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She looked down, into her coffee. “Honesty,” she said.
He’d been hoping for more sexy repartee, but if she wanted to take this to the next level, that was fine. “No worries. I do honesty.”
She rolled her eyes. “No worries, my ass.”
“What, have you picked out some liars recently?”
She scooped up another bite, her gaze evading his. “Either that, or it’s all men who are lying rat bastards.”
“I don’t lie,” he assured her. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you the uncensored, uncut truth. I swear.”
“Yeah? So tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
He was taken aback by the challenge. “Ah…”
“Don’t lie.” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Or I’ll know.”
She would. He could tell. She was smart, she had the eye, the ear. And he was a piss poor liar in the best of circumstances.
He let out a sigh. “Thinking isn’t really the word for it.”
“Use whatever words work for you.”
He braced himself. “I was imagining having sex with you,” he confessed. “I have been since I first saw you three nights ago.”
Her gaze was unflinching. “Oh. Really.”
“Yeah. I would never have told you that if you hadn’t compelled me by brute force. Certainly not before introducing ourselves.”
“I already knew,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And like I said, I do appreciate honesty.” She stuck out her hand. “Lily Torrance.”
He took her hand. It was cool, smooth, and something electric zinged through him at the contact. “Bruno Ranieri,” he said.
Lily. She had a name, finally. It suited her. Flowers were beautiful, feminine, tender. But a lily was no humble flower. Lilies had attitude. They were regal, queen-like. They took no shit off of anybody. They demanded respect, worship. Tall, sensual, starkly elegant, even haughty. Flowers for church altars. Flowers for a goddess.
But something was off with her. She was too good to be true. Something was wrong with this picture. He studied her luminous skin, wondering if she was jailbait, maybe. A runaway. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine,” she said.
That was total crap. She looked fully ten years younger. He looked her over, frowning. “You fucking with me?”
“Right after we’ve been introduced?” She handed him the spoon. “For the love of God, stop me before I hurt myself. Eat some of this.”
“I value honesty, too,” he told her, scooping up banana custard.
She stopped in the act of licking whipped cream off her thumb, chin going up in frosty hauteur. “I’m not a liar.”
“Then answer one for me,” he said. “And don’t lie.”
“I won’t lie, but I don’t promise to answer.”
“Whatever.” He reached across the table, and grabbed her hand. “Just tell me. What’s wrong with this picture?”
She jerked, like she’d gotten a shock, and tried to yank her hand back. Bruno hung on, grimly. Her fingers squirmed in his.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “You tell me. It’s just that something’s off with you. You’re hot, you’re sexy, you’re smart, you’re fascinating, yeah. But something’s wrong. So what’s the problem?”
