He Claims Me by Cynthia Sax Page A

glass cones, won’t she? Or do rich ­people insure their art?”
    We drive and drive and drive through Beverly Hills, navigating the hills where the largest, most exclusive homes are located and crisscrossing the flats. I talk through my situation as the police officers sit silently in the front seat. I can’t think of a solution, a way to avoid going to jail, possibly forever.
    Resigned to my fate, I stare out the window at the big empty homes. My shoulders ache, my hands restrained in an unnatural position, and my stomach rumbles.
    The radio crackles and the gruff officer spins the steering wheel, the tires squealing as the car is turned around. I slide along the seat and slam against the door. Our speed accelerates.
    We park in front of the police station. I tilt my head back and look up at the building, dread settling low in my stomach. Is this what my father felt when he was arrested? Alone and afraid, a small player in a cruel uncaring system?
    The easygoing cop opens the door, his eyes kind and understanding. His partner helps me to exit, his grip on my arms tight, as though he thinks I’ll make a run for it. Where would I go? I glance around me.
    A long black limousine waits in front of the building. Ted, Blaine’s driver, leans on the vehicle, his arms crossed. He grins at me and some of my dread dissipates. I’m not alone. “Blaine is here,” I tell the officers. He won’t allow anything bad to happen to me.
    The two officers look at each other and the grip on my arms loosens. “We were doing our jobs, ma’am. This isn’t personal.”
    â€œOf course it isn’t personal.” I frown, not blaming them for my problems. “And you’re doing a fine job.”
    We walk through the doors. Men and women in dark suits stand at the end of a long hallway. The only person I see is Blaine. He’s clad in his black suit, his white shirt, and his happy yellow tie. His black hair is mussed, the rebellious lock falling across his forehead. His face is too angular to ever be called handsome.
    I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love him, my heart bursting with emotion. “Blaine.”
    He turns his head and his brilliant green eyes widen. “Anna.” He rushes toward me, moving faster than I’ve ever seen anyone move, ­people scattering before him.
    Blaine sweeps me into his arms. His lips capture mine and I open to him, needing him inside me. He tastes of black coffee and love. He smells of sandalwood, musk, and man. He’s warm and mine, and if my arms were free I’d wrap them around him and never let him go.
    â€œCamille wasn’t supposed to contact you.” I gaze up at him, memorizing every line on his face, in case I never see him again. “If Volkov finds out about you associating with a thief, he won’t trust you.”
    â€œYou’re not a thief, nymph.” Blaine leans his forehead against mine, our noses touching. “And your sarcastic friend didn’t contact me. I called your phone and she answered.”
    â€œI should have known she had a plan.” I rub my nose against Blaine’s, savoring the contact. “She agreed a bit too quickly not to contact you.” I wiggle my shoulders.
    He runs his hands along my arms. “What’s this?” Blaine prods my handcuffs with his fingertips and frowns fiercely at the officers. “You restrained her?” he thunders, his face darkening.
    â€œThey had to put the handcuffs on me.” I summon a smile, trying to ease his outrage. “The police officers were doing their jobs.” Other ­people join us. A large heavyset man in a dark suit pushes to the forefront of the crowd, followed closely by Yen, Blaine’s legal counsel. Henley stands to the side, his midnight gaze fixed on me. “The policemen were very professional and kind. I feel safer knowing they’re protecting us.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am.”