Page 11 of Savage Hearts
“Oh, no reason. It’s just that a skull fracture isn’t on my itinerary.”
Glancing at me in the rearview mirror, he frowns. Then he takes another corner so fast, I have to cling to the door handle so I don’t smash through the rear window and rocket off into space. “Dude, will you please cool it? I’m getting tossed around back here like a beach ball at the Electric Daisy Carnival!”
I can tell from the look on his face that he doesn’t get the reference. But he does slow down to under a thousand miles per hour, so I guess he understands the general idea that I’m not one for aggressive shows of speed.
“Thank you. Sheesh.”
We drive for a while without exchanging more conversation.
I resist the urge to pester him with questions, mostly because I’m afraid his Irish accent will make my panties go up in smoke.
After Spider has glanced curiously at me in the rearview mirror about four hundred times, I sigh heavily and adjust my glasses. “I know. My sister and I don’t look alike.”
“Same cheek, though.”
“Cheek?”
“Sass. Confidence.”
“Ha! Nobody on earth has Sloane’s self-confidence.”
He chuckles. “Aye. Except maybe her man.”
I wasn’t going to ask questions, but curiosity gets the better of me. “You mean her fiancé? The rich and elderly Mr. O’Donnell?”
He glowers. “Forty-two is hardly elderly, lass.”
Okay, two things. First: he’s right. Though it’s quite a bit older than Sloane, forty-two isn’t elderly.
More importantly, being called “lass” is my new favorite kink.
I drape myself over the back of the passenger seat and stare at Spider’s beautiful profile. After a moment, he flashes me a quizzical look.
“Sorry, I’m just trying to imagine what it must be like to walk around looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know.” I wave a hand to indicate his general luminosity.“That.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Bizarrely, he seems sincere. His expression is one of genuine confusion. But how is that possible? If I were gorgeous, I’m sure I’d know it.
Like Sloane does.
It occurs to me that maybe Spider’s elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor. I might need to clarify things for him.
“What I’m saying is that you’re very good-looking.”
I’m astonished when his cheeks turn bright red.
He sputters some kind of nonsensical denial, adjusts his tie, and stares straight ahead out the windshield, blinking comically.
Aw. He’s bashful! Gorgeous, well-endowed, and bashful!
I want to crawl into his lap, but smile at him instead. “You must be very popular with the ladies, Spider.”
More sputtering. He finally composes himself enough to say stiffly, “I don’t have time for a relationship.”
