"—and I don't know why my stomach decidednowwas the moment to announce itself, it has terrible timing, I'm so sorry—"
Stop talking, Bailey.
"—it's not like I was trying to be dramatic or anything, I'm just apparently a dying whale now—"
STOP. TALKING.
"—sorry. I'll stop."
I want to die.
But then I see something.
And suddenly, I want to live again.
Because his horribly handsome face...
I saw...something.
Not softness, exactly. Nothing about this man could be described as soft. But the hard line of his mouth changes, just fractionally. The corner of his lips twitches, and for a moment—just a moment—he looks almost...
Amused.
At me.
Because I'm ridiculous.
"You weren't brought breakfast," he says. It's not a question.
"I—no. I don't think so. Maybe? I wasn't really paying attention, I was—"Planning an escape from your heavily guarded mansion,"—no."
He picks up his phone, presses a button, and speaks in rapid French that's too fast for me to follow. The only word I catch ismaintenant—now—delivered with the kind of impatience that suggests someone is about to have a very bad morning.
He sets the phone down. Looks at me again.
"You're either telling the truth," he says slowly, "or you're the most creative liar I've ever encountered."
"I'm not lying."
"Then you're a problem I don't know how to solve." He rises from behind the desk, and even though I knew he was tall, even though I was literally carried by this man yesterday, the full height of him still catches me off guard. "I dislike problems I can't solve."
He moves around the desk. Toward me.
My heart rate picks up. My breath catches. Every instinct tells me to step back, to put distance between us, but something keeps my feet rooted to the floor.
Pride, maybe.
Or something stupider.
He stops in front of me. Close. Too close. I can smell him again—that cedar and smoke scent that my brain has apparently decided to catalog against my will—and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
This is fine. I'm fine. I can have a conversation with a terrifyingly attractive mafia king from three inches away without my brain short-circuiting.
Probably.
"In my world," he says, "mercy is seen as weakness. Unknown threats are eliminated. Quickly, efficiently, without hesitation." His voice is low, measured. "By rights, I should have you questioned by people far less patient than myself."
I should be terrified.
