Page 7 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“Hmm.”
I keep sketching, ignoring him, waiting for him to walk away. He doesn’t take the hint. I grow more and more uncomfortable as he stands watching my hand move over the page.
Why isn’t he saying anything? Why doesn’t he leave? What the hell is that delicious cologne he’s wearing? Holy shit, is my mouth watering?
Cursing myself for my stupidity, I swallow and sketch faster.
“It needs ruching in the small of the back.” He leans over my chair and taps his long, elegant finger on my sketch pad. “Here.”
Though I was about to add the ruching—which the real dress has—I’m so aggravated by his presumption that I care about his opinion that I scribble a big ugly bow instead.
He chuckles.
The sound is so sexy all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I stuff my sketch pad back into my carry-on, grab my handbag and coat, and launch myself from the chair. Without looking back, I head over to the bar and install myself on a stool, dropping all my stuff at my feet. I order an espresso from the bartender who was robbed of speech by Euro Hunk’s beauty, then prop my elbows on the bar top and rest my aching head in my hands.
“I’ve offended you.”
I jerk my head up. The Italian stallion stands beside me, gazing down at me with eyes the exact color of the water on the tiny island in Bali where I wanted to honeymoon with Brad—clear, brilliant aquamarine. They’re rimmed with a thicket of lashes so lush and black I want to smack him.
He says, “How?”
I draw my eyebrows together, squinting at him because he’s blinding me with his stupid, perfect face. Then he repeats himself, just in case my uterus didn’t already explode.
“How have I offended you?”
Your beauty offends me. The effect you have on women offends me. The fact that you own a penis offends me. You, sir, are a man—the epitome of a man—and therefore I hate your guts.
I say, “I don’t speak English,” and drop my head back into my hands.
“Really?” he muses. “Odd—you seemed to understand me a few moments ago. Let me try again.”
He repeats his question in French. Then German, then Italian, then Spanish. When I don’t respond, he says it in a language I don’t recognize but that could be Dutch.
Now he’s just showing off.
I lift my head and level him with my most lethal stare. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
He doesn’t even blink. “Ah. You are a lesbian.”
“No, Count Egotistico, I’m not a lesbian! I’m just not in the mood for conversation, okay?”
“Okay.” His gaze drops to my mouth, and his voice drops an octave. “What are you in the mood for?”
I want to be furious. I want to be o
utraged. I want to slap him across the face. However, a thermonuclear blast has detonated between my legs, so all I can do is stare at him for a moment as a scalding wave of heat envelops me, and my nipples start to tingle.
Finally, when his full, sculpted lips lift into a carnal smile—because he obviously sees the effect he’s having on me—the anger I’d hoped for makes an appearance.
Holding his gaze, I say through gritted teeth, “You arrogant, stuck-up, cocky, self-important, sexist peacock. You wanna know what I’m in the mood for?” I lean closer to him. “Murder.”
If I hoped that psychotic little speech would turn him off, I’m wrong. His eyes flare, his carnal smile turns absolutely filthy, and he produces another chuckle that makes the bartender, who’s arrived with my espresso, emit a tiny gurgle of lust.
Staring intently into my eyes, he says softly, “Yes, bella. I want you, too.”
THREE
