The Saint (The Original Sinners 5)

“Holy …” Jordan breathed, apparently forgetting the “crap.” “Who is that?”

“Told you. He’s my ride.”

“Can he be my ride?”

Eleanor wrapped an arm around Jordan and patted her on the back.

“Jordan, there might be hope for you yet.”

Eleanor skipped down the steps to the Rolls and Kingsley opened the door for her.

“You’re picking me up from school?” she asked before getting into the car.

“You’re a member of the tribe now. Membership has its privileges. Allons-y.”

She had no idea what allons-y meant, but the hand on her lower back guiding her into the backseat gave her a good idea it meant something like “get in the damn car already.” She happily obliged.

Kingsley got in after her and sat on the bench seat opposite her. The car headed away from the school at a brisk clip.

“So I’m a member now?” Eleanor asked as she settled into the luxurious dark gray leather seats.

He smiled at her as he pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and looked at her with his darkly twinkling eyes.

“You’re his, aren’t you? He’s told you all?”

“Does this answer your question?” She pulled the collar down on her shirt to display the purple bruise on her neck. Kingsley raised an eyebrow. “How do you do that?”

“What?” he asked.

“Arch your eyebrow that high.”

“It’s a French thing.”

“Are you really French or are you doing it for attention?”

“Both.”

“Thought so. I love your accent.”

“Do you love this one more?” he asked, the French accent completely disappearing from his voice. He sounded entirely 100 percent American. Eleanor gaped at him.

“No, it’s horrible. Stop that. How do you do that?”

“My mother was American,” he said, reverting back to his natural voice, complete with sexy-as-hell French accent. “I can speak English without the accent. I have to concentrate, however, and it gives me a headache.”

“Plus it’s not nearly as sexy.”

“Exactement.”

“So what are these membership privileges I get? I mean, other than being picked up from school in a Rolls.”

“I’ll tell you, but first, let’s see the damage.”

Eleanor attempted to raise her eyebrow as high as he did. She gave up and used her finger to push it up like Kingsley did.

“You want to see my bruises?”

“Bien sûr.”

She pushed her eyebrow even higher.

“That’s French for ‘of course.’”

“I’d have to take my clothes off.”

“I’m not hearing an objection.”

She lowered her eyebrow. She wondered how Søren would feel about her showing off her bruises to Kingsley. Only one way to find out.

She threw her backpack on the floor and shrugged out of her coat.

“On the way back from the funeral, Søren told me you used to be in the French Foreign Legion.”

“I was a captain, oui.”

“So maybe you can answer a question for me.”

“What’s the question?”

She unlaced her boots and kicked them off. He wanted to see the bruises on her thighs, so she’d have to take her shoes and tights off under her skirt. Luckily the cold weather gave her an excuse to keep every bruise covered and then some. So if Kingsley wanted to see her bruises, she’d have to strip. She yanked off her tights and stuck her foot in Kingsley’s lap.

“Do I have trench foot?”

Kingsley grabbed her leg by the ankle and raised her foot off his lap. He ran a finger down the arch of her foot.

“You have one blister, not trench foot. Stop wearing combat boots without socks.”

“Thank you. I was worried we might have to amputate.”

She placed her bare feet back on the floor, grateful Kingsley kept the Rolls warm and toasty. He must be feeling overly warm in his suit as he, too, started to remove his jacket.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said.

“Taking your clothes off for me in the back of my Rolls-Royce?”

“That.” She unbuttoned her shirt.

“Get used to it.”

She turned her back to him and lowered her shirt. Kingsley moved to sit behind her on her seat. His surprisingly gentle fingers traced the outline of the bruises that dotted her skin. His touch on her body made her feel treacherous sorts of things in her stomach and a little lower.

“Where else?” he asked.

She pulled her shirt back up and turned around. Feeling obnoxious, she threw her leg over his thighs and raised her skirt.

“Glad I shaved my legs this morning,” she said as she displayed the bruises on her upper thighs.

“So am I.”

“So you shaved your legs, too?” She pushed her skirt back down and put her feet on the floor once more.

He narrowed his eyes at her as she buttoned her shirt back up.

“You’re intelligent.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She put her boots back on and left her tights off. She’d worry about her trench foot later.

“Intelligence is dangerous in a woman. Next thing we know you’ll say that marriage is a trap that tricks women into becoming unpaid cooks and housekeepers.”

“Even if I were stupid I’d be smart enough to know that.”