She stepped out of the tangle of chairs and small tables. The French had such an ability to sit on top of one another and never notice what the people next to them were saying or doing; their discretion amazed her. She started off down the street, in the opposite direction of her flat.

Her hands were shaking. How he’d come so close to the truth was beyond frightening. Had he known? Worse, had Ethan sent him? Even worse, could he be some sort of private investigator? How had they found her so quickly?

She forced herself not to run.

“Hey, wait up.” Constantine Raffalo was suddenly striding next to her.

“I’m not interested,” she said. “Please leave me alone.”

“Not interested in your notebook? I know it was ruined, the pages you were working on, but the whole thing isn’t a loss.”

She stopped. Damn. He was grinning, charmingly so. “You ran off so fast, you left it behind.”

She held out her hand and he started to pass her the notebook. When it was in both her hand and his, he said, “I have a price.”

“I said—”

“Come on, I’m not hitting on you. Well, maybe I am, a bit. I’ll stop. Promise. But let me buy you a coffee. I’m here on an extended vacation, and I don’t know anyone. You’re the first one like me I’ve met.”

“Like you?”

“A writer. You are a writer, aren’t you?”

She’d forgotten herself. She was supposed to be... Well, it didn’t matter.

“I appreciate you returning the notebook, but I’m afraid I do have to go. Enjoy your vacation.”

He respected the rejection this time, and she was surprised to feel the tiniest bit of disappointment. It was nice to be pursued, even if that meant absolute danger.

She felt his eyes on her back.

Murderer. It was such a horrible word. And it described her so very well.

A murderer would run, Sutton. You’re acting suspicious. Now he’ll remember you. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She turned back. He was still watching her.

“One coffee, Constantine Raffalo. Then I have to go back to work.”

And So It Begins

AND SO IT BEGINS

Sutton felt the attraction begin between them almost immediately. She was no stranger to this emotion. As a girl, she’d been perpetually half in love with every boy she laid her eyes on. Tall, skinny, short, fat, straight, gay, brunette, blond—she had no type, only a need to be near them, to touch them, to talk to them. She was very tactile; it got her into trouble.