Although he was apparently renting out his guesthouse for the next nine months at fair market value, so who was the financial genius now, huh, Marcus?
When he turned his head to glance at Lauren, her mouth was slightly open, and she was gaping at him. Now she looked less avian and more piscine.
Finally, with a shake of her head, she picked up her e-reader and got back to her book.
No more clapping. Time for one-armed push-ups instead.
“Hey, Lauren,” he said. “We should go to a club together. I think your presence would be very convenient. You’re so short, I could rest my drink on top of your head, no table necessary.”
Did she ever dance? Probably not.
Much as he hated to affirm Ron’s judgment, she did seem distinctly joyless. Not ridiculous, though. The situation: definitely. Her: no.
She exhaled rather more loudly than usual. “Are you almost done with your workout? I’d like to grab dinner and get to bed soon.”
“After I stretch.” Which he intended to do at length and within full view of her. Just in case she paid attention this time. “Not too long now.”
He let himself drop to the mat and reclined on his side, propping his head on his palm, letting his pulse slow a moment. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, which wasn’t an especially pleasant sensation.
Still: He didn’t regret what he’d done, and he wouldn’t bemoan its physical consequences. His discomfort was just penance, considering his past.
“Hey, Lauren,” he said. “Who’s your favorite character on Gods of the Gates? It’s me, isn’t it? Cupid? C’mon, you know it’s Cupid.”
When she didn’t answer, he stretched his right quad, his jaw cracking in a magnificent yawn.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he told her.
WHEN LAUREN WAS growing up, her family owned a cat.
Or, rather, the cat owned them.
When their feline dictator—originally named Slippers, for the white bottoms of her paws, before the family decided Lucifer suited her better—wanted their attention, she wanted it right away. And she always wanted their attention. But sometimes they couldn’t immediately gather her into a bridal carry, her preferred cuddling position, and rub her belly or scratch her ears, because they had to—for instance—sleep. Or give attention to one of the non-cat members of the household, despite their lesser importance.
She would perch on the nearest table, look them dead in the eye, and nudge something fragile toward the edge. If they didn’t pick her up, she’d nudge again. And if they didn’t bend to her will then, over the edge that fragile item would go.
Eventually, the family had packed away any smallish items not made of, say, rubber. Which was when the retaliatory pooping began.
When Lucifer died after a long, extremely spoiled, and intermittently malevolent life, though, they’d all cried. Because that cat might have been a diabolical bitch, but she was gorgeous and sleek and intelligent and entertaining as hell, even while she was frustrating the entire family.
Now that Lauren considered the matter, Lucifer and Alex had probably been separated at birth somehow, genetic incompatibilities notwithstanding. He clearly wanted attention, and he was willing to nudge conversational items off the figurative coffee table whenever she didn’t give him enough of it.
Also, he was gorgeous and sleek and intelligent and entertaining as hell. Not that she ever intended to tell him that, or dignify his provocative remarks with answers.
He might have offered to lend her money—which was both flattering and insulting, as well as horrifying—but she didn’t trust him.
Maybe all his friendliness was sincere.
Or maybe he was hoping she’d become less vigilant about enforcing Ron’s rules, or looking for information to use against her at some future date. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been fooled by faux friendliness. Also, he was her job, not her buddy, and she didn’t intend to confuse the two.
Which was why, after he’d had a post-workout shower and they’d been seated in the hotel’s near-deserted restaurant for a late dinner, she was using her mouth and tongue for eating. Nothing else, other than giving her order and responding briefly to direct questions.
His response: the human version of yowling.
“C’mon, Lauren.” He was slumped in the carved-wood chair, looking extremely put out. “Why wouldn’t we go tandem skydiving over the Hollywood Hills, once we get back home? Wouldn’t that be a priceless bonding experience?”
Her acrophobic butt would be bonded to the airplane seat, she’d give him that much.
“Nope.” She finished the final bite of her seafood paella with a sigh of satisfaction, trying not to notice how the rich red of the restaurant’s curtains set off his gleaming hair and gray eyes.
He glowered at her. “Spoilsport.”
For five entire minutes, as he teased free the last morsels of his grilled whole trout, blessed silence descended over their meal.
Then he leaned forward and peered at her from across the table, his gray eyes sharp. “Is this a Napoleon thing? You’re short, so you want control?” He gave a little hitch of his shoulder and grinned. “No, I suppose you’re not attempting to conquer continents. Just the concept of joy.”
If he intended to hurt her with his mockery, he was failing. But she didn’t actually think he was trying to hurt her.
Other than that lone angry swipe at their first meeting, his words didn’t seem to contain any actual maliciousness. Just sharp-edged humor and boredom and restless intellect and desire for human connection.
She wouldn’t venture so far as to call him delightful. But if he was an asshole, he certainly wasn’t among the worst she’d ever met.
That conclusion reached, she couldn’t help herself. She just … couldn’t.
“Not the concept of joy.” She laid her napkin beside her plate, her tone bone dry. “Only your particular expression of it.”
“Ahhhhhhh.” It was almost a purr, breathy and seductive. He sprawled back in his chair like an indolent prince, lacing his long fingers over his flat belly. “She speaks at last. And while doing so, almost—but not quite—tells a joke. Brava, Nanny Clegg.”
His faded blue tee had ridden up with his movement, exposing a sliver of skin above his low-slung jeans. The candlelight gilded that crescent of flesh, drawing her unwilling gaze.
Given its somewhat remote location, the hotel wasn’t especially fancy, but she’d changed into a dark green swing dress for dinner anyway. Even in jeans and a T-shirt, though, even with that golden sliver of belly visible, he appeared more put-together than her. Black eye or no black eye.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think the two of them were entirely different species.
“She has her moments.” Her tongue had become untethered, and she could only blame the glass of excellent red wine she’d consumed with dinner. “That said, she’s not certain why you’re referring to her in the third person.”
Her resolution to remain silent was melting away as fast as the candle wax, evidently.
“We prefer first person plural? Like royalty?” He waved his hand primly, as if greeting his adoring subjects. “Very well. We’re willing to acquiesce to Her Highness’s demands.”