I turned to him then, crossing my arms defiantly. “You should learn how doors work. Usually, people stand on the other side of them.”
“Technically, I am on the other side.”
“You are in the doorway,” I protest.
“Close enough.”
“For a man who works for someone obsessed with precision, this discussion is pointless. Careful, I might tell your boss that you’ve found a sense of humor.”
That does it. Omar’s expression shifts, and before I can decide whether I have pushed the wrong button too hard, he steps into the room.
I don’t have time to step back. He crosses the room in two strides. This close it dawns on me that he is larger than I am, armed, rested, and not recovering from being drugged. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to lift my chin to keep his face in view, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck.
“Do you ever get smart enough to stop provoking the dangerous men that surround you?”
I smile because spite is sometimes all a woman has left, and mine is in excellent condition. “Not when they make it so easy.”
His eyes narrow.
“You are in Stefano Savarese’s house,” he says. “You are alive because he finds you useful. You have seen the children because he allowed it. You are walking around with a sharp tongue and no weapon because, for some reason I cannot begin to understand, he finds that entertaining. I, however, find it utterly annoying.”
“You forgot charming.”
“No, I didn't.” He leans in a fraction, not touching me, not threatening me outright, just filling the space until the room feels smaller because of his size. Testing. Waiting.
I hold still.
“Hmmm.” His gaze flicks once to my feet, then back to my face. For one second, nothing happens. Then his mouth twitches.
Barely.
It is so small I almost miss it, but there it is. Like he has found another irritating piece of evidence that supports Stefano’s bad judgment.
“You are a problem,” he says flatly.
“So I have been told.”
He stands upright, still looking down at me with a critical eye, but with less strain in his body, “I’m beginning to see why he likes you.”
I grin despite myself. “Did that hurt to admit?”
The twitch at his mouth deepens by a fraction before he kills it. “Thirty minutes, Maya. Get dressed. Make yourself impressive.”
“His word or yours?”
“His.”
“Good. I would hate to think you were flirting with me.”
Omar’s face goes flat, and he snorts, “I would rather be shot.”
“Aww, pity,” I tell him with a wink. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Good.”
He steps back into the hall, finally giving me the room, and reaches for the door. Before he pulls it shut, his gaze moves to the garment bag again.
“And Maya?”
