“The sheep.”
“The three-legged sheep—not one of the dogs?”
“She wouldn’t risk the local council or police involvement. I’m not sure she’s supposed to have so many animals on the land. Plus, what kind of man would admit to being terrorized by a sheep?”
“How terrifying could that woolly creature be?”
“That depends on whether you enjoy swollen testicles or not,” I offer happily. “Lamb Chop has a habit of headbutting men right where it hurts. She’s also bitten the postman’s ass a couple of times. Maybe Nora should’ve hung on to the llama. That thing would chew off your face just for looking at him the wrong way.”
“A llama?” Oliver’s tone is a touch incredulous.
“Llamas are very territorial creatures. They’ve been known to bite off the testicles of their rivals, ending their bloodline.”
“I wonder if you can send someone a llama,” he muses.
“As a gift?”
“Yes, let’s go with that.”
“Kind of brings a whole new meaning to Dick at Your Door,” I say with a snort.
“A dick where?” He looks at me like I’ve completely lost it.
“Dick at Your Door.” I take back my hand, sliding away a stray lock of hair. “You know, the company that sends your enemies a chocolate dick to choke on?”
Oliver laughs, the deep sound apparently eroding my brain cells, because, apparently, I’m on a roll. Of idiocy.
“I know a drug dealer in Hammersmith who used a snake in his business. A boa constrictor. He’d mail it to people who owed him money, obviously to frighten them. I mean, it was the snake I was acquainted with, not the drug dealer. And in a professional capacity.” Why am I babbling? “It’s not like I owed him money or anything. How do you suppose he hasn’t turned up at the hotel?”
“The snake?” He blinks. “Mitchell.” He glances down, then straightens his shirt cuffs. “Few people know I live there. Which is exactly the way I like it.” He pauses. “Are you worried about seeing him again?”
“I’d rather never set eyes on him again.” The low violence of my own answer surprises me. “Why else do you think I gave up on my belongings?”
“You should’ve allowed me to rectify that.”
“I don’t want you to. There’s nothing I need.”
“There must be.”
“Leave it, please. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Oliver studies me silently before speaking again. “You know, your paths are bound to cross again at some point.”
My mouth twists as I suddenly understand his reticence. “I should’ve guessed. Seeing him is somehow part of your game plan.”
“I’m no friend of Mitchell Atherton’s. You know that. How would I have arranged a meeting?”
I harrumph my distrust of his answer.
“That’s not to say I think it shouldn’t happen. And when it does, surely, it would be better if I were by your side.”
“Why? You gonna play llama?” I almost expect him to say something crass, assert that one of us being acquainted with Mitchell’s ball sack is enough.
“It’s not going to be swords at dawn, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Because he doesn’t like me that much.
Sometimes I forget Oliver isn’t like other men. But other rich men? Yep, I see those similarities. I wonder if he does it on purpose—reminds me of our situation whenever we’re getting along well. I should probably thank him for it.
