Page 9 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
More games. This guy is unbelievable. “Let’s just call them what they are: scum.”
He brings the glass to his lips, tips back his head, and swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob and fight the urge to lick it.
“Even scum has its uses.”
I snort in disgust. “God, how do you sleep at night?”
“Like a baby, thank you.”
I glare at his perfect profile, willing his head to explode. Unfortunately, I haven’t recently gained any supernatural powers, so his dumb, pretty head stays intact.
He slides the flute of champagne toward me, giving me a good view of his watch as the cuff of his shirt rides up over his wrist. Brad is a watch whore—“timepieces,” he insisted on calling his collection—so I’ve seen my fair share of ridiculously overpriced watches.
The one Euro Hunk sports makes Brad’s look like kiddie prizes from a gumball machine.
“This is an interesting outfit you’re wearing, Count. Pricey. Do you and your compatriots draw straws for the cashmere overcoat and the Patek Philippe, or is there like a schedule for who gets to wear the rich playboy disguise when you’re out stalking innocent people?”
Very seriously, he says, “I’m not a count.”
“Hello! Obviously!”
“I’m a marchese.”
His ruse is so stupid I can’t resist baiting him. “What is that, like a cheese?”
His gaze drifts over my face, taking in all my features and my expression of disdain. With his eyes lingering on my mouth, he says, “It’s one rank above an earl.”
I say drily, “Ah yes. One rank above an earl. Good place to be, I suppose.”
“It’s also one rank below a duke, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Oh, much.” Fuming, I drink my champagne. The nerve of this idiot, pretending to be a titled Italian supermodel. I should kick him in his balls. “How did you get into this lounge, anyway? Bat your baby blues at the lady at the front desk? Give her the ol’ razzle dazzle until her brain was a soggy mound of spaghetti? God, you must be really useful for all kinds of jobs. Hey—was it you who got past security at Paris Hilton’s New Year’s Eve party and got all those shots up her skirt?”
“You are very charming,” he says in his formal English, smiling. “Very American. My mother would love you.”
“Ha! I bet she would! Where is she, in a federal correctional facility?”
For the first time, his face wears an expression that isn’t pleasant. He glowers at me, suddenly intimidating, and says something sharply in Italian.
“Sorry, I didn’t get that.”
“I said, ‘Do not disrespect my mother.’”
Astonished, I stare at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Well, you’re dedicated to your job, I’ll give you that. You know, you should go into acting. Or modeling! You could make bank. My best friend is a male model, and it’s ridiculous how much—”
“Why are you sad?”
He might as well have stabbed me in the heart with a dagger for how much that hurts. My laughter dies, my throat closes, and the hot prick of tears comes to my eyes.
“That’s just mean,” I whisper. “That’s just downright mean of you.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand—”
“Leave me alone. Go away.”
I can’t bear to look at him, so I stare at the tiny bubbles rising in my flute of champagne instead.
After a moment, he quietly exhales, then rises. He murmurs another apology before walking away.
