Excerpt of The Saint by Tiffany Reisz

The whistling sound grew closer. Søren took her hand in
his.

“Eleanor, allow me to apologize in advance.”

“Apologize? For what?”

“For him.”

“Who? Moi?” asked the man who strolled through the nearest
door
and right up to them. “I hope I’m interrupting something.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened at the sight of the man.

“I love that reaction.” He pointed at Eleanor’s face. “That
is
the ‘you didn’t tell me how pretty he was’ look, oui?”

“Didn’t I almost punch you on a set of stairs once?” she
asked
him.

“You broke into my house. What do you have to say for
yourself?”

“You have Eddie Vedder hair,” Eleanor said, which was the
only
thing she had to say for herself. She was still trying to
recover from the shock of the man. He wore the most amazing
suit she’d ever seen in her life. Black trousers, riding
boots,
long black jacket, black and silver embroidered vest. He
had
dark shoulder-length hair and a face that belonged on a
male
model. And to make matters even worse, he was French. So
this
was the brother-in-law? The best friend? The Kingsley?

He picked up her hand as if to kiss the back of it, but at
the
last second he raised her fingertips to his nose and
sniffed
them. She pulled her hand back.

“So this is elle?”

“This is she. Eleanor, this is Kingsley. Kingsley, Eleanor.
Now
please go back to the rectory, Kingsley, before Eleanor
starts
liking you.”

“Liking me more than you, you mean. Too late. Isn’t it?”

“You are seriously French,” she said.

“Would you like to see how French I am?” He imposed himself
between her and Søren and stared down at her with the most
seductive expression she’d ever seen on the face of a man
with
all his clothes on.

“Kingsley, please,” Søren said.

“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to her.”

Kingsley stepped even closer.

“How old are you?” he asked her.

“Seventeen. How old are you?”

“Thirty. Is your hymen intact?”

Eleanor stood up straighter.

“Is your brain intact?”

“I ask for a reason.” He shook his finger in her face to
hush
her. “I f**ked a virgin last week. I didn’t mean to.”

“What happened? You trip and fall into her hymen?”

“You jest but do you know how hard it is to get blood off
raw
silk upholstery?” Kingsley asked, sounding positively
perturbed. “She could have told me before I f**ked her. I
would
have put a towel down first. But c’est la guerre. What’s
the
etiquette for accidentally f**king a virgin? Should I send
flowers? If I f**ked you and broke your hymen what would
you
want from me after?”

“Hair of the dog that bit me?” Eleanor suggested her
father’s
favorite hangover cure. “F**k me again?”

Kingsley looked her up and down. He seemed to like what he
saw.

“Would you like to play a round of Justine and the naughty
monk
with me?”

“Never heard of it.”

“I swear I will have you arrested,” Søren said to Kingsley.
He
sounded stern but Eleanor saw amusement in his eyes.

“Have you ever read Justine by Le Marquis de Sade?
Wonderful
book. Little twelve-year-old Justine runs away to a
monastery
and the monks rape her and subject her to orgies and
beatings
over and over again. So that’s how you play the game. Shall
we?”

“How do we know who wins?”

“Whoever has lost the least blood by the end of the game
wins.”

“Sounds fun,” Eleanor said. “I’ll play the monk. You play
Justine.”

“Why, Kingsley,” Søren said in a taunting tone, “it’s like
she
knows you already.”

Kingsley only gazed at her a moment and she sensed him
taking
stock of her. The smile left his face, the amusement
disappeared from his eyes. In a warning tone the man
addressed
Søren.

“You are asking for so much trouble with this one, mon
ami.”

“He didn’t ask for trouble,” Eleanor interjected. “I
offered.”

Kingsley nodded his approval.

“You weren’t exaggerating,” he said to Søren.

Søren put his mouth near Kingsley’s ear.

“I told you so,” Søren said in a stage whisper.

“Can I have her?” Kingsley asked. Søren replied something
in
French, something that made Kingsley grin even more
broadly.

“What did he say?” she asked Kingsley.

“He said, ‘Wait your turn.’”

She glared at Søren, who only shrugged as if Kingsley had
lied
to her. She knew he hadn’t.

“She doesn’t like my translation.”

“She should learn French,” Søren said. Kingsley nodded his
agreement.

“Hello!” Eleanor waved her hands. “I’m still here. I can
hear
you both talking about me. And you, I can see you
giggling.”
She stabbed the center of Søren’s chest with her finger.

He gave her an affronted look.

“Priests don’t giggle.”

“What are you looking at?” she demanded of Kingsley, who
seemed
to be undressing her with his eyes.

“She’s spirited, this one,” Kingsley said to Søren.

“Unholy spirited,” Søren agreed.

Kingsley turned his attention back to her.

“Why do you have your clothes on?”

“Was I supposed to take them off?”

“I’ve never heard a stupider question in my life,” he said
with
a very French, very disgusted sigh. “You weren’t supposed
to
have them on to start with.”

“I get it,” Eleanor said to Kingsley. “I do. You’re Prince
Charming if Prince Charming wasn’t charming.”

“And wasn’t a prince but a king.”

Kingsley raked her body with his eyes. She might have been
embarrassed by his nakedly hungry stare but he had a French
accent, Eddie Vedder hair and the power to annoy Søren. The
man
got a free pass to make a pass.

Kingsley finally spoke again.

“I could lose my watch inside you.”