“Not the concept of joy.” She laid her napkin beside her plate, her tone bone dry. “Only your particular expression of it.”
“Ahhhhhhh.” It was almost a purr, breathy and seductive. He sprawled back in his chair like an indolent prince, lacing his long fingers over his flat belly. “She speaks at last. And while doing so, almost—but not quite—tells a joke. Brava, Nanny Clegg.”
His faded blue tee had ridden up with his movement, exposing a sliver of skin above his low-slung jeans. The candlelight gilded that crescent of flesh, drawing her unwilling gaze.
Given its somewhat remote location, the hotel wasn’t especially fancy, but she’d changed into a dark green swing dress for dinner anyway. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, though, even with that golden sliver of belly visible, he appeared more put-together than her. Black eye or no black eye.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think the two of them were entirely different species.
“She has her moments.” Her tongue had become untethered, and she could only blame the glass of excellent red wine she’d consumed with dinner. “That said, she’s not certain why you’re referring to her in the third person.”
Her resolution to remain silent was melting away as fast as the candle wax, evidently.
“We prefer first person plural? Like royalty?” He waved his hand primly, as if greeting his adoring subjects. “Very well. We’re willing to acquiesce to Her Highness’s demands.”
“Weprefer normal human interaction,” she said quellingly. “Second-person singular should suffice.”
His hoot of laughter made their server look over from polishing glasses at the bar. “If you prefer normal human interaction, I haven’t seen any sign of it yet.”
She raised her brows. “And you consider your level of chattiness normal?”
“Yes, yes, I’m clearly the oddity at this table.” He rolled his eyes. “As opposed to a woman who’s convincingly imitated statuary all day.”
Again, she could have sworn there was something more than mere mockery in his voice. Something like … loneliness?
She swept a glance around the room, looking for anyone else who might be affiliated withGods of the Gates. But apart from an older couple at the bar speaking rapid Spanish to one another—locals, she presumed—the place was empty. And yes, it was late, but it wasn’tthatlate.
“You said most of the cast members are gone already. But what about the crew? Where are they?” During her past three days on the set, she’d spotted hundreds of behind-the-scenes workers, but where they went after hours, she had no clue. “And where are the actors who haven’t left yet?”
He made that breathy, smug sound again.Ahhhhhhh.
His near-purr raised goose bumps on her arms.
“You asked me a question just now. You realize that, right?” Setting his elbows on the cloth-covered table, he leaned forward and studied her face intently. “Does it hurt anywhere? Do you require medical intervention to fix the damage to your psyche?”
“Yes, I realize I asked a question.” Her middle finger wasitchingto make an appearance. “Don’t make me regret it.”
For once, he decided not to push his luck.
“There were too many of us to stay in one place, so Ron and R.J. split us up. Cast members in this hotel, crew in other hotels a bit farther away from the set,” he explained, idly scratching at his beard. “And I’m one of the few actors remaining, like I said. Asha, the woman who plays Psyche, is staying with her pop star boyfriend in a local mansion.”
Oh, yeah. Lauren had seen the two canoodling on the front pages of various American tabloids. In those photos, both were generally topless, cavorting aboard a sleek, spacious yacht, and laughing in each other’s arms.
Alex continued ticking off the names of the remaining cast. “Mackenzie, the woman who plays Venus, even though she’s actually ten years younger than me and immortality can only explain so much—”
“Goddammit, Ron,” Lauren muttered beneath her breath.
“—refused to be parted from her cat, and the hotel doesn’t allow pets. So she rented a cottage nearby.” His sly smile split his beard. “Whiskers considers the furniture rustic but comfortable and the living space more than adequate.”
Lauren blinked at him. “Her cat considers the furniture … rustic? How—how does …”
“How does Whiskers issue such nuanced statements about interior design? Good question. Gooooood question.” He waited a moment before continuing, no doubt to build anticipation. “As you’ll learn via an upcoming memoir,Here and Meow: A Cat’s Life,Mackenzie says they can speak to one another. Telepathically.”
Here and Meow: A Cat’s Life.
“The memoir isn’t hers,” Lauren said slowly. “It’s the cat’s.”
“Correct. Written using Mackenzie as his medium.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Over the years, I’ve found that Whiskers shares essentially all of Mackenzie’s opinions, other than those concerning cat food.” He paused. “At least, I hope that’s an exception.”
