Page 53 of Taken With Trouble

“I know you were born in London to Ella and Richard Hawthorne.”

I grimace at the names of the two people who stopped caring about me long ago. Stopped being parental figures. If they ever started.

“You went to one of the most expensive boarding schools in France, but barely graduated. I suspected your slacking off in school was because you were trying to gain the attention of your parents, who seemed to care more about their lavish trips and lifestyle than they cared for you.”

“Ouch. Right to the heart, Cruz. Feel free to spare a few punches.”

Her lips twitch. “You had a love of art and were pretty talented.”

My feet root to the spot. But she continues.

“When you were a teenager you started stealing things—nothing big enough for your parents to notice. Or if they noticed, they didn’t care. When you turned twenty-one, you stole three different paintings from three different museums in two different countries in one day.”

I smile, and the tension in my body releases, allowing me to dance again. Finally, a good memory. That felt like another lifetime. And that specific incident had been a youthful display of my superiority, a misguided declaration of my maturity.

How little I knew about the world back then.

My hold relaxes as Cruz begins to follow my lead.

“Then it was a Lamborghini and about twelve other things after that.”

“The Lambo was stolenfromme. I stole it back,” I say, just to clarify.

“Sure.” She smiles, and I’m drawn to those lips of hers.

“What were the last two items I stole?” I ask.

She purses her lips, and it takes her almost ten seconds to answer this time. “A painting in Italy, and one in Phoenix.”

“Do you remember how long between those two?”

“Four and a half years.”

“People change, Cruz. I was an ignorant kid who loved a challenge and valuable possessions. And then everything changed.”

“Scarlett?” she whispers, her body growing stiff and awkward in my arms.

“Yes.” I bring my face beside hers; her presence emboldens me. “Scarlett’s death woke me up. I spent four years atoning for my sins. I used my skill set to help people who’d been wronged. I set things right. I know none of those things can change the past, but…” I swallow. “Can a person be redeemed?”

In the background, I realize the song has changed and moved on to something new, but I’m not ready to let her go.

It’s quiet for so long I expect her to push me away. But she doesn’t.

“It depends,” she says.

“Do you thinkIcan be?” I whisper, suddenly wanting to know what she thinks of me.

“I…” She swallows. “I don’t know.”

It’s not an outright no, so for now, I’ll accept it. “What does it require?” I whisper, my voice nearly a plea. I want to know what it takes to get this weight off my chest. I want to know what it takes to be worthy of her, worthy of more than a life condemned to solitude.

Her hand tightens around mine, but no words escape her mouth.

“Ask me another question,” I whisper.

“I don’t… have anymore,” she lies.

“Yes, you do. Ask me the one you’ve wanted to ask since I kidnapped you and dragged you to Europe. Ask me if I have another plan, if I’m going to leave you high and dry. Ask me what you’re dying to know,” I plead, my voice rising. I’m ready to tell her everything. Iwantto tell her everything and ask her everything in return. If only she’ll ask. Then I’ll know if maybe, just maybe, she’s falling for me too.