Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

faintly.
    ‘So, what would you like to know about me?’ he offers with a reckless smile.
    I slip a steamed mussel into my mouth. It is so tender it melts on my tongue. I let it slide down my throat and wipe my lips on the napkin before I answer. ‘I’d like to know why you aren’t on social media.’
    The broad shoulders lift, an almost Italian gesture. ‘We’re gypsies,’ he says, as if that answers everything.
    ‘And?’ I prompt.
    ‘By nature we distrust any form of surveillance, and as you’ve just confirmed, all forms of social media are Greeks bearing gifts.’ A teasing quality slips into his voice. ‘See, gypsies wouldn’t have towed the Trojan horse into their city.’
    ‘I don’t want to be stereotypical or anything, but I honestly thought gypsies have always been rather brilliant horse thieves.’
    His crystalline blue eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Ah yes. Perhaps it would have been a different matter if the horse had been real, or made of scrap metal. But being wooden …’
    I really want to laugh with him, but I suppress the urge. I’m not on a date. I cannot allow myself to like him. I’ll just end up getting hurt.
    We’re interrupted by the arrival of our starters. My order of goat’s cheese with roasted beet looks like a white and magenta millefeuille. I gaze at it with awe. Just as the amuse-bouches before, it is a precisely arranged work of art. Almost too beautiful to eat. Dom has seared scallops and walnuts served with a dinky pot of Parmesan brûlée
    I cut into my millefeuille and fork a small piece into my mouth. It is so delicious I’m immediately struck by how much I’d love to be able to afford to bring my parents here, instead of all the cheap restaurants my tight budget forces me to take them to. I know they would never have tasted anything so refined and luscious, and it suddenly and painfully hits home that they probably never will. And just like that I no longer need to stop myself from liking him. That resentment for ‘people like him’ comes back into my gut. I welcome it like an old friend. It’s better this way. I am too affected by him already.
    ‘Why are you so afraid of surveillance if you’re doing nothing wrong?’ I ask.
    ‘Why do you have curtains in your bedroom windows? Are you doing something wrong?’ he shoots back.
    ‘It’s not the same thing,’ I argue.
    ‘Why isn’t it? I don’t want the government, its agents and a whole slew of marketers to have access to my private data. That’s my business alone, and I take steps to keep it so. Why is that concept so foreign to you?’
    ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Connect holds very little information on you, or,’ I continue, ‘your brothers.’
    He smiles a slow, satisfied smile.
    Smile he should. Guarding his privacy has worked. He is a closed door to Connect’s tentacles. All it managed to dig up was that at twenty-eight years old he has never made a benefit claim. He doesn’t own or co-own any property or business. Needless to say, I don’t believe that for a second. Him not financially tied with anyone? As if! He has two bank accounts that show a pathetic amount of activity, mostly direct debits for utility bills. No overdraft. He has a credit card, but he won’t even use it to pay for petrol. He hasn’t flown with a commercial airline for as long as Connect has been running. One look at that tan tells me he didn’t acquire it in London. Which only signifies he’s leaving the country using other, private means.
    I flash him a fake smile. ‘It would appear that you’ve fooled the super-computer into believing that you’re a rather uninteresting employee.’
    He lifts his glass of whiskey. ‘I don’t know how you meant that to come out, but I have to say it kinda looks bad when you give the impression that you believe you’re better than a super-computer.’
    I smile through my irritation. ‘Connect is an amazing invention. At the touch of a button it can show an incredibly