Read Online Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) by Diane J. Reed - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane J. Reed
Tags: Romance
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helping us . . . ,” Creek pauses, “because you’re not the only one the de Bargonas have tried to kill, baby. You heard the tour guide—she likened them to a ‘river of blood’. And something tells me pasta sauce ain’t the only thing she’s talking about.”
He rubs my arms to ward away the shivers.
“Your grandfather, the Count, has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, Robin—even among members of the mob. A guy like that won’t think twice about making people . . . disappear.”
My trembling comes in waves now, despite my efforts to will it to stop so I can seem tough to Creek. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, hoping our gondolier is still steering us in shadows. “C-Creek,” I press, not wanting to have any delusions about this trip, “somehow, he must’ve gotten tipped off that I came to Italy and that I’ve got the stone. D-do you think we’re really going to die?”
He is quiet for a long time. And part of me can’t help wondering if this gondola will become our coffin, no matter who helps us or how hard we try. Surely de Bargona’s henchmen will track us down as our boat glides through the mists of this old city.
But then Creek rolls gently on top of me, sliding his hands up and down my shoulders, hips and thighs, attempting to warm me with his whole being. I feel his breath alight on my cheeks and then my neck, like a sweet and defiant reminder that we’re alive and still breathing. He sweeps back the sopping hair from my eyes that I hope hide my welling tears, but that I don’t think fool him for a minute.
“Not if I have anything to do with it, sweetheart,” he replies.
Our path is a bramble.
And that’s the point—
Our kindly gondolier calls it a “gypsy trail”, these miles and miles of dense thickets flanked by trees that meander around fields in northern Italy’s countryside.
When I look really close, I can trace the narrow path which winds its way along creeks and draws, hidden from nearby roads and villages. It seems like a secret route used only by outlaws and maybe their horses who’re on the run. Just like us.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re right back in the boondocks by Bender Lake—a notorious shelter for those who want to disappear. And as I glance at Creek, and his ease at navigating this nearly impossible wall of shrubs and trees that appear rarely touched by man, that thought comforts me a little.
Our gondolier is acting as our guide for only a bit longer before he returns to work. As he walks, he nudges me and points to markers on old fences and stumps, muttering things in Italian. I don’t understand him, but it’s clear that these carvings have a pattern—a skull and crossbones means the water isn’t good, a stick figure with a badge indicates watch out for police. Then there are drawings of grapes and orchard trees, which I assume point to a good spot to steal fruit. But the one that scares me is an outline of the Grim Reaper. Was somebody killed here? Or are the farmers merely unwelcoming? I’m too afraid to ask.
The sun is high now, and its heat warms the leftover dew on the ground, making our path humid and sticky as hell. Fanning my damp shirt, I keep wondering when this hike will end. It feels like it’s been hours already, and I finally muster up the guts to tap our guide on the shoulder.
“How much farther?” I ask, panting but trying to make my voice sound grateful.
He stops and points at the sun, drawing down his arm level with the horizon before he pauses. “You will know.”
The way he looks into my eyes sends tingles down my spine.
It isn’t worry.
And it isn’t even fatigue.
It’s . . . reverence?
To my astonishment, he takes my hand and gives it a kiss, then holds it tenderly to his cheek as though I’m his very own daughter. His skin is warm, and his touch makes the stone tremble in my pocket.
“Benedizioni, Thagarni
,” he says with a wistful smile.
And turns around to
He rubs my arms to ward away the shivers.
“Your grandfather, the Count, has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, Robin—even among members of the mob. A guy like that won’t think twice about making people . . . disappear.”
My trembling comes in waves now, despite my efforts to will it to stop so I can seem tough to Creek. I pull the blanket tighter around myself, hoping our gondolier is still steering us in shadows. “C-Creek,” I press, not wanting to have any delusions about this trip, “somehow, he must’ve gotten tipped off that I came to Italy and that I’ve got the stone. D-do you think we’re really going to die?”
He is quiet for a long time. And part of me can’t help wondering if this gondola will become our coffin, no matter who helps us or how hard we try. Surely de Bargona’s henchmen will track us down as our boat glides through the mists of this old city.
But then Creek rolls gently on top of me, sliding his hands up and down my shoulders, hips and thighs, attempting to warm me with his whole being. I feel his breath alight on my cheeks and then my neck, like a sweet and defiant reminder that we’re alive and still breathing. He sweeps back the sopping hair from my eyes that I hope hide my welling tears, but that I don’t think fool him for a minute.
“Not if I have anything to do with it, sweetheart,” he replies.
Our path is a bramble.
And that’s the point—
Our kindly gondolier calls it a “gypsy trail”, these miles and miles of dense thickets flanked by trees that meander around fields in northern Italy’s countryside.
When I look really close, I can trace the narrow path which winds its way along creeks and draws, hidden from nearby roads and villages. It seems like a secret route used only by outlaws and maybe their horses who’re on the run. Just like us.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re right back in the boondocks by Bender Lake—a notorious shelter for those who want to disappear. And as I glance at Creek, and his ease at navigating this nearly impossible wall of shrubs and trees that appear rarely touched by man, that thought comforts me a little.
Our gondolier is acting as our guide for only a bit longer before he returns to work. As he walks, he nudges me and points to markers on old fences and stumps, muttering things in Italian. I don’t understand him, but it’s clear that these carvings have a pattern—a skull and crossbones means the water isn’t good, a stick figure with a badge indicates watch out for police. Then there are drawings of grapes and orchard trees, which I assume point to a good spot to steal fruit. But the one that scares me is an outline of the Grim Reaper. Was somebody killed here? Or are the farmers merely unwelcoming? I’m too afraid to ask.
The sun is high now, and its heat warms the leftover dew on the ground, making our path humid and sticky as hell. Fanning my damp shirt, I keep wondering when this hike will end. It feels like it’s been hours already, and I finally muster up the guts to tap our guide on the shoulder.
“How much farther?” I ask, panting but trying to make my voice sound grateful.
He stops and points at the sun, drawing down his arm level with the horizon before he pauses. “You will know.”
The way he looks into my eyes sends tingles down my spine.
It isn’t worry.
And it isn’t even fatigue.
It’s . . . reverence?
To my astonishment, he takes my hand and gives it a kiss, then holds it tenderly to his cheek as though I’m his very own daughter. His skin is warm, and his touch makes the stone tremble in my pocket.
“Benedizioni, Thagarni
,” he says with a wistful smile.
And turns around to
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