“It’s March,” he snaps. “I asked half a dozen fucking chemists for your fictional remedy. Finally I concluded, ‘Well, it must not be sold in this city,’ and looked it up on my mobile, only to discover your little hoax.”
“Oops,” I whisper, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
He jabs an arm downward, pointing at the bag between our feet. “And I’m sure you can imagine the result of my askingshopkeepers where I might purchase a ‘plastic retracting-blade knife with which topretendto stab someone.’ That went over marvelously.”
I fiddle with the guest pass hanging at the center of his chest. “Did you find the ‘I Heart Bahrain’ keychain? It was important—”
“None of it’s ‘important’!” he cuts in.
The pupils of his gray eyes are beads of fury. He slowly moves a fingertip to poke the center of my chest. I could stop him, but I don’t; it’s exhilarating to see him lose his cool. Like when another driver is trying to overtake me and gets so frustrated that he makes a mistake.
Victory.
I wrap my hand around his prodding digit. “Watch who you’re fingering, honeybee. It’s not that kind of party.”
As I hold him—his hands are warm, fuck—he presses into my sternum with surprising gentleness. I lower into the chair behind me, captured by the fixed beam of his glittering eyes.
He grips both arms of the chair, corralling me, and leans closer. “Hope you’ve enjoyed your prank, Salvia officinalis. Consider us even. I’ll be on the next flight back to London.”
A jet of adrenaline blooms in my chest, right under the spot where his finger was. “You can’t leave yet. We have an agreement.”
“I most assuredly can, andam.” His hands tighten on the chair arms. “I won’t be abused like this, not by you or anyone.”
Through the fog of unwilling attraction, I remember why I can’t stand this guy. The goal was to humiliate him, and he deserves far worse than my fairly innocent practical joke.How dare he act like the injured party?
“Abused?You?” I growl. “Jesus Christ, you wrote that I fucked someone to get the Emerald seat! And even before that, you came at me like I personally pissed in your cornflakes. Insulting me with your ‘her talent is all in her pants’ bullshit—”
“Oh, don’t kick off. I said yourassets. It was a pun.”
“Flinging your old-timey insults,” I go on, my voice rising, “like ‘hoyden’ and ‘poppet,’ as if your disrespect is excusable as long as you drag me in Shakespearean terms. You threw sand for months, and I finally threw back a handful. Consequences, babes.” I lift a bare foot and lay it against his thigh, pushing him back so he lets go of the chair. “So if you want to avoid a defamation lawsuit, you’ll pick up that bag and take it to my hotel room and quit crying. All I did was make you embarrassed in front of some store clerks. Butyou? You basically called me a no-talent slut on a world stage.It fucking hurt me, in case you’re too dumb to realize that.”
There’s a flash of grief in his eyes, as if it’s just occurred to him that my feelingscouldbe hurt and regret is kicking in. His eyebrows draw together and his lips part as if to say something. Goddamn those lips—they’re the kind I like, with that sort of tenderly angled upper lip like a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
I lean into my fury, unwilling to let this remain unsaid now that I’ve started. “My God, men are fucking ridiculous. You can’t stand to be mocked by women—it’s like the worst crime to emasculate you pack of insecure fuckwads. Meanwhile, you all can say any heinous shit you want, and if we get hurt, it’s ‘Don’t be a humorless cunt. Can’t you take a joke?’ Well, I won’t tolerate it. Fuck your double standard and fuck you,Laskaris.” I point at the center of my chest. “You taunt this bull, expect a fuckin’ horn in the kidney.”
I’m practically panting by the time I fall silent. He studies me for a long time, and I stare right back.
“For what it’s worth,” he says evenly, “‘poppet’ isn’t an insult. It’s an affectionate term.”
“I know how to use a dictionary, asswipe. It’s like a child, or a doll. Somethingsmall. Not a compliment.”
Our staredown lingers another half minute.
He looks away first. “I suppose an apology is in order.”
“You suppose right.”
He reaches out as if for a handshake, and I pointedly ignore the gesture.
“Iamsorry,” he says quietly, hand dropping. “With your reputation—the mischief, the toughness, the saucy comebacks—I got carried away. My treatment of you was inexcusable.”
“You’re not forgiven. But… I’m glad you said it at least.”
Another long silence stretches between us.
Finally, he picks up the shopping bag. “I did get the keychain, as it happens.”
“You found one?”
