom, a crow lands somewhere in the alley. I don’t know why I notice or care, but it’s an obnoxious thing with its repetitive caw. I tilt my head to try rattling him back. This ambush is already tense and terrible without a cocky corvid frying everyone’s nerves.

But there’s no shoo’ing this pest.

Because this bird isn’t a bird. Well, not literally.

The painful scrawks are coming from a human.

One of my humans.

Right now, all I can see of Drue is her head and neck as she pokes out from behind a door marked Gallery Personnel Only. She keeps up the merciless bird calls, but never have I been happier to have my eardrums continuously assaulted.

I don’t waste time expounding on the fact—nor to think anything else but twisting hard on Bastien so that he’s alerted about our new plan of action.

A here-goes-nothing sprint toward the door that my friend still cracks open.

Another urgent race through rooms I don’t recognize, dodging canvases and shipping crates and worktables piled with assorted tools and large wire spools.

At last, a burst into the main gallery itself. We rush with care since they’re installing a new show, and I already hate the mere idea of accidentally ruining a canvas. Between my frantic apologies, I want to shudder from the thought. At once I’m flashing back to the night I watched a glass of red wine get splashed across the A-list party looks I styled for Jaden and Willow. Why does heartbreak strike at the worst times?