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“Coming from a woman who has been sleeping with a married octogenarian, you should probably ease up on the judgement.”
His summation took her breath away. She stood, leaving the sandwich uneaten except for a few nibbles. “Do you have any books on board?”
The question, out of left field, obviously surprised him. His brows drew together. “Books?”
“You know, hard covers with paper between, words printed, stories, that kind of thing.”
“I’m familiar with the concept. Yes, there’s a library. Why?”
“There are many things I’d rather do than sit here and be insulted by you, but a book is by far my first choice.”
“You find the truth so upsetting?”
“That’s a little like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it? I gave an honest assessment of your situation and you immediately went on the defensive. Why attack me?” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I’m trying to make conversation with you, because you were right—
it would make the next few days easier if we’re not constantly at war, but you’re not capable of being even remotely civil. So please, just tell me where I can find the library, and leave me alone.”
He startled. She could tell he wasn’t used to being spoken to so directly. She gathered most people found him intimidating, but not Phoebe. She had known real fear, and it wasn’t warranted by a man like Anastasios. He was strong and in control, unlike her father, who’d careened wildly out of control, his moods growing worse into the evening, as he drank more and more, and grew angrier and angrier with the world and in his place in it.
“You’re right.” The words breathed towards her, slowly, and made more genuine by the frown on his face. “That was a cheap shot. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
She hadn’t expected his apology. She hadn’t expected him to be reasonable. Tears clawed at the back of her throat; she spun away, inhaling deeply.
“Come on. I’ll show you the library.”
It was hard notto like someone, even a little, who had a floating library on the sea, and that’s exactly what she saw when he led her deeper into the bowels of the boat.
“Staff living quarters,” he indicated a double wide door, then turned left. “And the books.” He pushed into a huge room with shelves lining every wall, filled with books upon books upon books. Gentle light was offered by overhead LEDs, set to dim.
“How many staff are on board?”
“I don’t know, exactly. During winter, it’s a skeleton crew. Now, it’s at least three times that number. There are cooks, cleaners, maintenance workers, two captains. It’s a substantial operation. I entertain on here, from time to time—corporate dinners, parties—,”
“Sex?” She interrupted, unable to help the rush of heat that flooded her cheeks.
“I thought we’d called a ceasefire?” He asked, dangerously close, so there was no ceasefire in sight, only the pounding of a drum, the strafing of bullets so close to her skin she shuddered.
“You’re enabling one of my hobbies,” she pointed out, gesturing to the books.
“Are you offering to enable one of mine?”
Her lips parted at the doubleentendreand she shook her head quickly. “I was just making conversation.”
His laugh was unnerving. “To answer your question, then, no, generally. This is not somewhere I bring women.”
“Why not? It’s very romantic.”
“You answered your own question.”
“Did I?”
“Romance is not a part of what I offer.”
“Of course not. You’re more of a wham, bam, thank you ma’am kinda guy?”
“That’s putting it crudely.”
“But accurate?”
