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What she found disturbing was his clinical approach to the induction. She couldn't get intimate with a guy who only thought about the benefit she would gain from it, which was admirable and commendable but not good enough.
She could only be with a man who wanted her and cared deeply for her and who she wanted and cared deeply for in return.
Then again, Negal had told her that he was obsessed with her and that it had started even before he'd met her just from seeing her eyes in a picture.
Could that be true?
She had no reason to think that Negal had lied.
He'd only admitted that after she had pressured him.
Still, an obsession wasn't a good thing. It didn't mean that he cared for her or even liked her. People got obsessed with people who they could barely stand.
There was no way she could jump into bed with Negal without forming a meaningful emotional connection first, and it wasn't because she was a prude or because she adhered to some outdated societal conventions. She just wasn't capable of that, not even for the prospect of immortality.
The only way it could happen was if the doctor drugged her or knocked her out, but she doubted Negal was into sex with a compromised or unresponsive partner.
What was she going to tell him when he returned?
How was she going to face him?
If she had the energy, Margo would have gotten up and slinked away to her cabin before he returned with her drink.
No, she wouldn't have.
It would have been a cowardly and offensive move, and Negal didn't deserve that. She would somehow marshal the dregs of her energy, finish this talk with him, say goodnight, and then go to her cabin and collapse into bed.
When the terrace door swished open, she braced herself as best she could, but given that her dress didn't allow a deep breath, it wasn't much.
"I've got you a Cadillac Margarita." Negal handed her the drink. "But after seeing what went into it, I'm not sure that you are in any state to drink it." He pulled a lounger closer to hers. "You look like you are about to faint again."
She noticed that he hadn't gotten a drink for himself, or maybe he had and had finished it at the bar.
The drink was supposed to give her liquid courage, but Negal was right. It would knock her out.
"You are right. I'm exhausted. I don't know how I'm even still functioning after the twenty-four hours I've had."
He smiled. "By sheer stubbornness."
Margo chuckled. "For a guy who has just met me, you seem to know me quite well."
"I want to get to know you even better."
She grimaced. "I bet."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't mean carnally, although, of course, I want that as well. I mean, get to know you as a person. Your likes and dislikes, what interests you, what bores you, what foods you like, do you like a thick blanket or a thin one, and whether you prefer your eggs done with butter or with olive oil."
Margo chuckled. "Those are very specific questions. I don't think any guy has ever asked me how I liked my eggs. Do you like cooking?"
He smiled sheepishly. "Eggs are the only thing I know how to cook. I tried pasta once, and it didn't come out well. The noodles fell apart."
"You probably overcooked them. I can teach you. I make a wicked pasta primavera."
"Why is the pasta wicked?"
"It's a colloquial usage of the term, and it means that it's very good."
"I see." He braced his elbows on his knees. "It's good that there are kitchens in the cabins, so maybe you could teach me how to make that evil pasta before the cruise ends."
