Arrogant Playboy(23)

“Insulting someone while smiling,” I say, “isn’t the same as being cordial.”

Her chin tucks, dragging a curtain of shiny auburn hair over her shoulder as she sighs. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I struggle to decide whether her apology is genuine, sarcastic, or a combination of the two. She looks at me from the corner of her eye before shifting her entire body my way.

Her slanted hand juts out a second later.

“Truce,” she says. “Let’s call a truce. At least for the next four days. I’ll stop making snide comments and you stop trying to get under my skin. We’ll play the roles of two cordial associates who’ve never slept together.”

I chuckle. Interacting with her while attempting to forget how fucking sexy she looked straddling my cock last week is going to be a challenge.

Her eyes close, and she takes a deep breath. It’s almost as if she has to psyche herself up to be nice. All it does is make me want that upper hand even more. She still fucking has it. She’s a goddamn dog refusing to let go of a stolen bone.

I meet her hand, my thumb grazing the delicate bone in her wrist. Her hands are softer than I remember.

The Town Car pulls into the private gate of Golden Oak. The driver presses the call button and within seconds the gate opens. We’re deposited under a majestic porte-cochere built with two stories of honed Brazilian granite Dane flew south of the equator to personally select. Every inch of this estate has Dane’s stamp of approval. Visiting here, as much as I loathe Utah and what it represents to me, always serves as a solemn reminder of what we’ve achieved in the last decade.

“Bienvenue!” Mathilde, my brother’s house manager greets us along with a tuxedoed butler. It always amuses me how my reclusive brother prefers to have a staff of eight at his beck and call while preferring to remain alone in his spare time. I can hardly spend an hour without some kind of social interaction yet I prefer to keep my penthouse employee-free.

The world couldn’t handle two of me anyway. Dane would venture to say the same.

“Hello, Mathilde,” I help Bronson unload luggage and wheel Odessa’s bag around the car. “Mathilde, this is Odessa. She’s consulting for TEH. I assume Dane told you she was staying?”

“Oui.” Mathilde smiles as if the auburn-haired beauty standing before her is enchanting. “The rooms are ready. We’re happy to have you.”

Odessa leans in and kiss-kisses Mathilde’s cheeks, taking her hands. “Very lovely to meet you, and thank you for accommodating us. I look forward to my stay at Golden Oak.”

We follow Mathilde up a winding, mahogany staircase, one I’ve traveled many times, until we reach a quiet hall opposite of my brother’s wing.

“Here you are, mademoiselle. Monsieur King, your room is next door. Press the call button if you need me.” Mathilde disappears into the dark hall.

“Sure beats the Hampton Inn.” The corner of Odessa’s mouth pulls up. I don’t think she’s being facetious, but it’s so fucking hard to tell with her.

“Unpack. Freshen up if you’d like,” I say. “I’ll come get you before we head downtown. Dane has meetings planned for us the rest of the afternoon.”

***

“What’s your brother like?” Odessa asks as we’re driven to headquarters an hour later. “In person, I mean.”

“Intense.” I straighten my tie.

“Just…intense?”

“Yes.”

“He can’t be that bad. He seemed nice on the phone.”

“He’ll be impressed with you.”

“I’m not worried about him liking me. Not everyone has to like me.” Her hand flies to mine as if the gesture could possibly soften her words. “And I don’t mean that in a snide way, Beckham. I’m just saying. I’m comfortable with who I am.”

“I’m pretty sure you made that clear when you were prancing around my bathroom naked, finger-brushing your teeth.”

She laughs, dragging her hand off mine and leaving a cool vacancy in its place. “I try not to care what people think of me. It’s none of my business.”

“And yet you work in PR, where you’re constantly manipulating the way people perceive things.”

“Don’t think you’re the first person ever to point that out.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a tiny diamond stud. I never noticed it before. I was too fixated on appreciating the way her hips sway when she walks or too busy looking for a hint of a smile on her pink lips to pay attention to the little things. There’s a freckle on the side of her cheek too: a small, lonely freckle in a sea of flawless, creamy skin. The tiniest hint of a bump in the profile of her nose catches my eye. She isn’t a boring, classic beauty, but she doesn’t need to be. She’s soft edges and dynamite, and that sets her apart from the polluted sea of cut-and-paste beauties back home.