Page 61 of Diamond In The Rough

“More than I’ll earn in the next three lifetimes. Even more if I told her the truth about some of the things she has in stock.” I rest on the counter and lean closer, as though to tell a secret. “That Mongolian chest was not the only item in her possession with a price lower than its worth. I get the impression she wants to work in antiques just so she can distinguish her shop from a regular furniture and knickknacks store. The latter is crude and inelegant, while she, obviously, only serves the upper echelon of society.”

“But she doesn’t have knowledge in the things she sells?”

“She doesn’t have a clue—nor does she care. She just wants to sell pretty things to pretty people. However, I know what she has, so if a customer comes in and I take a shine to them, then I’ll sell a piece for cheap and let the new owner know when they’re headed out the door that they’ve got something exceptionally valuable. If someone walks through the door and they’re rude and dumb, then chances are, I’m gonna make up some stupid story and badly promote the piece. Often, they’ll leave empty-handed, and I get to save the good stuff for someone more worthy.”

“Funny.” He grabs our soda and rests his lips on the cold metal. “You’ve treated me to both scenarios. Oddly, for the same piece. Does that mean you like me, or that you can’t stand me?”

“That’s the problem…” I watch, a prisoner to him, as he sips the Pepsi, the movement of his throat like a snake charmer to a cobra. “I can’t decide what I think of you. You’re rude most of the time. Your career is… less than appropriate. And you get handsy and mean when you think someone is out to screw with you. But…” I exhale a gentle sigh. “Your intelligence intrigues me, and your need to feed me is kind of endearing.” I look down at the food we’re slowly working through. “You seem to care about the people who matter to you, and the fact you spend your time in a greenhouse makes me smile.”

“First of all…” He sets the Pepsi down and reaches across the counter, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and stealing the oxygen from my lungs when his thumb draws long lines over my veins. “Intelligence matters to me, because the opposite, total and complete brain sludge, is a terrifying state to consider. My brother is exceptionally talented at appearing to suffer from the latter; how he interacts with the world has taught me what not to strive for. Secondly, I feed you because I’ve ruined a couple of your meals this week, and I’d like to make sure that me, you, and karma are square on that front. I care about very few people…” He brings his gaze up. “I can count on two hands exactly those I love. So, yeah, when there’s a threat coming, I’m gonna step in the way and deal with it. Even when that threat is five feet, six inches tall, a hundred and fifty pounds, has pretty amber eyes, and possesses a brain quick enough to make up bullshit stories about a war chest, even when she’s afraid.”

He thinks I have pretty eyes?

“And the greenhouse thing,” he tugs my hand closer to him and lays my arm on the counter. It’s intoxicating how slowly he moves. How calmly. How utterly smooth his touch is. “You know too much. I can’t very well let you live your life without me nearby, now that you’re aware of my deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Heh.” Carefully, I drag my arm back and make my hand busy picking up a piece of chicken, if only to discourage him from touching again.

Why don’t I want him to touch?

Because he’s the mafia!

But it feels nice.

“Do you know what else I’ve noticed about you, Ms. Hale?” Seemingly unoffended by my withdrawal, he pulls his own hand back and continues to eat. “I only have to look into your eyes to be certain you have conversations with yourself.”

“No I don’t.” Yes I do. “It’s called thinking. Not conversing.”

“And yet,” his lips curl. “You argue with yourself. It must be exhausting, having two personalities inside your head fighting for dominance at any given time.”

“You make me sound mentally unwell.” Scowling, I stare down at my pasta. “A woman is not likely to be flattered by this line of conversation.”

“No offense intended.” He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, a seductive, intentional action in my peripherals.

The cold, hard fact is that Micah Malone knows he’s handsome. Maybe he doesn’t sashay all over New York, the way his brother does, bedding women and spraying his skunk stink on the general female populace. Maybe he doesn’t say or think the words, ‘My name is Micah and I’m sexy.’ But he knows. He’s aware of the reaction he commands in a healthy, moderately intelligent female’s body.

Her mind.

Her libido.

“I was only making an observation.” He grins, like he knows I’m having one of those one-person conversations right now. “It’s kind of obvious after looking into your eyes for more than a few minutes. You work through every conversation internally before vocalizing the words you want to share.”

“Sounds to me you’re thinking up a long-winded, mildly reasonable explanation to brush away the fact you called me strange.” I pinch a creamy strand of fettucine between my fingers and suck it through my lips from end to end. “I want my pothos plant back.”

Instantly, he laughs, loud and startling enough to bring my back straight and my eyes wide.

“You sold it to me. It’s mine now. And you having a tantrum because of your own perceived offense isn’t justification for taking back something you gave me.”

“I didn’t give it to you. You stole it.”

“I didn’t steal shit! It was part of the deal. I handed you sixty-nine thousand dollars. You gave me a Mongolian chest and a dying ivy.”

“Is the ivy noted in the contract?” I flatten my lips and watch him search his memory. I observe the way his mind clicks through our sale, and then as his eyes narrow.

Finally, I assert, “No, it’s not. You do not legally, nor ethically, own Jakeline Colby’s dying ivy. You stole it. And should I wish to call the cops and ask them to repossess our item, what do you think they’ll do when they get to your house?”

He chuckles, completely unaffected by my barely veiled threat. “You gonna send them to my house on a ‘stolen plant’ claim? They get a warrant to enter my premises, based purely on suspicion of a pinched twenty-dollar pothos, and while they’re there, you think they’ll find something else to arrest me for?”

“I don’t know.” I can’t help the smile that works along my lips. That they twitch to life and ruin the seriousness I was attempting. “Whatever they find in your home is between you and them. I merely care for the return of my beloved plant.”

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