Page 18 of Crazy Spooky Love
He pushes his hand through his lustrous, licorice hair as he laughs. If I was feeling especially bitchy I’d tell you that it looks freshly blow-dried, but in truth Leo wears it well. Mother Nature certainlylooked kindly into his cradle; he’s striking and strong-featured, gilded with a charisma that assures the camera loves him, as do his growing army of female fans—or his “Darklings,” as they’ve self-styled themselves on social media.
“You’re going to need more than luck, Melody.”
“Is that so?” I load my words with a “been there, done that, don’t bore me with your crap” sigh to ensure he knows that I’m not in the least bit bothered by his opinion.
Dropping into the swivel chair opposite me, he slides my card back into his top pocket and nods.
“Look, I get it,” he murmurs, slouching casually. “You’re not the first chancer to see what I have and want it for yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Your ego really knows no bounds, does it?”
“My ego? You bulldoze your way into my case and tell my client that you’re better at my job than I am, and you thinkmyego is the problem here?”
Oh, that rattled him a bit. I lean back in my chair, equally slouchy, and meet his gaze head-on. “Look, I get it. You’re used to being the only kid on the lights-and-camera block and you’re scared of the competition.”
Silence reigns for a moment as we regard each other across the expanse of the wooden desk. We know each other’s capabilities and weaknesses pretty well, but we’ve never been out-and-out adversaries like this before. A nostalgic part of my brain likes to think that somewhere deep inside he still feels affection for me, because a sliver of my heart will be forever his. It’s a small, manageable sliver though, not enough to prevent me from living my life or, please God, from one day loving a man without an ego the size of the moon. As it stands, we are old lovers and new business rivals, and he is clearly here to psych me out.
“If you give me your key to Scarborough’s house, we’ll say no more about it.” A small, consolatory smile tips his mouth at one edge, as if he’s offering me a good deal. He reminds me of a vampire trying to glamour me, and I can well see how he could charm peopleinto letting him into their homes before he sucks their jugular dry for the fun of it. He has always had a Svengali-like quality, and for a good chunk of my life I was a willing follower in his cult. Not anymore though, sadly for him. It’s hard to keep your rose-tinted, handmaiden glasses on when your skipper readily discards you for the spotlights and temptation of fame and fortune.
“Not a prayer,” I laugh. “Scarborough gave me the key to that house fair and square. You do your thing, and I’ll do mine. I’ll try to stay out of your hair, if that helps.” I pointedly flick my eyes over his shiny waves.
“It doesn’t.”
I shrug. “Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”
He casts his dark eyes around the office. “Is this whole thing your idea of revenge?”
He really is an ego on legs. “Leo, I hate to break it to you, but I’m over you. I have been for a long time, so no, hard as this might be for you to believe, my business venture has bugger all to do with you.” I pause and then amend my sentence to piss him off. “Unless you count the fact that we’re now rivals.”
He narrows his eyes at me, and his lip curls as if a hundred derisive thoughts are running amok in his head. No doubt they are, but he keeps them inside for now and settles for shoving his chair back with a flourish as he stands.
“Fine. Have it your own way.”
I nod, standing too, with my arms folded and my chin jutted at a jaunty angle in challenge. “Thank you. I will.”
Our eyes clash, and for a second, I fear I might give in and let him suck my jugular.
“Then may the best man win.”
“Woman,” I say sweetly, throwing him a wink and a smile as he takes his theatrical leave. I stare at the closed door for a few seconds after he’s gone. As I listen to his angry footsteps retreat over the cobbles, I’m not sure if I feel unnerved or empowered by the fact that he felt it necessary to come and check us out. A bit of both, I think.
“Lunchtime,” Marina declares when shewalks into the office a few hours later, paint in all colors of the rainbow splattered liberally over her apron. She and Artie arrived back a while ago armed with enough paint and paraphernalia to cover the whole of Babs three times over, and I’ve deliberately left them to it for a couple of reasons.
First, Marina is the artistic one out of the two of us, my input would be minimal and most probably ignored. She’s strong-willed like that. More important though, I’ve decided this is the perfect staff-bonding exercise for Artie and Marina, a getting-to-know-you over a can of turpentine instead of a bottle of vodka, because he barely drinks and she could leave a sailor for dead in a drinking competition.
Artie follows her in with flamingo-pink paint in his hair and the widest smile I’ve seen on his face so far.
“You should come and see Babs,” he fizzes, animated. “She looks, like, amazing.”
“You’ve met Babs, then,” I say drily.
“Met her? I’ve driven her!”
I look at Marina in alarm.
“Chill.” She shrugs. “Only around the DIY store car park. He wasn’t that bad.”
“I was shocking.” Artie grins.
