Page 74 of Midnight Enemy

“I’m okay.”

“I don’t want you to be in pain. Orson, do you feel guilty about what we’re doing?”

I stare at her. “Why do you say that?”

She goes over to the coffee table, picks up the pack of Panadol that was half hidden beneath a journal, pops two, and picks up the water bottle standing next to them. Then she turns and holds them out to me.

“Take these,” she says.

My head does hurt, so I take them from her and knock them back with the water. Then, as I screw the top back on the bottle, I say, “Why did you ask if I feel guilty?”

“Because how we feel has a direct effect on pain.”

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I frown at her.

“You’re not corrupting me or leading me astray,” she tells me. “And you’re not seducing me. I went to dinner knowing where it was likely to lead.”

I’m momentarily speechless. The truth is that she’s right. Although I asked her back, it’s impossible not to wonder whether she’s only herebecause the two guys at the commune have told her to do her best to get the full price for the Waiora. I told her I’d pay it anyway because I’d hoped it would banish that feeling, but it hasn’t.

“You don’t believe me,” she says, and her eyes flare. “I do have a mind of my own.”

“I know.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. You really think I’d go to bed with you because George asked me to? That I’d prostitute myself for the pool?”

“No…”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Scarlett…”

She’s gradually growing more irate. “I accept that I initially agreed to go to dinner with you to discuss business. But that wasn’t the only reason. I didn’t kiss you in the gazebo because of the pool. And I’m not here because of it.”

“I know.”

Her eyes blaze. “I don’t know how you could think that of me.”

My God, she’s sexy when she’s irate. I’m turned on even though I’m annoyed. “I don’t.”

“I was a virgin when we met at the gazebo!”

“I know, I was there, remember?”

“Are you being sarcastic with me now? God, you’re arrogant, and condescending, and patronizing. You’re everything I’ve been brought up to believe.”

“Probably.” I glare at her. “And you drive me crazy with your hippy-dippy, muesli-eating, let’s-all-hold-hands-and-sing-Hosanna bullshit.” I move closer to her. “I don’t know why I want you as much as I do.”

Her eyes widen. She backs away and holds up a hand. “Don’t you dare turn on the charm.”

“I’m not.” I continue to walk forward.

She backs up and meets the wall with a bump, and raises both hands to rest them on my chest. I move closer, until I’m pressed up against her. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I say, my voice husky with desire. “Even though you drive me nuts.”

“You said if I wanted you to stop, you’d stop,” she says tartly.

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