The Marquis and the Magician's Assistant (The Rebel Royals 4)

Chapter Ten

After storming into her boss’ office, Lark didn't know what possessed her to take Omar’s arm and go on an adventure into the unknown. It was exactly the opposite goal she’d had going in there.

As they walked out of his office door, she felt the eyes on her. His assistant shot her daggers as Omar canceled his entire day to spend it with her. But Lark couldn’t hold tight to any embarrassment or shame at stepping out with her employer in the middle of the workday. The farther they got from his office, the more the tension seeped off his broad shoulders, out of his muscled forearms, and out the long fingertips that grazed her skin.

It was as though the businessman had been a mirage, and the new man was emerging. It fascinated her to watch the transformation. But she couldn’t escape the judgment of the gazes that tracked them to the elevator.

Phone conversations paused. Chatter at the water cooler died down. Typing halted.

It continued outside the building. People stared on the streets as he handed her into his town car. She caught the driver's passionless gaze as she slipped into the back seat. As they sped through the high street of the capital, Lark was certain the blurry faces going by were all taking a hard, long gander at her behind the tinted glass of the luxury car.

"This is probably a mistake," she said.

She turned to Omar, expecting him to pounce now that he had her exactly where he wanted her. Omar didn't leap on her. He sat across from her on the opposite side of the car. He crossed one ankle over his knee and shut his eyes. Even then, with plenty of space, he didn't man spread his long legs.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and leaned forward. But it was to ask her one and then another question. “So, you’re half American?”

“I … uh, yes.”

“I didn’t know that about you. Tell me more.” He leaned back, gaze on her, and waited patiently for her to begin her life story.

And so she did. She told him about growing up in the theater with her American mother who was once on a chorus line, and her French father who worked backstage. All of Lark’s siblings were in the business. Her older brother was a set designer. Her younger sister was a property mistress. Lark was the only performer.

At some point, Omar leaned forward again. But it was to ask a follow-up question about her mother’s time on Broadway. Then another question about the companies her father worked for. Then a few questions about her siblings’ work.

It kept going like that all through the drive; Omar asking her questions and showing genuine interest in her answers. Being a good conversationalist, Lark didn’t let the chat remain one-sided.

She asked after him and learned that he was the youngest of two. That came as a surprise. With such a commanding presence and personality, she’d assumed he was the oldest and only child. His smile was broad and bright as he told Lark about his tyrant, older sister and how she’d nearly tripled the value of the empire their ancestors had built.

Lark came to a jolt when the car stopped. She’d forgotten they were in a moving vehicle. She’d forgotten to worry about who’d been watching them. Looking out the window, she saw that there was no one around. They’d stopped at a private airfield.

"When you said a break, I didn't think you meant the sound barrier."

Omar flashed those white teeth at her. For the second time today, she felt he could surely take a bite out of her. But she didn’t fear for her life. She feared for her loss of self-preservation.

"Backing out?" he asked.

“No,” she squared her jaw. “Just wondering if I need a passport?"

He shrugged. “One of the Italian officials at the gate owes me a favor."

"Italy?” Her jaw dropped. “I can’t go to Italy. I have a show to prepare for.”

“You were born ready. Besides, I know your boss. He’s pretty cool about this kind of thing.”

Omar opened the door and climbed out. He turned back to her and held out his hand.

Lark hesitated. “I have to tell Spin."

Omar pulled out his phone and tapped a fe

w keys. "I just told Zhi. And I’ll have you back by your curfew."

“I don’t have a curfew. I’m a grown woman.”

“Yes.” He flashed those teeth again. His voice, when he spoke, was the low rumble of a tiger. “I know you are.”

His hand had remained extended the entire time. After one more second, Lark took it. When his skin met hers, she willed the butterflies in her belly to stop fluttering.