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He looks back at me with complete disinterest.
“You’re the one who claimed to be the expert at landing rich men. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t look like a fool in front of your friends.” He leans his head in close like he’s sharing a secret. “Just a heads-up, they don’t seem to really like you very much,” he says.
My heart plummets to my toes.
“Were you listening to us?” I gasp in horror. We thought we heard a phone ring, but one of Cass’s debutante friends said it came from the terrace.
“It was hard not to when you were speaking at the top of your lungs,” he says.
I stare unseeingly at the room full of revelers who have no clue that this man is taking a pickaxe to my pride. I shake my head. He’s taken my words, spoken in a moment of pure self-preservation, out of context. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to explain myself to him.
“Don’t look so down in the mouth. You’ve been spared a night of pretending that you’re turned on by anything more than the diamonds in my watch.”
And just like that, he turns away and faces the front of the room again.
I don’t know whether to be angry, offended, sad, or ashamed. I settle on all of the above and they move through me like lava pushes its way past the earth’s crust. I stand up, step right in front of his face, and let them spill.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I snarl.
He has the nerve to look surprised that I’m still there.
“What?” I widen my eyes in an exaggeration of his own expression. “Did you think I was just going to slink away in shame?” I glare down at him. “I’m not the one who should feel ashamed. You are a pig.” I spit the word at him. He looks back at the dance floor.
“You don’t get to accuse me of being some sort of gold digger and then turn back to your entertainment like it’s not a completely unwarranted insult,” I say and nudge his shoulder with one of my fingers when he doesn’t look up. He glances up at me and sighs as if I’m tedious.
“Actually, I do get to do that. I just did. And, seriously,” his eyes flit over me from head to toe again. “Think about investing in your look. At least if you want to be someone to take out in public,” he says and turns his stony expression back to the dance floor. Those words spoken so casually, hit their target with the precision of fast flying bullets.
I imagine what it would feel like to slap that smug look off his face. But imagining is as close to satisfaction as I’ll ever get. I have enough problems without adding an arrest in Italy to it.
“And you should invest in fixing your terrible personality,” I snap, completely enraged by him.
“Sure. I’ll take your advice if you’ll take mine,” he says.
I bend down so I can put my face in his. I see a flare of heat in his eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s ire or desire. Because even as I face off with him and burn with real dislike, I can feel a tug between us. His mouth is inches from mine and I can’t keep my eyes off it. Before he shutters his expression again, he looks at my mouth the same way.
That bored, blank expression is back, and I pull back from him. “I don’t know what kind of upbringing you had that you feel like you can talk to someone the way you just talked to me. Your money doesn’t make you better than me or anyone,” I say.
“Hmm,” he says and stands up and takes a step toward me. The heated expression in his eyes makes me take a reflexive step backward.
“Hmm, what?” I ask
His hand darts out and he grips my hip before I can take a second step.
He trails a finger down my arm and wraps his fingers around my wrist. He presses the pads of his fingers to my pulse point.
“It’s a shame … you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and I can hear real regret in his voice. It offends me at the same time as it thrills me.
Damn him for being an asshole while looking the way he does.
“Let go of me,” I say, but I make no effort to free myself.
“I don’t want to,” he says quietly. “You don’t want me to, either.” His thumb strokes my pulse point and I shudder. I tug my arm free. No way will l give him the satisfaction of knowing that his touch is the most exciting thing I’ve felt in a long time.
“Tesoro dolce,” he murmurs.
“I don’t know what that means, but you better cut it out,” I warn him.
Because when he does, I want to stop and listen, even though I have no idea what he’s saying.
