Play With Me

diamond bracelet that landed Jona
Montiniere in the clutches of the police. It was just a darn sweater. After her
last spectacular misadventure, the streetwise teenager is forced to return to a
mother who'd dumped her in an orphanage twelve years ago. The only good news of
the day, the woman's days are numbered. Cancer. Jona can't be less concerned
about her mother's suffering, but she's furious when the judge sends her off to
France like a slave where she has to live with a family she didn't know about.
Until she meets her mother’s young caretaker...
    Trapped for seemingly endless six weeks in a manor resembling Cinderella's
Castle, the budding friendship with Julian is the only thing that puts Jona off
her plan to sneak away in the night. Gorgeous, provocative, and mysterious,
he's everything her closed heart desires—
    and
he gives her no chance to deny him.
    But
just when she starts to trust for the first time in her lonely life, Julian
awakens her mother from the dead with a simple touch.

 
     
    1
     
    WRONG
TURN
     
     
     
    I FACED A moral
dilemma.
    Take it…don’t
take it…take it…don’t take it?
    The soft cotton
of the purple sweater in my hand tempted me sorely. It wasn’t covered with
holes or stains, but perfectly intact, like nothing I’d worn since I was five
years old. I could even rub the hoodie on my cheek, and the threads wouldn’t
scratch my skin like the nasty gray hand-me-down pullover I currently wore.
    Only the price
tag stood between this perfect sweater and me.
    I searched the
Friday afternoon crowd at Camden Market. The place brimmed with people.
Everyone was busy scanning clothes, jewelry, shiny little knickknacks, or small
toys. The stand-owner had her back to me as she talked to a customer. If I
wanted to nick the sweater, then it had to be now or never.
    Take it ?
    “What’re you
waiting for, Montiniere?” Debby purred in my ear. “Take it or leave it. But
make it fast, because I’ve just had my hand in her till.” Her blonde brows
waggled.
    Debby Westwood
was not my friend. At least, not in the sense of Hey girl, let’s have a
pajama party and tell each other our weirdest secrets. I used to hang out
with her. Her the-entire-world-can-kiss-my-arse attitude totally impressed me. She’d become my idol from the moment
she rammed into me on Earls Court a few months ago. She’d been on the run from
the fuzz for the theft of a pair of crocodile stilettos. Jeez, I should’ve
known consorting with a criminal would only get me into shit.
    Debby wasn’t a resident
of London’s Youth center like me but spent her life on the streets. As for me,
my warden, Miss Mulligan, allowed outings from the Westminster Children’s Home
only on Tuesdays and Fridays. And I was lucky, because anyone under the age of
seventeen wasn’t granted even that.
    Praise my
seventeenth birthday! I was ecstatic when I no longer had to attend group
excursions. London was way more fun alone. No teachers, no rules, no nothing.
    Just me. And
this pretty purple sweater.
    My grip
tightened on the fabric. Thump-thump-thump. The sound of my heartbeat
boomed in my ear, faster and faster as I got closer to taking what I wanted,
though I knew it was wrong. My throat went dry. I had difficulty swallowing.
The sound of my backpack being unzipped raised the hair on my arms. “What’re
you doing?” I couldn’t believe Debby’s boldness. I swung around to face her.
    She flashed a
mischievous grin. “Helping you.” Covering me from the view of the stand-owner,
she stuffed the sweater halfway into my bag. “Look at you. Your rags even scare
dogs away. You’re lucky I spend time with you.”
    I glanced down
at my ripped jeans and tattered boots. Heat flooded my face. Even though Debby
didn’t have a permanent roof over her head, she dressed like the queen of
Oxford Street. If her slacks or shirts got dirty, she simply discarded them and
stole new, brand name ones.
    When I first met
her, it didn’t take the girl long to convince me there was more than enough
stuff for everyone. Debby’s Shoplifting 101 philosophy: The exaggerated prices people paid for high heels and
leather jackets made good on the few pieces we palmed from time to time.
    Like this
sweater.
    I kept my eyes
on the freaky-looking stand-owner, dressed in striped tights and a straw hat,
and waited another heartbeat before I shoved the sweater all the way into my
backpack. She must have heard my heart pounding, because she turned around at
that