Page 49 of Diamond In The Rough

Micah Malone is intelligent. Articulate. A successful businessman, if one can set aside what that business is.

Damn his attractive mind. And his hands, large enough to tempt a woman to look twice.

“I think…” Stealing my eyes from his mouth, I search my plate instead, which holds enough food for four, and pick up another piece. “I think we crossed paths a month ago because the universe felt like screwing with me. It tossed you into my life, like I didn’t already have a busy schedule. And then you said some pretty unkind things, and did some pretty unkind things, even though I didn’t deserve them. So I think us tiptoeing around who you are and what you do for a living would be silly and verging on childish. Like a game of make-believe.”

He swallows his gnocchi and raises a brow in question.

“We’re both reasonably intelligent, sensible people,” I explain. “Circling the facts would be a waste of time for us both.”

“Alright…”

He glances up when the server brings out a bottle of wine and two fresh crystal glasses. He sets them down, his movements quick and harsh, and pours with a glugging intensity, filling the glasses far past standard. He gulps when Micah reaches out with his mutilated hand to hold the stem.

“Thank you, Frederick.” He slides the first glass across to settle by my plate, then the second closer to his still empty portion of the table. “My pizza?”

“On the way, sir.” Frederick plops the bottle on the table and spins away again in a frenzy.

“So, you think you know what there is to know about me.” Picking up his glass, Micah swirls the contents, examining the white liquid as it kisses the rim. “And you object to me asking about your private life?”

“I don’t object to your questions, exactly.” When in Rome, and all that. I place my fork down and replace it with my wine. “But I object to an imbalance of power. Up to this point, you’ve run the show. Spewing harsh words, hurting feelings…. Holding a knife to my throat? The first two crossed a line, but the third?” I bring my wine up and sip. “Unforgivable.”

“Unforgivable… forever?”

“Until you’ve proven yourself to be a better man.” I inhale a deep whiff of my wine and smile as the fruity aroma tickles the base of my throat. “So far, except for your interest in a special and exceptionally expensive piece of history, you’ve yet to prove yourself anything other than spoiled, violent, and rude.”

“You’re not apt to soften your words, I see.” He brings his own wine up and takes a small sip. “You’re not afraid of me?”

Pissing my pants, actually.

But telling him so would be a mistake.

“If you wanted me dead, I believe you’d have done so when you had a knife pressed to my throat. Since you didn’t… and have behaved like a reasonably measured, rational citizen since, I can only assume your homicidal tendencies, toward me, no longer exist. As for me deserving to know what happened to your hand…” I set down my glass and pick up my fork again. Stabbing a piece of gnocchi, I lift it from the rest and give it a moment to cool. “I think telling me that story might be an exercise in trust. And luckily for us both, I’ve actually done nothing to make you think me dishonest. So…” I toss the gnocchi into my mouth, and grin. “What happened?”

“Some asshole hurt me…” For the first time ever in my presence, he lifts his left hand and flexes it for me to see. He squeezes his remaining fingers, so the skin stretches over his knuckles, then releases the tension. Though, I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches. “Someone who was angry at my family. He wanted retribution, and I was his chosen pig out for slaughter.”

“Slaughter?” Intrigued, I turn on my seat, lifting my leg to the cushion and resting my knee against his firm, muscular thigh. “I don’t mean to minimize your distress and pain. But slaughter? That implies death.”

He points to his shoulder, though he doesn’t move his shirt or jacket aside. “A nine-millimeter slug.” Then down to his forearm. “Fractured, still healing.” He points to his ribs. “Countless lacerations. And to add insult to injury, one of the stitches was rejected by my body and got infected.” He rests his hand on the table and shrugs. “Or something. I dunno. I slept through a lot of it and let the doctor carry that mental load.”

Swallowing, he glances up as Frederick bustles through the door with a steaming pizza, then he moves the files from the table to make room for his lunch to be set down. He says nothing more while the server is within earshot.

When we’re alone again, I ask, “All of those wounds came at the same time?” I don’t reach across and touch his hand, though a tiny, suicidal part of me wants to. But I do lean closer and angle my head to get a better look. “And from the same people?”

He nods. “A few months back. Everything is healed… or healing,” he adds as an afterthought. “My hand is the only one people see on the regular.”

“Who hurt you?” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and stare at his missing digit. The stitch marks, still visible, even if the stitches themselves are gone. The quarter-inch nub left over. The scarily white pallor at the end, where the rest of his finger should be. “Why?”

“Someone who no longer matters.” He uses his damaged hand to pick up a slice of pizza, then he folds it in half like a heathen. “For reasons that no longer matter. Which college did you go to?”

My brows pinch tight, surprise rolling through my mind like words in an echo chamber. “Huh?”

“College.” He takes a bite of pizza and slowly chews. “To work in antiques, I assume you need an education. Education typically means college.”

“Brown University.” I spear another gnocchi, since I guess we’re both eating now, and toss it onto my tongue. “You?”

He snorts, shaking his head before the sound even fully leaves his lips. “I didn’t go to college.”

“But you’re educated. I mean…” How do I say you’re mafia, without saying you’re mafia? “Perhaps your job isn’t as IRS-friendly as mine. But we can both acknowledge you have a functioning brain. Word going around is that you invest heavily in the stock market too.”

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