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“Get dressed, andgo,” I order.
Angelina snatches the camel trench coat.
“Forgive me but are you one of Victor's newassistants?” Angelina stuffs one arm into the trench coat and then the other. “This short—”
“Look here,” I say, staring up at Angelina, wagging my finger. “Do you see this damn trigger finger? I dare you to call me out of my name.”
I can hear the slight laughter from Victor as he stands near the door, continuing to avert his gaze.
“Is that a threat?” Angelina’s eyes bubble out.
“If it’s not, might I assist you in making it a promise, Miss Whitson?” Monica grits in agreement.
Angelina calls me something that makes no sense. I chalk it up to new British terms that I probably don’t need to know. Monica grips her arm, escorting her toward the door.
I throw the pillows at the back of Angelina’s head. “I think these belong to you now.”
Maybe I'm being childish but fuck it. I’m embracing that shit today. I start to sink down on the couch then quickly rise as Monica closes the door behind them.
“May I?” Victor inquires.
I walk around the large office and sit in his very comfortable chair as if I'm the one in charge and glare. “You may open your eyes now.”
His chuckle digs beneath my skin like it had on first sight.
“That was eventful,” Victor mumbles, strolling over to sit down across from me.
“Yeah, sure. So eventful I might need to take my ass home.” My eyes test his. “Reinsert myself inmyown life so you can continue with yours.”
“Shall I arrange to have Angelina be your first target?” Unable to determine his intentions from tone alone, I search his eyes.
Fearful of the truth, I edge out, “This is not a joke, Victor. There are a few things about you that I don’t like. For starters—”
“I never joke about murder.” The only indication I hit a cord is the storm clouds living in his eyes. He carries on with a darkly hypnotizing demeanor. “Do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of a woman of like mind?”
I’m not falling for the crazy today.“Then you better reconfigure your search, Victor.”
“No, I’m seated before my angel, my muse.” He stands and comes around the table, thumb caressing the sharp edge of my shoulder. “All in your demeanor.”
I jerk away from his titillating stroke, swiveling the leather chair away. “Stop that.”
“All right. I have this feeling, this gut feeling,” he says, patting his rock-hard abs, “that you saw Angelina’s death. Her murder was an image in the forefront of your mind—clear as fucking day. Not shoot her, though I do not doubt that you’re adequately prepared for it. No, you wanted to wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze.”
“Victor! If you don’t shut the fuck up with that crazy—”
“Choice of words, Little One.”
“You’re creeping me out. I swear ice-cream sandwiches will be the highlight in hell before I do any more target practice with you. Tomorrow morning at six a.m., you’ll be the one learning a lesson.”
“Good. You can meet me at seven a.m. instead for self-defense lessons. Hand-to-hand combat will do well. Shall we solidify that arrangement with a handshake?”
I laugh at this . . . this mad man. “Never. How about this? I’ll be sleeping in till nine a.m. and have Burt arrange a flight back to New York.”
“Arrange a flight? No need. Whenever you feel the urge to frequent your home or anywhere else for that matter, let him know. There is no need to arrange a flight.”
“Oh, but there is.” I fold my arms. “I do not need an entire jet flight home, Victor. And I mean to go homealone.Without you.”
“Do you seek an apology?”
