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Someone in the crowd tittered. Ryan felt an unaccustomed flush of color rise into his face.
“Yes. Well, I—”
She came a step closer. A faint scent of perfume—Opium? L’Air du Temps?—teased his nostrils.
“Or are you just a pluperfect jackass?”
The titters came again, louder and more widespread. Ryan had to work at keeping his smile plastered to his face.
“Look, miss,” he said, “I’m sorry if—”
“You’re not the least bit sorry!” Her eyes—almost black with anger—flashed with accusation. “Why would you be? You and your kind think you can insult anyone who has to work for a living, don’t you?”
“Lady,” he said patiently, “don’t you think you’re overreacting? I’m trying to apologize but-”
She laughed coldly, showing small, perfect white teeth. “A goat could no more manage an apology than a baboon could learn the minuet!”
Giggles of appreciation swept through the crowd behind him. His face darkened and he stepped closer to her. She was tall for a woman but at six-two, he was taller; it gave him a grim kind of pleasure to see that his size intimidated her enough to make her take a quick step back.
“You’re right,” he said silkily, “I’m not in the least bit sorry. I enjoyed the show.”
There was a faint burst of applause, punctuated by a soft wolf whistle. Ryan turned and shot the crowd a quick smile.
The nerve of the man! Devon felt her cheeks flame as she stared up at the egotistical brute with the sea-green eyes, the black-as-midnight hair, and the smirk. Every eye in the place was on her now.
If only she’d ignored what he’d said.
If only she’d listened to the model who’d tried to stop her from flying at him.
If only she hadn’t let Mr. Deauville drag her out from behind the counter in Fragrances minutes ago.
The manager had been breathless, his little eyes shiny with distress.
The weekly fashion show was beginning in five minutes, he’d
said, while he hustled her up to the mezzanine. One of the models had been taken ill. Devon was tall, she was slender—she would have to fill in.
Devon had tried to tell him that it was out of the question. She’d been hired two days ago to sell perfume, not to model.
But telling him anything at all had proven impossible. There’d been people and confusion everywhere. She’d still been sputtering when Mr. Deauville had shoved her into a blocked-off dressing room.
“Here’s your extra girl,” he’d said, and then somebody named Clyde with a lisp, a flutey voice, and the determination of a bull terrier, had grabbed her and told her to get out of her navy suit and white silk blouse and into the dress he’d shoved at her. Finally, he’d draped a velvet cape over her shoulders. It was in a color that made it about as unobtrusive as a fire engine but she’d clutched it as Clyde shoved her out the door because at least it hid the rest of her, which was crammed into a dress that covered damn near nothing.
The next thing she’d known, she’d found herself standing at the top of the stairs with a bunch of strangers peering up at her.
“It’ll be OK, kid,” the same model who’d tried to stop her a couple of minutes ago had said.
And it almost had been, until this... this Neanderthal, this jerk with the kind of dangerous good looks that probably made stupid women keel over, had decided to take some cheap shots at her expense.
And she, like a fool, had let his snide remarks get under her skin, launched herself at him like a missile gone haywire—
“Well?”
Devon blinked. He was looking down at her with that disgustingly masculine smirk on his face.
“Well, what?”
“Am I forgiven?” he said with a rakish smile.
