He noticed Robby edging around the perimeter of the room, looking for photographers. Or assassins. Jean-Luc stepped around the old man with a cane and proceeded to the female thief. He stopped a few inches behind her. She was tall, the top of her head reaching his chin. The scent of her blood was fresh and sweet. She was mortal.
"Begging your pardon, mademoiselle."
She turned. Her eyes were green. Zut. Her beautiful eyes widened as she looked at him.There was nothing sadder than a fallen angel.
He frowned at her. "Give me one good reason why I should not have you arrested."
CHAPTER 2
Heather blinked. "Excuse me?" The gorgeous man's French accent took some time to adjust to, but she could have sworn he'd threatened to arrest her. She smiled brightly and extended a hand.
"How do you do? I'm Heather Lynn Westfield."
"Heather?" His odd pronunciation sent a tingle down her spine. It sounded like Eh-zair, soft and sweet like an endearment. He took her hand and encased it in both of his.
"Yes?" She continued to smile and prayed that none of the feta cheese spinach puff was lodged in her teeth. He studied her with his beautiful blue eyes. And his face—that chiseled jaw and mouth belonged on a Greek statue.
His grip tightened around her hand. "Tell me the truth. Who sent you here?"
"Excuse me?" She tried to retrieve her hand, but he held on tight. Too tight. A shiver of alarm crept up her neck.