Page 4 of 10 Days to Ruin

“You’re kind of an idiot,” he says matter-of-factly.

He’s kidding—I think he’s kidding, at least, because he’s using my own words to mock me and those eyes of his are gleaming in a mischievous sort of way—but the cement-mixer-churning-glaciersquality of his voice doesn’t really change.

Playing along, I reply, “‘Kind of’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I glance down at his hand, huge and splayed across my waist. “But thank you for saving me.”

He nods, once, briskly, then peels his hand away. The heat and pressure of it lingers long after it’s gone.

“I think it’s safe to assume you’re not a spy,” the man drawls. “Either that or you’re the worst one in the history of the profession.”

I force out a wheezy, panicked laugh. “I’m a professional spy, actually. In a manner of speaking.”

His forehead wrinkles, those thick, dark brows arrowing downward. “You can’t be ser?—”

“Reporter,” I blurt before the murdery glint in his eyes comes roaring back to life. “I was making a joke. Not a very good one, apparently.”

He keeps frowning, but the wrinkles smooth away enough to let me breathe again. “You’re a reporter,” he repeats, stroking his jawline. “Hm. Here to report on…?”

I wave a hand in the general direction of the ballroom where tonight’s gala is taking place. “The illustrious generosity of our fine host and his many important charitable causes, for which he cares quite deeply and genuinely and definitely not just for the PR and tax write-offs.”

The man makes a short barking noise. It takes me a second to realize that that’s what passes for a laugh from him. “I don’t think Leander can even spell ‘generous.’”

I do a double-take. There aren’t many people in this world willing to talk shit about Leander Makris, much less to a complete stranger. The man has a sufficiently bloody reputation that it’s just not worth the risk.

Thisman, however, couldn’t possibly care any less. As I try to puzzle out just who he is that he’d dare speak so freely about a guy with more murder and racketeering allegations than Brooklyn has baristas, he rakes a hand through his hair and checks his watch.

“Somewhere to be?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Just trying to figure out how long I can hide in here before I have to go mingle with the vultures again.”

It’s my turn to laugh, though hopefully, I sound like less of a barking seal than my new friend here did. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s afraid of social obligations.”

His scowl darkens. “It’s them who should be afraid. If I have to endure one more conversation about Upper West Side brownstone renovations or the guest list of the mayor’s New Year’s Ball, I’m going to put a fucking bullet in someone’s skull.”

Again, I’m fairly sure he’s making a joke, the same way I told Gina yesterday thatif I have to fetch one more nonfat iced mocha latte with extra whip for Sportswriter Steve, I’m going to commit seppuku on the Brooklyn Bridge.

But also, I can’t quite forget that he did just literally discuss murder on the phone, so the joke hits a little too close to home for comfort.

“Well,” I say as nonchalantly as I can, “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties for the evening. Sounds like your hands are full, and besides, I’ve really only been dying to talk about this new backsplash that my neighbor had installed in her…”

He holds up a hand to stop me. “Don’t. Not even as a joke.”

“Noted,” I say, miming zipping my lips. “Backsplashes are off the table.”

But as I make the motion, the man’s eyes lock onto something. That furrow in his brow returns, carved deeper than ever.

I’m confused, until he says in a stern growl, “You’re bleeding.”

I look down and, yep, turns out that inconvenient speed bump in my evening hasn’t magically disappeared. I feel the familiar lurch in my stomach, the seasick tingle of blood rippling down to the tips of my fingers and toes.

I wobble a bit. The man’s hand flies out to steady me once again. “It’s really not a big?—”

“Hush,” he orders, and I immediately fall silent like he just mashed the mute button on the Ariel Ward remote control. “Sink. Now.”

Just like that, I’m a marionette in his grasp. He pilots me and my legs obey as we drift toward the sink together.

I’m suddenly powerless to do anything that he doesn’t tell me to do. Can’t wait, can’t think, can’t argue, can’t flee. I can only receive things, isolated little sensations that come and go like passing clouds.

His hands are big.

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