occasional voice yelling in staccato Italian.
No historical romance novel models in sight.
I closed my eyes.
Breathe. Calm down. Reason your way through this.
I was simply paranoid. Trauma does that to you. Turns you into someone who sees danger in the innocuous. First an old gypsy lady yelling bizarre things. Now a costume-inclined man with a fetish for photo bombing.
Weird, sure. But hardly threatening, per se.
Besides, what idiot would stalk someone in plain sight dressed like a Regency era nobleman? No one, right? That was nutty even by my skewed standards.
Most likely, Mr. Darcy had just been heading my direction and thought it amusing to pop into my photos.
The reality? This meeting was too critical for me to lose focus; I needed this job.
If Mr. Darcy had an issue with me, he could take a number and get in line.
Two
Dante D’Angelo
I recognized her instantly.
In my defense, Claire Raythorn was kinda hard to miss, paused beside the arched loggia across the piazza. I nudged my motorcycle into the square, eyes on her.
She stood with long-limbed confidence, staring at her phone. Immaculate in a pencil skirt, ruffled pale-blue blouse and heeled boots. Blond hair gleaming-straight past her shoulders despite the frizz-inducing Tuscan humidity.
Even at a distance, she was striking. Unique. Drawing a man’s eye.
And, let’s face it, I was male enough to look long and hard.
As I watched, she waved and blew a kiss at her phone. Gave a girly-gushy smile.
Huh? Was she on a video call?
Wait—no. She wasn’t talking and now she was tapping her phone.
Claire stared at her screen. Then her shoulders sank and she whirled around. Her relaxed body language instantly morphing into panicky and afraid.
Right.
They didn’t call her Batty Ray Psycho for nothing.
I guided my bike around the fountain and across the piazza, keeping an eye on Claire ahead of me.
Of course I’ve seen that video. You know, the one where Claire walks in on Pierce Whitman with another woman. Granted, I think anyone with an internet connection has seen it.
The video is hilarious in an America’s Funniest Home Videos sorta way—you wince and know you should look away but laugh instead.
It starts with Claire stomping through the door, swaying drunk, head swiveling as she takes in the clothes scattered, the tangled bodies on the couch . . .
You can practically see the moment where she loses it. An almost audible snap.
She goes full-banshee on Pierce and the other woman. Screaming. Hysterical.
Claire throws random things from her purse at them—lipstick, notebook, pens . . . tampons.
Pierce and the woman shriek in terror. That’s nearly the funniest part—the pair of them squealing like teenage girls over flying tampons. The hashtag #tamponsofrage trended for a while.
But then Claire tosses her purse aside and starts pulling bottles from a wine fridge just inside the door. Winds up her arm.
“No!” Pierce shouts.
The first bottle smashes spectacularly, painting the wall in brilliant, dripping red. Three more follow. Pierce ducking under each one, yelling to stop.
Claire—sobbing, out of control.
“Look!” she screams, wildly waving her arms at the wine-soaked room. “It’s smashed and bleeding. Just like my achy breaky HEART!”
Forever branding herself as Batty Ray Psycho. Though #bitchyraypsycho also made the rounds on social media.
Branwell and Tennyson laughed so hard they cried, playing the video over and over for a solid week.
Brothers. What you gonna do?
The take-away here? No matter how attractive, no self-respecting guy would get involved with Batty Ray Psycho.
As a D’Angelo, my life was already two Froot Loops shy of a bowl-full of crazy. Literally.
I had no interest in Claire Raythorn and her cargo-hold’s worth of baggage.
So I forced myself to look away from her and focused on parking my bike next to a miniature Fiat.
But all too soon, my gaze swung back to Claire. Almost unbidden. Like
No historical romance novel models in sight.
I closed my eyes.
Breathe. Calm down. Reason your way through this.
I was simply paranoid. Trauma does that to you. Turns you into someone who sees danger in the innocuous. First an old gypsy lady yelling bizarre things. Now a costume-inclined man with a fetish for photo bombing.
Weird, sure. But hardly threatening, per se.
Besides, what idiot would stalk someone in plain sight dressed like a Regency era nobleman? No one, right? That was nutty even by my skewed standards.
Most likely, Mr. Darcy had just been heading my direction and thought it amusing to pop into my photos.
The reality? This meeting was too critical for me to lose focus; I needed this job.
If Mr. Darcy had an issue with me, he could take a number and get in line.
Two
Dante D’Angelo
I recognized her instantly.
In my defense, Claire Raythorn was kinda hard to miss, paused beside the arched loggia across the piazza. I nudged my motorcycle into the square, eyes on her.
She stood with long-limbed confidence, staring at her phone. Immaculate in a pencil skirt, ruffled pale-blue blouse and heeled boots. Blond hair gleaming-straight past her shoulders despite the frizz-inducing Tuscan humidity.
Even at a distance, she was striking. Unique. Drawing a man’s eye.
And, let’s face it, I was male enough to look long and hard.
As I watched, she waved and blew a kiss at her phone. Gave a girly-gushy smile.
Huh? Was she on a video call?
Wait—no. She wasn’t talking and now she was tapping her phone.
Claire stared at her screen. Then her shoulders sank and she whirled around. Her relaxed body language instantly morphing into panicky and afraid.
Right.
They didn’t call her Batty Ray Psycho for nothing.
I guided my bike around the fountain and across the piazza, keeping an eye on Claire ahead of me.
Of course I’ve seen that video. You know, the one where Claire walks in on Pierce Whitman with another woman. Granted, I think anyone with an internet connection has seen it.
The video is hilarious in an America’s Funniest Home Videos sorta way—you wince and know you should look away but laugh instead.
It starts with Claire stomping through the door, swaying drunk, head swiveling as she takes in the clothes scattered, the tangled bodies on the couch . . .
You can practically see the moment where she loses it. An almost audible snap.
She goes full-banshee on Pierce and the other woman. Screaming. Hysterical.
Claire throws random things from her purse at them—lipstick, notebook, pens . . . tampons.
Pierce and the woman shriek in terror. That’s nearly the funniest part—the pair of them squealing like teenage girls over flying tampons. The hashtag #tamponsofrage trended for a while.
But then Claire tosses her purse aside and starts pulling bottles from a wine fridge just inside the door. Winds up her arm.
“No!” Pierce shouts.
The first bottle smashes spectacularly, painting the wall in brilliant, dripping red. Three more follow. Pierce ducking under each one, yelling to stop.
Claire—sobbing, out of control.
“Look!” she screams, wildly waving her arms at the wine-soaked room. “It’s smashed and bleeding. Just like my achy breaky HEART!”
Forever branding herself as Batty Ray Psycho. Though #bitchyraypsycho also made the rounds on social media.
Branwell and Tennyson laughed so hard they cried, playing the video over and over for a solid week.
Brothers. What you gonna do?
The take-away here? No matter how attractive, no self-respecting guy would get involved with Batty Ray Psycho.
As a D’Angelo, my life was already two Froot Loops shy of a bowl-full of crazy. Literally.
I had no interest in Claire Raythorn and her cargo-hold’s worth of baggage.
So I forced myself to look away from her and focused on parking my bike next to a miniature Fiat.
But all too soon, my gaze swung back to Claire. Almost unbidden. Like
Similar Books
Turnabout Twist
Lois Lavrisa
The Devil Went Down to Austin
Rick Riordan
The Recruit
Monica Mccarty
Bloodline
F. Paul Wilson
The Bond That Ties Us
Christine D'Abo
Alias Grace
Margaret Atwood
Maid of Dishonor
Heidi Rice
The War on Witches
Paul Ruditis
These High, Green Hills
Jan Karon
Manhunting in Mississippi
Stephanie Bond