Read Online Desire Unmatched: 4 (Coded for Love) by Lynne Silver - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lynne Silver
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Things sure had changed in the
weeks since he’d been kidnapped. Shep had told him to head to the American
consulate. Christ, what a summer. In June, no one in the world knew about the
Program. By fall, they were working openly with the diplomatic system.
Shaking his head, he keyed in Place Varian Fry to the
phone and studied the resulting map and the red dot of where he was now.
Memorizing the shortest distance there, he placed the stolen cell phone on the
narrow step of the doorway where he stood in the alley.
No doubt the American couple he’d stolen it from had already
gone to the gendarmes and were tracing the phone now. They’d easily track where
he was heading based on his search history, which meant he likely had a
fifteen-minute jog to accomplish in what, according to the mapping system,
should take twenty.
Damn, he wished he’d taken the time to get his boots back on
his feet. Without medication and a proper diet, he hadn’t fully healed from his
torture and his soles were starting to protest the hardness of Marseille’s
rough ancient streets.
Swallowing a groan and ignoring his father’s voice in his
head that said complaining was for losers, he forced his legs back into a
semblance of a jog toward the embassy. The sun had fully set at this point and
the streets were shutting down for the evening. Lights in the storefronts at
street level were off and the glow of televisions or lamps shone through the
windows on the higher floors.
Every step he took jolted the bruises on the bottom of his
feet, sending pain up his calves. He tried to ignore the sting, but soon his
jog had slowed to a brisk walk. A walk he could handle as it caused less of a
jarring impact on his feet, protected only by socks.
Man, he’d gone soft since he’d been out from under his
father’s thumb for the past few weeks. When he was a kid, his father would’ve
hammered nails in his feet and made him run a marathon to prep him for this
situation. Luckily the idea had never occurred to Dad.
He passed one street, scanning the corners of buildings for
the names. What was with European cities and their lack of proper street signs?
He’d give anything for a reflective green sign firmly affixed to a metal pole
about now. He doubled back and made a right turn on the proper street and
estimated he had another mile or two to go. He hiked up a few more streets,
feeling the incline away from the water, so he knew he was moving in the right
direction.
As he walked a misting rain started to fall. At first it
felt great. He hadn’t had a shower in weeks, but soon the fall chill combined
with the dampness penetrated his thin shirt.
He wrapped his arms around his torso and cursed as he eyed a
black-and-white sign on the corner of an ancient-looking building, checking if
this was Cours Pierre Puget. Given the sudden widening of the street and
the upscale shift in architecture, he knew he was heading in the right
direction. Off in the distance, he could see what looked like a Metro station.
His heart beat faster as he picked up speed, knowing he was close.
He turned by a large round stone fountain and headed up the
thickly tree-lined street, which helped keep the rain off him.
And then suddenly he was there. He turned left at the small
concrete courtyard setting the consulate off the street and rang the buzzer at
the black wrought-iron gate with signs in both English and French.
He didn’t have long to wait. A rotund gentleman in his
fifties holding a large black umbrella overhead came to the gate and unlocked
it with a key.
“Mr. Bristack? We’ve been expecting you.” The gate swung open
and Xander remained planted outside it, not sure he could trust a government
representative.
“Come in. Come in,” the man said and gestured impatiently
with his free hand. “I got a call from some very senior people during a dinner
party and was told to come here straight away, don’t waste my time now.”
Impatience and annoyance, he understood.
weeks since he’d been kidnapped. Shep had told him to head to the American
consulate. Christ, what a summer. In June, no one in the world knew about the
Program. By fall, they were working openly with the diplomatic system.
Shaking his head, he keyed in Place Varian Fry to the
phone and studied the resulting map and the red dot of where he was now.
Memorizing the shortest distance there, he placed the stolen cell phone on the
narrow step of the doorway where he stood in the alley.
No doubt the American couple he’d stolen it from had already
gone to the gendarmes and were tracing the phone now. They’d easily track where
he was heading based on his search history, which meant he likely had a
fifteen-minute jog to accomplish in what, according to the mapping system,
should take twenty.
Damn, he wished he’d taken the time to get his boots back on
his feet. Without medication and a proper diet, he hadn’t fully healed from his
torture and his soles were starting to protest the hardness of Marseille’s
rough ancient streets.
Swallowing a groan and ignoring his father’s voice in his
head that said complaining was for losers, he forced his legs back into a
semblance of a jog toward the embassy. The sun had fully set at this point and
the streets were shutting down for the evening. Lights in the storefronts at
street level were off and the glow of televisions or lamps shone through the
windows on the higher floors.
Every step he took jolted the bruises on the bottom of his
feet, sending pain up his calves. He tried to ignore the sting, but soon his
jog had slowed to a brisk walk. A walk he could handle as it caused less of a
jarring impact on his feet, protected only by socks.
Man, he’d gone soft since he’d been out from under his
father’s thumb for the past few weeks. When he was a kid, his father would’ve
hammered nails in his feet and made him run a marathon to prep him for this
situation. Luckily the idea had never occurred to Dad.
He passed one street, scanning the corners of buildings for
the names. What was with European cities and their lack of proper street signs?
He’d give anything for a reflective green sign firmly affixed to a metal pole
about now. He doubled back and made a right turn on the proper street and
estimated he had another mile or two to go. He hiked up a few more streets,
feeling the incline away from the water, so he knew he was moving in the right
direction.
As he walked a misting rain started to fall. At first it
felt great. He hadn’t had a shower in weeks, but soon the fall chill combined
with the dampness penetrated his thin shirt.
He wrapped his arms around his torso and cursed as he eyed a
black-and-white sign on the corner of an ancient-looking building, checking if
this was Cours Pierre Puget. Given the sudden widening of the street and
the upscale shift in architecture, he knew he was heading in the right
direction. Off in the distance, he could see what looked like a Metro station.
His heart beat faster as he picked up speed, knowing he was close.
He turned by a large round stone fountain and headed up the
thickly tree-lined street, which helped keep the rain off him.
And then suddenly he was there. He turned left at the small
concrete courtyard setting the consulate off the street and rang the buzzer at
the black wrought-iron gate with signs in both English and French.
He didn’t have long to wait. A rotund gentleman in his
fifties holding a large black umbrella overhead came to the gate and unlocked
it with a key.
“Mr. Bristack? We’ve been expecting you.” The gate swung open
and Xander remained planted outside it, not sure he could trust a government
representative.
“Come in. Come in,” the man said and gestured impatiently
with his free hand. “I got a call from some very senior people during a dinner
party and was told to come here straight away, don’t waste my time now.”
Impatience and annoyance, he understood.
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