That was the terrifying part.
His jaw flexed once. His gray eyes turned flat. His security detail scanned the exits, the patrons, the employees, and finally the child, as if searching for a solution to a paradox without making physical contact.
“Sophie,” Dominic commanded, low enough that half the patrons leaned in to catch it. “Get down.”
“No!”
She kicked a crystal water carafe off the table.
It slammed into the floor and disintegrated.
A woman inhaled sharply. Someone murmured a prayer. The floor manager, who had managed intoxicated statesmen, irate billionaires, and a cinema star sobbing over chilled risotto, turned as white as parchment.
Grace Bennett was balancing three plates of lobster ravioli when the impact occurred.
She halted near the service station, tray steady on one hand, and observed the little girl snatch a steak knife from a vacant table.
The bodyguards lunged.
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