Lured (Team Zero #1) by Rina Kent

Once I pass the bar and become a lawyer, I will sue Sam for calling me a kid.

I sigh and pick up the light boxes to stack them in the narrow storage room. There’s a small aeration space above and a yellow light that brightens the rows and rows of boxes.

The task is so boring and mundane.

I’m thankful that Sam gave me a job. He even rented me the room above the coffee shop and next to his family home, where his wife gives me free meals. If they didn’t consider me as one of their rebellious kids, I wouldn’t have survived long. I would’ve run back to France after a week when most of my savings dried.

My parents sheltered me during my entire life. After his life as a war veteran, Papa decided to escape civilisation by building a house at the top of a hill in a small town in Marseille. As if that isn’t enough, he chose a location where the closest town is more than thirty minutes’ drive.

Twenty years there.

Whole damn twenty years.

I read more books than I can count and basically became a nerd. Although it’s partially due to Papa’s influence, psychology and defence fascinated me for the longest time.

In the summer break, I’ve had enough of living in my parents’ shadow. I took my passport and my savings and flew to London. I love my parents so much, but I need more. Something, anything, that will shed away the whole small-town nonsense.

At least for the summer.

I could’ve gone to Paris, but it isn’t adventurous enough. I wanted to fly over the sea.

Adventures don’t include stacking boxes.

For the second time today, I abandon the storeroom. I peek sideways to make sure Samir isn’t in sight then I go back to the counter.

One of the patrons in the aisle opposite Dominic’s group raises a hand. I grab the menu and stroll over.

I serve any table surrounding the group, but never them. Watching from afar is safe. If I get close, I feel like I will be sucked into Dominic’s orbit and there will be no way out.

The man who appears to be in mid-fifties takes the menu. I nod and head back. On my way, I catch a whiff of Dominic’s deep, slightly raspy voice. My toes curl. I don’t know why I have this reaction to it. Add that crisp British accent, and I’m a goner, basically.

“You had a wonderful gala yesterday,” he says to one of his friends. “You should try it again.”

I snort. There he goes. The beginning of another series of manipulation.

Behind the counter, I find my colleague Nancy chatting on her phone. She has soft pink hair and huge blue eyes. A woman in Dominic’s group raises her hand.

Nancy nudges me. “Go.”

I shake my head and push her instead.

Nancy shrugs a shoulder and saunters over to them. I gauge Dominic’s reaction to her, but he only smiles. There’s this thing about his smile. I call it full-of-shit. It’s that type of smile Hollywood actors offer to the camera the entire freaking time. While it’s dazzling and bright, it’s completely fake.

He’s completely fake.

Why the hell am I so transfixed with him?

Because he can pluck you away from your safe goody-two-shoes image. He can be your adventure.

I shut down that little demon on my left shoulder.

No adventure is worth getting involved with a dangerous man. The little angel on my right shoulder says, and I nod along.

But I came here for an adventure, merde.

Frustrated from listening to a hypothetical demon and angel, I trudge back to the storage room. Dominic’s group asked for the bill and they will all be driving their dazzling cars into London’s traffic.

If I’m lucky, I might see them tomorrow. Oh. It’s the weekend.

My lips twist. I need to read some psychology fiction or something to take my head off this.

It’s becoming a dangerous obsession.

I sigh and go back to stacking boxes. I put on my earphones, blast Coldplay, and hum as I lift boxes.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on alert. Just like every time he comes into the coffee shop. I gulp, and it’s audible even with the music in my ears.

I slowly turn around while peeling out the earphones. My stomach clenches when I stare up at Dominic’s deep brown eyes.

“Hello, Camille.”





Chapter Three





Dominic is here.

It isn’t strange that he’s in the coffee shop considering that he’s been a regular even before I came along. What’s strange is that he’s here in this small storage room, talking to me.

Up close, he smells of cloves and a deep masculine scent that weakens my knees. His black jacket stretches over broad shoulders like a second skin. He hovers over me like a domineering presence, blocking the exit – and any rational thoughts. His posture is upright but not stiff. He carries himself with infinite ease like he owns the place and everyone in it. If anyone doesn’t submit, he’d rip them to pieces and tear them apart just because he can.

It takes me a second – or a few – to close my gaping mouth and regain my voice. “How do you know my name?”

He motions at the nametag on my apron, and I can’t help following the lean finger.

I briefly close my eyes and curse my stupidity. “Right. What can I do for you?”

Perhaps he wanted some direction in the coffee shop. Although he probably knows this place better than I do.

“You’re French.” His deep voice with that hint of huskiness does weird things to the bottom of my stomach. I’ve always loved the British accent – I’m an anglophile to heart after all, but on him, it’s tenfold more sinful and makes me think of him saying dirty things.