“Can’t. I have an appointment, and I’m late.” I swing around and begin to walk again.
“All the more reason to accept a ride. Or should I go back and have a word with your friend? Was she a journalist?”
My sneakers squeak as I halt. Again. The Bentley’s tires do not do the same. “You would not,” I utter icily, my head turning like the turret on a tank. From what I’m coming to understand, he probably would, but ...Think, Evie. What benefit would it be to him? Just another manipulation. Whether he will or won’t carry through isn’t the point.
“Probably not,” Oliver concedes with a little lift of one shoulder. “But it got you to stop.”
“And now I’m starting again.” With a mean, closed-lipped smile, I pivot away. “Goodbye, Oliver. Let’s not meet again.”
I take a left out of the car park, and the Bentley follows, its pace matching mine. I hate the tiny spark of excitement inside me, and how it feeds the needy part of my soul.
“We can carry on our conversation like this, but only one of us is getting wet,” Oliver says from the window. “And not in the fun way.”
“You make me wish I had my headphones.” I could get Ted, his poor driver, to wear them.
“Hop in, and we’ll go and get them. Your phone, your belongings—everything.”
“Oh, you’d just love that.” I throw the words over my shoulder.
“Yes, you’re right. I’d love to help you.”
I hate that I glance his way again, but not as much as I hate the expression he’s wearing. It’s an incitement to violence.
Yes, Officer, thatismy knife sticking out of his chest.
Yes, sir, I did say he had it coming to him.
“While we’re at his apartment, I should get you a wooden spoon from the kitchen to help you with your stirring.”
“Or I could spank you with it for being so obstinate.”
“In your dreams.”
His laugh is dirtier than the break room’s microwave. “Eve, I wouldlovethe opportunity to describe my dreams to you.”
That tempting little flutter starts up between my legs. It’s not right or appropriate, as far as responses go, but I can’t help how my body reacts to him. It makes no sense. He threatens me, trails me in his car, and I go all gooey? It’s so wrong that my body is allOliver, just go full dark-book boyfriend, and throw me in the car!
“For someone so spirited on Saturday, you seem very fretful about facing your ex.”
“No one looks forward to seeing their ex. Unless that ex happens to be in a coffin.”
“I did suggest death by cab. Let’s make him green with jealousy instead.”
I grit my teeth and brush my rain-wet hair from my face. I take it all back. Book boyfriends aren’t supposed to annoy the heroine into exploding. “Not gonna happen.”
“How unfortunate for your fluffy clientele. I’m sure they’ll miss you.”
“That’s the best you’ve got?” I demand, spinning to face him. “I guess you must be running out of those idle threats.”
“They’re not idle, darling. I mean every word.”
I pause, because his expression absolutely belies his drawling delivery. “You’re not going to mess with my visa.” I hate the lack of conviction in my words, the upward inflection at the end.
“No. I’ll just have you deported.”
“Unbelievable.” At least, I want it to be.
“Have you even looked into how difficult it will be to remain in this country?”
