At the Count's Bidding(70)
“If you came here for an apology,” she said in a low voice he hardly recognized, and then she turned to face him fully and he blinked because she hardly looked like herself, “you can shove it right up your—”
“I don’t want an apology.” It was temper, he realized belatedly. Pure fury that transformed her lovely face and turned her eyes nearly gray. As if she would kill him with her own hands if she crossed the wide, battered floor and got too close to him, and there was no reason that should shock him and intrigue him in equal measure. “I spent three months tracking you down, Paige.”
Her eyes narrowed and if anything, grew darker.
“Are you sure that’s what you want to call me?” she threw at him. “I know that historically you’ve had some trouble keeping my name straight.”
Giancarlo felt a muscle move in his cheek and realized he was clenching his jaw.
“I know your name.”
“I can’t tell you how that delights me.” Her temper was like a fog in the air between them, thick and impenetrable, and he thought she might even have growled at him. “The only thing that would delight me more would be if you’d turn around and go away and pretend we never met. That’s what I’ve been doing and so far? It’s been the best three months of my life.”
He had that coming. He knew that. He told himself it didn’t even sting.
“I understand,” he began as carefully as he could, “that—”
“Don’t bother,” she snapped, cutting him off. He couldn’t recall she’d ever done that before. In fact, there was only one person in the world who interrupted him with impunity and she’d given birth to him—and wasn’t terribly thrilled with him at the moment, either. “I don’t want your explanations. I don’t care.”
She turned away from him, but the mirrors betrayed her, showing him a hint of the Paige he knew in the way her face twisted before she wrestled it back under control. Another sliver of hope, if he was a desperate man. He was.
Giancarlo walked farther into the studio, still studying her. She was in bare feet and a pair of leggings, with a loose tunic over them that drooped down over one shoulder. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to press his mouth to the bare skin of her shoulder, then explore that brand-new belly of hers. Then, perhaps, that molten heat of hers that he knew had only ever been his. He was primitive enough to relish that.
He’d believed her. It had taken him longer than it should have to admit that to himself. He’d believed her then, and he believed her now—but the fact she’d only ever given herself to him had meanings he’d been afraid to explore. He wasn’t afraid anymore.
Giancarlo had lost her once. What was there to fear now? He’d already lived through the worst thing that could happen to him. Twice.
“How did you find this place?” he asked as he walked toward her. He meant, how did you settle on this small, faraway, practically hidden town it took me three months to find? “Why did you come here in the first place?”
“I can’t imagine why you care.” Paige shoved her things into a bag and then straightened. “I doubt that you do.” She scowled at him when he kept coming, when he only stopped when he was within touching distance. “What do you want, Giancarlo?”
“I don’t know.” That wasn’t true, but he didn’t know how to express the rest of it, and not when she kept throwing him like this. He realized he’d never seen her angry before. Or anything but wild—wildly in love, wildly apologetic, wild beneath his hands. Never cold like this. Never furious. He supposed he deserved that, too. “You’re so angry.”