Scorched Earth by Bianca Mori

Author:Bianca Mori
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, crime, suspense, orphan, heroines, europe, heist, redhead
Publisher: Bianca Mori

Chapter 13

When Peyton left her bedroom the next day, she found Carson standing in the living room, rotating on the spot.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Huh,” said Carson, completing his rotation. “Any idea where O’Malley is?”

By sheer force of will and years of practice, Peyton kept her poker face even as her mind flashed back to O’Malley’s ledge and the night before.

“He’s not here?”

Carson shrugged. “When I came out of the bath last night, he was leaving the flat. I’ve been up since seven this morning and I don’t think he’s been back since.”

“That’s strange,” she said, taking a seat in the kitchenette and helping herself to a clementine from the fruit bowl. Carson always insisted on buying them fresh fruit, as O’Malley was rather careless with their rations. She suspected O’Malley subsisted on dry crackers and tea, when he was alone.

She focused on pulling the skin off the fruit and eating the fleshy segments, and remembered the moment when she leaned over to kiss his cheek and he turned his face towards hers. The moment was preserved in slow motion from the many times she’d replayed it in her mind. His smell: that ever-present reek of cigarettes masking something sweet and wholesome, lingering on the skin of his stubbly cheek. The way his green eyes seemed to sharpen with laser-like focus upon her, right before he turned. That small, nearly unconscious intake of breath as he tilted his head. And his mouth, the way it was already parted when it landed on hers. His kiss was soft but hinted at something wild, like he had been holding back something hungrier and much more powerful, and was losing the battle for control with every second.

It was heady stuff. She’d only realized what happened–was only starting to decide how she felt about it—when he pulled back and literally ran out the flat.

“Peyton?”

Shit. Carson had been talking for a while.

“I’m sorry?”

He gave her a queer look. “I said, you’ll never guess who’s in town.”

“Who is?”

He pointed at the newspaper that–it was quite obvious now—he’d lain right in front of her minutes ago.

She hurriedly scanned the sheet, feeling Carson’s gaze upon her. Her attention snagged on a familiar picture.

“Oh my God.” She looked up; Carson smiled, but still had an odd look in his eye. “Can it be?”

“Lady Anastasia Walsingham de Paravell,” he enunciated carefully. “In the flesh. So to speak.”

“What’s she doing in town?”

He pulled up a chair and settled beside her. “There’s a gala tonight. The British Museum. An exhibit of satirical prints and salvaged graffiti. According to that article, it’s quite the event. There’s going to be a bidding after dinner.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’d think she’d be sick of acquiring art, after what happened this spring.”

“Old habits die hard?”

She had to smile at his fondness for clichés.

He pulled her hand. “Peyton? About last night—”

The door to the flat slammed open and O’Malley hurried in.

He looked like he’d spent the night at a park bench. His jacket was wrinkled and wilted, hair askew, stubble dark around his jaw.

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