Counterfeit Conspiracies Read Online Free PDF Page B

of his voice fueled my already spiked adrenalin. I prayed I was imagining things. Surely, he wasn't really there.
    My hopes were dashed when the counterman brought my order and my imaginary friend swiped a chip.
    "I must say, you're looking well, my lovely lioness. A bit more windblown than the last time I saw you, but the casual look suits you somehow. Still blonde, I see."
    And he was now fully British.

 
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CHAPTER FOUR
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    I looked at him through narrowed eyes. He was enjoying my irritation. "Who are you?" I made a grab for my things.
    He ignored the attempt, holding my Prada bag high above our heads. Then he looked up. "What is this? Are you training for the Olympics or do attractive women always carry so much in their handbags?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a business card out of an inside pocket of his jacket and flipped it to me.
    The sound of hot oil and lunchtime crowds sizzled behind us, but we might as well have been alone in the place. As with our last encounter, I knew that he knew I would go to any lengths necessary to keep from creating a scene. Time to reconnoiter.
    "Jack Hawkes." I read, holding the card carefully between two fingers. Then with the thumb of my other hand, I rubbed the embossed shield that rose from the face of the card. "What's the design?"
    "A family thing."
    A quick visual sweep of the room to check escape distances resigned me to the fact nothing appeared promising. When I looked back at him, his grin was even broader.
    Extending the card back, I said, "Just gives a name and phone number. Doesn't tell me anything."
    He ignored the card. "Tells you more than you've told me. Care to introduce yourself? What do your parents call you?"
    I smiled ruefully. "Well, when they were alive, they called me Kitten."
    Jack, or whatever his real name was, didn't let my sarcasm faze him. "I would have put money on Princess."
    "You'll understand, then, when I assume you are affectionately referred to as Bozo." I patted his cheek, first softly then a bit sharper, to distract him as I stuck a tiny audio transmitter to the back of his lapel.
    "There's no need to be rude—"
    "I'm not the one who keeps insinuating myself into places I'm not invited."
    With a shrug and a swift glance around the room, he said, "This appears to be a public place. I don't see invitations on any of the tables, and no one is at the door turning away people."
    "You followed me here!" I slammed the card down. Then, he had the nerve to shush me!
    "Enough playtime," he warned, his voice barely above a whisper. "No need for explosions." He placed my bag on the counter, but kept it out of easy reach. He took my right hand in his left, with a grip that was loose but could easily change to something stronger, which it did in about a second. He pulled me closer. "Come on," he coaxed, "I noticed you on the street and remembered you from Italy. Noticed you were traveling alone in a foreign city and wanted to offer some company. Just call me the British welcome wagon."
    I slid my left hand into my jacket pocket and fingered the new lock pick case I'd purchased and decided to carry away from the store. A quick flick of the zipper, and my fingers were blindly reaching for a sharp tool. His eyes caught the flash of silver, but I knew he hadn't time to react. A instant later, the hand he had been using to grip mine was in the throes of stabbing, bruising pain.
    "Never get between a woman and her purse."
    He cursed, leapt to his feet, and grabbed a napkin to cover his injury. Free, I recovered the Prada he'd taken hostage. If he expected an apology, he was doomed for disappointment. But he moved between me and the door, so I shouldered my bag and tried to push past him. "Get out of my way and stay out of my life."
    His right hand shot out, catching my arm. I'd about decided to play the helpless female routine and scream my way out, when he picked up his card from the counter and slipped it into my Prada, stuck