Wow. I wonder if the security guards got in trouble. Surely Elijah wouldn’t get fired because he was on duty? It’s not like he can watch every square inch of the museum.
Now I feel guilty for taking a break with him.
Something flutters in my stomach. Unease. Suspicion. No, it’s got to be my overactive imagination. Elijah’s job is to protect the art in the museum, not steal it.
My family is still discussing the theft, but I steal my sister’s phone and look up an article.
The only item missing is the Regent Diamond, a 140-carat diamond owned by the French state. Its worth is estimated at €48,000,000, though it’s hard to say what it could be worth on the black market. Authorities suspect the theft was funded by a collector, which will make it harder to trace, as there will be no sale.
London makes a grab for her phone, but I twist to keep it away from her.
There’s evidence that this was an inside job, with multiple people working for the museum involved. The security company has yet to reveal their names.
“Holland,” my dad says, using my full name in that stern voice that always makes me comply. “Give your sister’s phone back to her.”
Reluctantly I hand it back, then slump in my seat. I pretend to nap, but really my mind is a whir. Did Elijah play a role in some crazy diamond heist? This whole line of thought is crazy. There have got to be hundreds of people who work at the Louvre. It’s a massive place.
Almost fifteen acres of priceless art.
Except I still remember the way we parted. It seemed cruel, the way he insisted I shouldn’t trust him, that I should be afraid of him. Except what if he meant it another way?
I’m not happy. I should be, but I’m not.
What if he had stolen a massive diamond only hours earlier?
What if he’s right now on the run?
The SUV pulls to a stop in front of a vineyard, and my father pulls out my phone. He hands it over with a severe expression. “For emergency calls only. Leave the ringer on.”
I nod, trying my best to look innocent.
It’s only when I find the restroom that I can finally pull out my phone. It unlocks when I swipe my finger pad across the little sensor. No messages. My stomach sinks a little. Maybe I’d been hoping for a morning-after text from E. He might have changed his mind about seeing me again.
Or at least said a nicer goodbye.
I heard about the diamond, I type. My thumb hovers over the Send button.
There’s no answer. Maybe he thinks I’m clingy. And maybe I am clingy. I’ve never gone on a real date and been kissed in Paris. These kinds of things probably end in sophisticated silence. Still, the theft is interesting enough that people would talk about it, wouldn’t they?
Except, hours later, there’s still no answer.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Real champagne tastes surprisingly bitter. I always expected it to be sweet.
London is two years older than me. She’s sneaked glasses of wine from the bar at home. And we’ve both had lukewarm beer at friends’ houses.
This is my first time drinking champagne, and it doesn’t taste good, exactly. It’s more of an experience, like jumping into the pool without properly holding your nose. The bubbles make me sneeze.
Champagne is also surprisingly strong.
I have one glass with the lunch they’ve put in front of me, and then I drink my sister’s because she’s disappeared with our tour guide. The chicken coq au vin is too mushroomy, so I don’t eat.
On an empty stomach two glasses make me feel slightly outsize, as if I’m bigger than I am. My voice is a little louder than usual, my laugh a little harder. I’m having a good time, and when my mother and father exchange glances—one amused, one worried—I find it hilarious.
We get to the Reims Cathedral around four p.m.
After a tour of the inside by our guide we split up to look over the various artifacts, the tombs, and the grounds. This is the place where all but two of the French kings were coronated. I’m in the gift shop looking at a paper doll set with kings and crowns and robes. My sister’s browsing the travel books with unusual concentration. She doesn’t notice as I slip out the back exit and walk along the flowers. There’s also a square where nobles were beheaded during the Terror.
They have a bloody history, the French.
I trail my finger along a wrought-iron fence overgrown with honeysuckle.
The fragrant yellow flowers remind me of home.
He comes from behind me in a flash of black leather. Fear spikes through my stomach as I’m pulled back into a corner of mossy stone. Green eyes appear above me, and relief rolls over me. It relaxes me even as I know what he must have done.
He slams his mouth onto mine, the kiss almost violent in its ferocity, a challenge that dares me to pull away, to flinch. I soften underneath the onslaught, letting him invade my mouth, letting him control the pace. Letting, letting, letting. Only then does he gentle.
His mouth speaks into mine, a language only my body understands. His teeth grasp my lower lip, and I whimper in a wordless plea. He bites down hard enough to make me suck in a breath. Then he soothes away the sting with his tongue.
He pulls back, breathing hard. “Hi.”
A breathless laugh. “Hi back.”
“Thought you might not want to see me again.”
“The diamond?” I ask, glancing down at his hands as if he might produce the massive stone.
“I don’t have it.” He gives me a dark laugh. “How did you—”
“I didn’t know. Not until you showed up here. Why did you come, anyway?”
“To say goodbye.”
I stare at him, this thief, this criminal. I should be horrified by what he’s done, but instead I’m faintly impressed. It’s not everyone who can steal a diamond from a museum. “I got in trouble, you know. My parents were there when I got back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was worth it. Shouldn’t you leave France?”
That makes him smile. “Ah, but you assume I was ever really here.”
I squeeze his shoulders, and he pushes his lower body against mine. There’s a conversation our bodies are having, a different one than our words. My backpack cushions me against the wall. His body is pure hardness. “You feel real enough.”
Perhaps it’s the two glasses of champagne that give me courage.
Or perhaps that’s just the excuse I use.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down. He holds his head low enough for me to reach, but without actively kissing me. Instead he lets me press a clumsy kiss to his lips. He lets me slip my tongue out to taste his bottom lip. He lets me open my mouth against his, ardent and innocent. Letting, letting, letting. He’s the one letting me consume him this time.
Then he pulls back and grasps my wrist. He pushes it against the wall. Uneven stones press against the back of my hand. Then he carefully, slowly, takes my other wrist. He pushes it against the cool stones, too. Now I’m trapped by his hands, my arms pinned beside my head. My backpack nudges against my back, pressing my breasts forward.
When he kisses me, it’s completely different. Even though I hadn’t been using my hands much, it feels strange to have them trapped. They’re pulled back, my body exposed. He presses his hard length against me as his mouth claims mine.