King Me (Forever Wilde 7)

The earwig also needed to be destroyed and hidden. I struggled to remove the little thing and crushed it with the heel of my shoe into as many tiny pieces as I could before scattering and crushing them deep into the pile of the Persian tribal rug nearby with the heel of my shoe.

I bent as best I could, trying to probe the base of my skull where Elek had struck me with his flashlight. I let out a hiss when my fingers found the knot, but there wasn’t as much blood as I expected. Damn.

Blood would be more convincing.

From the front of the house I heard banging and knocking. The police arriving. I was running out of time. My pulse spiked, my heart going into overdrive. This was my life on the line. If I couldn’t sell that I was innocent, I was screwed.

Holding my breath, I gritted my teeth and slammed my head forward as hard as I could against the solid metal of the radiator. Pain exploded in my cheekbone, radiating through my skull so intensely it sucked the breath out of my lungs and brought tears to my eyes. Within seconds, I felt the warm sticky trickle of blood and leaned my face down to my hands to feel the cut. Sure enough, faces bled like crazy. I ran bloody fingers through my hair and then pulled my knees up close to my chest and tucked my head against them, making myself appear as small as possible.

I was used to trying to calm myself, to pushing away panic and anxiety and fear. Now I had to embrace it. I closed my eyes, letting the full force of my emotions rise to the surface. Letting them overwhelm me to the point that it became difficult to breathe.

I was on the edge of a full-bore panic attack by the time I heard the first set of footsteps approaching.

“Don’t shoot!” I cried out in both English and French. “Il est parti par là!” With my hands tightly strapped to the radiator, I couldn’t point toward the exit Elek had used, but I could hitch my shoulder in that direction.

The Parisian gendarmes came in shouting instructions for me to put my hands where they could see them. When I didn’t do what they commanded, they shouted louder, more frantically.

“I can’t!” I yelled, yanking my wrists against the plastic ties.

Their voices blended with the blaring siren, creating a cacophony of chaos. I grew terrified they might think I was resisting arrest and become violent.

At that point it was easy for me to let go and allow my fear to take over.

I burst into tears.

“I’m innocent! I didn’t do this,” I repeated over and over in English and French like a desperate chant. “I swear. Please help me!”

Law enforcement officers buzzed around, making sure I wasn’t carrying any weapons but not really asking me any questions. They seemed more interested in clearing the building and staring at the gaping blank space where the Van Gogh used to be. By the time someone approached me who actually looked to be in charge, I was hoarse, bleeding, covered in snot, and worn-out.

Perfect.

Right as he reached me, the security system alarm cut off. The silence was deafening. For a moment everyone hesitated, the change so sudden and severe. Then the man spoke, and in the sudden quiet, every nuance and cadence of his gruff voice stood out.

“My name is Special Agent Falcon. I’m an FBI agent working with the global art crimes task force here in Paris.”

Oh shit.

I blinked up at him as the American accent hit me and the name sank in. I recognized it immediately. I’d read it in dozens of articles and heard it mentioned in the news and on the radio whenever a famous piece of art went missing. For the past few years he’d been hunting Le Chaton. Now he’d found him.

Now he’d found me.

I looked him over, sizing up my adversary. He sported a two-day beard made up of mostly pepper with a few sprinkles of salt. Despite the scruff, I recognized the square jaw and chin dimple from his many appearances in press conferences. He was taller than I expected, and wider through the shoulders, the rest of him trim and lean. His shirtsleeves were rolled up muscular forearms, and his striking gray-green eyes focused on me between furrowed brows. His hair was cut short like I’d expect of an FBI man.

In person, Agent Falcon was goddamned flipping gorgeous. I blinked and almost slipped out of my chosen role of panicked innocent victim to peruse the thickly muscled body looming over me.

He took in my appearance with a frown. “What happened here?”

I hiccuped. “I… I… Oh, you’re American, thank god. Y-you see… th-there were some men here and they… oh god, I think I’m going to be sick. I feel dizzy.”