Ache For You

7

I wave my hand dismissively. “Off with you. I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Which s**t is that? Being desired by a man?”

I glare at him. Now I’m getting really mad. “Look. You’ve had your fun. You’ve got your pictures, or your video, now you can go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under and post all that crap online so everyone can laugh at me some more. And just for the record, I can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to find out my itinerary and stalk me all the way to New York. I swear to God, if any of your buddies are waiting for me when I get off my next flight, I’ll cut a bitch.”

He c***s his head, studying me.

“Oh, you’re going with the silent treatment? The last guy who did that to me ended up with a broken nose. You’ve been warned.”

I chug my espresso, glaring over the rim of the tiny porcelain cup at the bartender, who never left and has been standing there the entire time, listening. She looks so scandalized that I’ve rebuffed Euro Hunk, I feel an explanation is in order. “He’s a paparazzi,” I tell her, jerking my chin at him.

He says calmly, “The word paparazzi is plural.”

I breathe in and out slowly, gripping the cup so hard it might shatter. “So is the word fists.”

Sliding onto the stool next to mine, he addresses the gaping bartender. “I’ll take another Glenlivet, please. The lady will have another champagne.”

The look on her face is priceless. Seriously, if I were Euro Hunk, I’d be taking pictures of her, not me.

She turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my choking anger and an Italian hell-bent on humiliating me.

“Wait.” I look him over. “You’re probably not even really Italian, are you?”

He smiles, showing off a set of perfect white teeth. Then he says something in Italian.

“That’s not proof of anything. If I started speaking Mandarin right now, it wouldn’t make me Chinese.”

He lifts his dark brows. “You speak Mandarin?”

“That’s not my point.”

“So you’d like some other kind of proof?”

I narrow my eyes at the suggestive tone in his voice. “Short of a DNA test, there’s nothing that can prove you’re Italian.”

“Of course there is.”

Grinding my jaw, I say, “Okay. I’ll play your silly little game. What would prove you’re Italian?”

His voice drops an octave, and his blue eyes burn. “Have you ever made love with an Italian man?”

I roll my eyes and exhale. “Oh, for f**k’s sake.”

He gifts me with that insanely sexy chuckle again. “Exactly.”

The bartender returns, sets our drinks down, then stands there looking at us eagerly. I’m surprised she doesn’t pull up a chair. When I scowl at her, she moves two feet down the bar and pretends to polish the counter.

“So,” says Euro Hunk, picking up his glass. “You’re being followed by the paparazzi.”

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 w***e—“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 i***t, 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.’”