Page 9 of Arrogant and Merciless

Half an hour later, I still haven’t decided which book to pick. I’m wandering around the aisles of Barnes & Noble the way a child would roam a theme park. I don’t even know which genre I want, because I’ll read pretty much anything except sci-fi—which just puts me to sleep.

I pick up a hardcover copy of Anna Karenina?1. It’s beautiful, but I remember reading it a year ago and feeling so sad that I was down for days. I set it back on the shelf and walk a few steps.

My goodness.

A Jane Austen?2box set.

I grab it, even though I know it’s a bit out of my price range. I turn it over and run my hand over the velvety-feeling box. Then I bring it to my nose to smell it. E-books will have to forgive me, but nothing compares to that new-book smell.

I hold the box to my chest, trying to decide what to do. If tips are decent at the bar next week, maybe I can make up for the dent this purchase will put in my budget. But I’m not one to count my chickens before they hatch. I like to play it safe.

But it’s your birthday,says a little devilish voice in my head. I smile at myself, feeling very daring as I decide to buy them. Turning toward the register, I bump into someone, and the box slips out of my hands and falls to the floor.

I squat down to pick it up, not sure who was at fault—me or the person who shoulder-checked me. I only notice from the retreating heels that it was a woman. A very impolite one, because she didn’t even bother to help me.

Seeing one corner of the box crushed, I feel annoyed but decide to take it anyway. I’m not looking for perfection; I’m looking for something real. One day, maybe I’ll tell my grandkids how my Jane Austen collection got that “ding.”

“Taylor?” says a powerful voice that’s been haunting me in very inappropriate dreams lately.

Before I even raise my head, I wonder if every single time I run into this man will be under embarrassing circumstances. Right now, I’m literally at William Marshall IV’s feet, and I have to make a huge effort not to look up. But the urge to see that gorgeous face again wins out.

“Mr. Marshall, how are you?” I ask.

God, I’m such an actress.Anyone watching me down here, greeting him with the manners of a Swiss finishing-school graduate, would never guess that this man has already seen me naked—and accused me of being his father’s mistress.

To my surprise, he offers me his hand to help me up. I think he notices my astonishment because he gives me something close to a smile.

“I’m not going to attack you,” he says.

I give him a sweet, sarcastic smile in return. “You can’t blame me for being unsure. You did threaten to throw me out of your grandmother’s house.”

I suspect any other man would feel awkward being reminded of that, but he seems unshakeable. “Would you rather stay at my feet, Taylor?”

The answer sits on the tip of my tongue, but I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying it. I don’t want to lose my job at Mrs. Marshall’s; since he’s her grandson, a minimum level of civility between us is necessary.

I accept the hand he offers, but the moment our skin touches, a shiver runs through me and I pull away almost immediately. If he notices how much his touch affects me, he hides it well.

Standing up, I stare at the box set in my hands like I’m hypnotized by it.

“Is there some secret game I don’t know about, where we’re only supposed to meet in places full of books?” he asks, surprising me with the playful reference to the fact that the first time we met, I was in the repurposed-library suite.

“Do you even know the concept of ‘playful’?” I blurt, unable to stop myself, since back at his grandmother’s house he seemed grumpy and arrogant, like someone who never jokes around.

“Only in passing.”

I lower my head so he won’t see I’m smiling. I really don’t want to like this man.

“Or maybe fate decided we should keep meeting in embarrassing situations,” he says.

“For me, right?” I mutter, looking at him again.

Once again, he shows no hint that barging into the bathroom and catching me naked ever made him feel guilty.

Without any ceremony, he takes the box set from my hands and examines it. “Aren’t you a little too young to enjoy Jane Austen?”

“No one’s too young—or old—to appreciate Jane Austen. You just have to know what’s good. And I’m not that young. I’m twenty-two,” I reply, leaving out the fact that today is my twenty-third birthday. “It was nice seeing you, sir. I need to go.”

I try to walk past him, but I’m left speechless when he takes hold of my arm. He isn’t hurting me—he’s burning my skin. That firm, deliberate touch makes my pulse spike crazily.

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