Page 34 of Carnal Urges
I pause, examining his expression. “Why are you so quiet?”
“I don’t plan murder out loud.”
“Ha. Back to the dead Irish gangsters. They came to our table during dinner and had words with Stavros. Don’t ask me what was said, because it was all in Russian and Gaelic, but the whole kerfuffle started in the first place because one of the Irish guys slapped my ass when I was walking beside Stavros on the way to our table when we first came in. Stavros nearly blew a gasket, but I managed to get him to walk away. But all bets were off when Mr. Ass Slapper showed up again in the middle of dinner.”
Declan leans forward and props his elbows on his knees. He steeples his fingers under his chin and says softly, “Did it ever occur to you that I know exactly what happened inside that restaurant?”
“How could you know if you weren’t there?”
“I know everything.”
I scoff. “So you’re omniscient? Please.”
“The point is that I know you were the reason it all went sideways in the first place.You,swinging that ass in that tiny white dress you were wearing.You,strutting around like you owned the place.You,flashing that smile at a man you passed by, even though you already had one on your arm.”
Anger unfurls like a snake’s coils inside my belly. I sit back in my chair and gaze at him.
“That’s a nasty little manipulation called ‘victim blaming.’ Not that I’m a victim, but the premise holds, and it’s utter bullshit.”
His voice hardens. “Those dead men aren’t bullshit.”
“No, but you mansplaining their deaths as the inevitable fallout from seeing my ass and my smile is. Men pulling guns on each other because a woman smiled in the wrong direction is caused by their infantile egos, unchecked aggression, and overinflated sense of entitlement,notby her.”
We glare at each other. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks.
Or maybe that’s the bomb he set for me.
Holding his hard gaze, I say more softly, “You know I’m right. And I understand the loss of your men must be hard for you. But people are responsible for their own actions. It’s unfair—not to mention inaccurate—to pin this war on me.”
He closes his eyes. He’s silent for what seems like a very long time. I have no idea what he’s thinking, until he says quietly, “Aye.”
I nearly fall out of my chair.
When he opens his eyes and sees my face, his expression sours. “I could do without the bloody gloating.”
“It’s more like shock. But I’ll try.”
He stands and starts to pace. I watch him stalking back and forth in agitation and decide to let him work off steam without interruption. It looks like he’s brewing something important in that giant noggin of his.
If I’m lucky, it might be to my benefit.
He pulls up short and stares at me down his nose. A ruthless dictator couldn’t look more imperious. He commands, “Tell me everything you know about Kazimir Portnov.”
“First: no. Second: why?”
“Because he’s my enemy. And you’re my captive. And youknowhim.”
“Yes, I do know him. He’s my friend.”
When that makes Declan’s eyes turn black, I say, “Okay, technically we’re notfriendsfriends. I only formally met him that one time at the doomed dinner. But my girlfriend is madly in love with the guy, and she’s an extraordinarily good person. She’s practically Mother Teresa. If she likes him, he can’t be all that bad.”
“Women in love are notoriously poor judges of character.”
He says that so darkly, with such raw pain behind the words, it makes me stop and wonder. “Have experience in that department, do you?”
He blows right past that and demands, “How did your girlfriend meet him?”
I take a moment to compose myself, knowing that what I’m going to say won’t go over well. And god only knows how Declan will react, considering the mood he’s in. But it has to be said.
