Join us for a ride-along on the wrong side of the law, and see if you fall in love with a Lawbreaker.
Collection includes The Fighting Lancasters by Deb Julienne, Two Truths and a Lie by Daryl Devoré, The Storm and the Sea by January George and Painted Love by Viviana MacKade.
Thou shalt not steal. Oh, but Florence had, and would do so one last time. But when the man she loves uncovers her plans, will she lose it all?
“Mister Beckett?”
“Yes, but probably not the one you’re looking for.”
Flo drew in a long breath, praying for patience. “Have I got the wrong number?”
“Nope, just the wrong guy.”
The man didn’t make any sense. Go figure. “I don’t understand. I need to speak with Scott Beckett, please.”
“That would be my brother, who’s currently working. Who are you?”
“Florence Harper. Mr. Beckett and I have been in contact for renting the flat–the apartment.”
The line jumbled for a moment, but when his voice came back had cleared from the worst of the background noise. “Okay, what was that again?”
Few hours in the States and she already missed some nice British manner. And propriety. A rivulet of sweat ran down her temple; January heat was definitely wrong, even more so when she hadn't showered in too long. “That was me, trying to get in contact with the man who assured me he had a place for me to rent starting tonight.”
“Oh, yeah. The apartment. Look, we’re in the middle of a thing here, where are you?”
“At the address Mr. Beckett gave me,” she said between clenched teeth, then recited the street name and number.
“You’re at the restaurant. Stay right where you are, I’ll be with you in ten.”
Oh, gosh. What was he talking about? “You? I thought the flat belonged to your brother?”
“Let’s say I’m his delegate for the next few weeks. Wait for me, I’m coming.”
He closed the call without waiting for an answer.
With one long intake of breath, Flo rested her back to the wall.
Stupid Crescent Creek.
“Yes, but probably not the one you’re looking for.”
Flo drew in a long breath, praying for patience. “Have I got the wrong number?”
“Nope, just the wrong guy.”
The man didn’t make any sense. Go figure. “I don’t understand. I need to speak with Scott Beckett, please.”
“That would be my brother, who’s currently working. Who are you?”
“Florence Harper. Mr. Beckett and I have been in contact for renting the flat–the apartment.”
The line jumbled for a moment, but when his voice came back had cleared from the worst of the background noise. “Okay, what was that again?”
Few hours in the States and she already missed some nice British manner. And propriety. A rivulet of sweat ran down her temple; January heat was definitely wrong, even more so when she hadn't showered in too long. “That was me, trying to get in contact with the man who assured me he had a place for me to rent starting tonight.”
“Oh, yeah. The apartment. Look, we’re in the middle of a thing here, where are you?”
“At the address Mr. Beckett gave me,” she said between clenched teeth, then recited the street name and number.
“You’re at the restaurant. Stay right where you are, I’ll be with you in ten.”
Oh, gosh. What was he talking about? “You? I thought the flat belonged to your brother?”
“Let’s say I’m his delegate for the next few weeks. Wait for me, I’m coming.”
He closed the call without waiting for an answer.
With one long intake of breath, Flo rested her back to the wall.
Stupid Crescent Creek.
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