She sat up and sputtered, “You did that on purpose.”
He smiled. “Happy accident.”
She picked up the can, her expression promising violence.
“Gregori told me to give it to you,” he said in hopes the other man’s name would forestall her from tossing the tin at his head. “Drink it or not. It makes no difference to me.”
She sniffed the top, her gaze suspicious.
“For the love of—” He snatched the can from her and took a swig before handing it back. “Why would I go through the trouble of bringing you here if I’d planned on poisoning you all along?”
“You’re an idiot. How would I know?”
The echo of Gregori’s words voicing the separation between him and them, him andher, was enough to send his temper over the edge.
“Fine! You’re right. I should’ve left you to those monsters. Should’ve left you at the mercy of the slums in the middle of the night. I give up. I’m an idiot because I don’t understand.” He threw his hands in the air and walked away. Women. He’d been right all along. Never get involved. Never form an attachment. He knew better—
Something slammed into his head.
He rubbed the cradle of his skull and stared at the worn tread of a woman’s boot at his feet. His gaze shot to hers.
Her cheeks were red, her breathing labored. Those mesmerizing eyes were glazed, from residual pain or anger, Renard couldn’t guess.
And she was lovely. The bun at the back of her head had finally given way and dark hair cascaded around her face and shoulders; she looked like a goddess inflamed.
His own hot anger shifted to a different heat, imagining a different flame in her eyes.
He picked up the boot. How small it was. Dainty feet. The idea of this woman sporting anything dainty was a laugh and a revelation.
Renard startled.
Since when were women lovely or intriguing? Revelation? The stale warehouse air must have addled his brain.
She’d thrown her footwear—showing a scary bit of strength and skill hitting him squarely in the head—like a child in the throes of a tantrum. Highly inappropriate, unsuitable.
“Unexpected.”
“Will you return my boot, or must you continue to stare at it all night?” she said.
Renard’s body warmed anew at the dry tone. He leaned against a nearby table and tucked the boot under his arm. “Seeing as it was thrown atmyhead, perhaps I’ll keep it, as a remembrance of our time together. You won’t mind, will you?”
“My foot is cold,” she said.
Her ruffled feathers did wonders for his aching head. He hid his grin behind a mask of mock seriousness. “Perhaps I’ll enshrine it, have little flowers stitched into the leather.”
Her mouth curled at the corner. The lady wasn’t completely devoid of humor, it seemed.
“I don’t like cold feet,” she said.
“I’m not so fond of being bludgeoned by ladies’ footwear myself.”
She held out her hand. “Will you return it?”
He shrugged.
“What?” she demanded.
“I am waiting for a better incentive.”
