Read Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) for Free Online Page B
Authors: Diane J. Reed
Tags: Romance
instead of slipping through alleys as the sun begins to rise, we’re hopping from roof to roof, navigating the sea of tiles that make up the interconnected puzzle of this city. I thank God for the occasional sculpted chimney that I can cling to for dear life to regain my balance.
“How do you like being a fugitive again?” Creek smiles wickedly, displaying that infernal scar. He shows off this time by making a grand leap to a flatter roof between two palazzos and skipping over the tiles like a sprite. My heart jumps in my chest, but I’m not about to give myself away. I throw out my arms like wings.
“Fine!” I reply, vaulting to the roof to do an elegant twirl, just to see his eyes grow wide. “In fact, I find it rather liberating.” Wow, those ten years of forced ballet lessons finally seemed to pay off.
And in more ways than I suspected—
Because the way Creek looks at me right now, as I do another pirouette to show off like he did, makes all my defenses crumble. He stares at me as though I’m a rare and graceful bird, one he’d give anything to call his own. The early sunlight glints off his hair, making it shine as bright as the gold crosses that dot the city, and I see him stand a little taller. With a gallant gesture, he holds out his hand as if calling my heart to give flight and alight upon his arm.
Just then, I see a blue bird glide by.
It’s much bigger than the usual songbirds we used to see in the forest around Bender Lake. As it makes its course toward the de Bargona’s
palazzo
, a blue feather floats down on the tiles between us.
Usually this wouldn’t disturb me. Except I couldn’t help noticing that the bird has red legs—just like the one Granny Tinker whittled.
As it flaps its wings, inexplicably, it perches on Creek’s arm and gives a hoarse cry reminiscent of a falcon. Just as quickly as it landed, it moves on in the direction of the rising sun.
And I have goose bumps all over my body.
Creek meets me halfway, picking up the feather like a souvenir.
“One more roof, sweetheart,” he says, and I feel the lump rise in my throat.
How on earth am I supposed to introduce myself to the de Bargonas?
Just ring their doorbell and say, “Hi! Remember me? The bastard child you ditched? Well I’m baaaaack—”
“You’re not going to say a word,” Creek advises. He strides toward me and gently grips my shoulders, then traces the blue feather along my cheek for reassurance.
God, he can be spooky sometimes!
With the way he senses my thoughts, part of me wonders if he’s a distant relative of Granny Tinker, too. Or perhaps, because of his rough childhood, he’s simply had a lifetime of ferreting out people’s motives.
Creek wraps his arm around me protectively and points in the direction of the de Bargona’s home with the feather.
“Listen, Robin—we’re simply going to knock on the de Bargona’s door and act like tourists asking about whatever happened to that crazy nun of Venice. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a pat answer meant to deflect curiosity seekers, and we’ll take it from there.”
I nod and feel Creek’s arm cinch around me tighter, as though he can feel my heightening anxiety over whether the de Bargonas will recognize me. He turns to face me, his blue eyes reflecting the amber sheen of the morning light.
“Of course they’re gonna recognize you,” he says flatly, as though that’s as obvious as the weather. “Everyone says you look like Alessia. But while you’re busy pretending to be a dumbshit American who’ll buy any story they dish out, I’ll ‘accidentally’ scrape my hand on something and then head to the bathroom rather than bleed on their precious floor. At which time I’ll case the joint for files and clues of what really happened to your mom. All you gotta do is keep fluttering your hands and asking them silly questions about their house and furniture till I return and give the go ahead to get the hell out of there. Sound like a
“How do you like being a fugitive again?” Creek smiles wickedly, displaying that infernal scar. He shows off this time by making a grand leap to a flatter roof between two palazzos and skipping over the tiles like a sprite. My heart jumps in my chest, but I’m not about to give myself away. I throw out my arms like wings.
“Fine!” I reply, vaulting to the roof to do an elegant twirl, just to see his eyes grow wide. “In fact, I find it rather liberating.” Wow, those ten years of forced ballet lessons finally seemed to pay off.
And in more ways than I suspected—
Because the way Creek looks at me right now, as I do another pirouette to show off like he did, makes all my defenses crumble. He stares at me as though I’m a rare and graceful bird, one he’d give anything to call his own. The early sunlight glints off his hair, making it shine as bright as the gold crosses that dot the city, and I see him stand a little taller. With a gallant gesture, he holds out his hand as if calling my heart to give flight and alight upon his arm.
Just then, I see a blue bird glide by.
It’s much bigger than the usual songbirds we used to see in the forest around Bender Lake. As it makes its course toward the de Bargona’s
palazzo
, a blue feather floats down on the tiles between us.
Usually this wouldn’t disturb me. Except I couldn’t help noticing that the bird has red legs—just like the one Granny Tinker whittled.
As it flaps its wings, inexplicably, it perches on Creek’s arm and gives a hoarse cry reminiscent of a falcon. Just as quickly as it landed, it moves on in the direction of the rising sun.
And I have goose bumps all over my body.
Creek meets me halfway, picking up the feather like a souvenir.
“One more roof, sweetheart,” he says, and I feel the lump rise in my throat.
How on earth am I supposed to introduce myself to the de Bargonas?
Just ring their doorbell and say, “Hi! Remember me? The bastard child you ditched? Well I’m baaaaack—”
“You’re not going to say a word,” Creek advises. He strides toward me and gently grips my shoulders, then traces the blue feather along my cheek for reassurance.
God, he can be spooky sometimes!
With the way he senses my thoughts, part of me wonders if he’s a distant relative of Granny Tinker, too. Or perhaps, because of his rough childhood, he’s simply had a lifetime of ferreting out people’s motives.
Creek wraps his arm around me protectively and points in the direction of the de Bargona’s home with the feather.
“Listen, Robin—we’re simply going to knock on the de Bargona’s door and act like tourists asking about whatever happened to that crazy nun of Venice. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a pat answer meant to deflect curiosity seekers, and we’ll take it from there.”
I nod and feel Creek’s arm cinch around me tighter, as though he can feel my heightening anxiety over whether the de Bargonas will recognize me. He turns to face me, his blue eyes reflecting the amber sheen of the morning light.
“Of course they’re gonna recognize you,” he says flatly, as though that’s as obvious as the weather. “Everyone says you look like Alessia. But while you’re busy pretending to be a dumbshit American who’ll buy any story they dish out, I’ll ‘accidentally’ scrape my hand on something and then head to the bathroom rather than bleed on their precious floor. At which time I’ll case the joint for files and clues of what really happened to your mom. All you gotta do is keep fluttering your hands and asking them silly questions about their house and furniture till I return and give the go ahead to get the hell out of there. Sound like a