Ruthless Creatures

12

He grinds his molars for a while, then takes a long swig of his whiskey. He sets the glass back down on the tabletop with such force, I jump.

He’s regretting the invitation. Time to let him off the hook.

“It was very nice of you to invite me over, but I can see you’d rather be alone. So thank you for—”

“Stay.”

It comes out as a barked command. When I blink, startled, he softens it with a murmured, “Please.”

“Okay, but only if you take your meds.”

He murmurs to himself, “She’s funny, too. How inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient for who?”

He simply gazes at me without answering.

What is it with this guy?

The maître d’ returns holding the bottle of champagne I ordered, along with two flutes.

Thank god. I was just about to start gnawing on my arm. I can’t remember the last time I was this uncomfortable.

Oh, wait. Sure I can. It was last night, when Prince Charmless so elegantly rejected my request for a ride home. Or was it this morning, when he saw me in my wedding dress and looked as if he was about to throw up?

I’m sure if I give it five more minutes, I’ll have another example to choose from.

Kage and I are silent as the maître d’ uncorks the bottle and pours. He informs us our waiter will be over soon, then disappears as I’m shooting my champagne like I’m in a competition for an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii.

When I set my empty glass down, Kage says, “You always drink so much?”

Ah, yes. He saw me boozing it up last night, too. Right before I wobbled over to his table. No wonder he looks at me with such…whatever it is.

“No, actually,” I say, trying to look ladylike as I blot my lips on my napkin. “Only on two days a year.”

He c***s a brow, waiting for an explanation. In an ashtray next to his left elbow, his cigar sends up lazy whorls of smoke into the air.

Are you even allowed to smoke in here?

As if that would stop him.

I glance away from the dark pull of his eyes. “It’s a long story.”

Even though I’m not looking at him, his attention is a force I can physically feel on my body. In my stomach. On my skin. I close my eyes and slowly exhale, trying to steady my nerves.

Then—blame it on the buzz—I jump off the cliff in front of me. “Today was supposed to be my wedding day.”

After an oddly tense pause, he prompts, “Supposed to be?”

I clear my throat, knowing that my cheeks are red, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “My fiancé disappeared. That was five years ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

What the hell, he’d find out from someone soon enough anyway. Diane Myers has probably already mailed him a handwritten essay about the whole thing.

When he remains silent, I glance over at him. He’s sitting perfectly still in his chair, his gaze steady on mine. His expression reveals nothing, but there’s a new tension in his body. A new hardness in his already stony jaw.

Which is when I remember that he’s a recent widower. I’ve just stuck my foot in my mouth.

Hand over my heart, I breathe, “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

His brows draw together in a quizzical frown. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what I mean.

“Because of your…situation.”

He sits forward in his chair, folds his arms on the tabletop, and leans closer to me. Eyes glittering, he says quietly, “Which situation is that?”

God, this guy is scary. Big, hot, and really scary. But mostly hot. No, scary.

Shit, I think I’m drunk.

“Maybe I’m wrong. I just assumed—”

“Assumed what?”

“That when you saw me in my wedding dress…that you’re new in town and you seem very, um, a little, how should I say? Not angry, exactly, but more like upset? That perhaps, you were, ah, maybe suffering from a recent loss…”

Feeling pathetic, I trail off into silence.

His stare is so hard and searching, it might as well be an interrogation spotlight. Then his expression clears, and he sits back into his chair. “You thought I was married.”

There’s a definite a hint of laughter in his tone.

“Yes. Specifically, a widower.”

“I’ve never been married. Never been divorced. Don’t have a dead wife.”

“I see.”

I don’t see, not one bit, but what else can I say? So sorry my best friend and I are conspiracy theorists and spent an entire lunch obsessing over you?

No. I definitely can’t say that.

Also on the list of prohibited topics: if you don’t have a dead wife, why did you freak out when you saw me in my wedding dress? Why do you look at me like you want to run me over with your car but turn around and give me such beautiful compliments? Then hate yourself for giving them?

Last but not least, what’s up with the punching bag?

At a loss for what else to do or say, I pat my lips with my napkin again. “Well. I apologize. It’s none of my business anyway.”

Very softly, Kage says, “Isn’t it?”

His tone suggests that it is. Now I’m even more flustered. “I mean…no?”

“Is that a question?” A faint smile lifts one corner of his mouth. His eyes have warmed, and there are tiny crinkle lines around them.

Wait—is he mocking me?

I say icily, “I’m not in the mood to play games.”

Still with that low, suggestive tone, he says, “I am.”