Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(57)

“Don't be a shithead,” I advised him. “I'm not going to cut and run.”

“Oh?” he said. “Then you'll stay? Enjoy fine wine and good sex and the high life with me for a little while? 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may?'”

God, he really was kind of a shithead. But there was hope for him. I'd seen it in him, glimpsed it under his distant exterior, in his moments of candor. I didn't want him to die, and if the only person who knew his plan was me, I had to try, right?

I always tried. I'd taken care of my mom. I'd taken care of Felicia. I took care of all my broken boyfriends, too. I wouldn't be me if I didn't take care of everyone around me.#p#分页标题#e#

I set my shoulders. “No,” I said. “I'm not gathering any rosebuds. Obviously what I'm going to do is convince you not to kill yourself. Duh.”

That got his attention. He sat up ever so slightly straighter in his chair. “Oh?” he asked. “Is that a challenge?” His eyes took on a predatory gleam, the same gleam he got that first night we met, when I had explained to him the protocols of artists.

Ruthlessly I stabbed a slice of lamb while I glared at him from across the table. “Not everything is a fucking challenge, you goddamn weirdo.”

“Oh.” He placed his hand over his chest. “You wound me, Madame.”

I saw what he was doing. He was acting like some kind of comic relief character in a movie to keep me at a distance. I wasn't going to let him get away with it any more. Just because he had gobs of money and had shrugged off all earthly attachments and was looking to upgrade to the afterlife and I was still paying down student debt and hadn't given my spiritual life a single thought since that really bad 'shroom trip my junior year in college didn't mean he could just mess with me and keep me at arms length, as if he were somehow better than me, more enlightened.

I liked Malcolm Ward. I especially liked the glimpses of the passionate man beneath the cool, distant, ironic facade he put up for the world. When we fucked, he lost his armor. He wanted me to submit to him, let him do what he wanted with me just to feel less at odds, less out of control? Well that was just fine with me. I'd slip under that hard shell and find his tender parts and remind him just how much he should be feeling.

Rage. Pain. Betrayal.

The thing was, those things weren't bad. They just were. And by the way, they made damn good art. And after they were done, there were other things to feel, like a lust for life, or a lust for me. Only when could feel could he express himself through art, and when he did I was certain he would remember why he had held on to this life for so long already.

I squared my shoulders. “I'll help you finish your masterpiece,” I said.

That seemed to knock him off balance. “You will?” he said. “But I thought you wanted me to stick around, although god knows why. You'd probably be better off without having to deal with me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I probably would. But I'm really bad at doing things that are good for me.”

“Oh?” He smiled. “Are you?”

I felt like he was mocking me. “Yeah. I am. You want to know what I ate for lunch last Friday? Half a block of store brand cheddar cheese because it was the only thing I had in the house and I didn't even have time to stop for food while I was organizing that stupid auction. I do shit that's terrible for me all the time. Store brand cheese gets the job done, so that's what I eat.”

I realized he was staring at me in vague horror. He'd probably never had to eat store brand cheese in his life. “Hey,” I said, “don't judge me. A cheese-lunch is pretty delicious.”

“But not,” he said, “nutritionally sound.”

I rolled my eyes. “Exactly. But like I said, I'm good at doing things that are bad for me. So don't worry about me. I'm the best at surviving on Cheez Whiz and street vendor hot dogs.”

Malcolm looked pained. “Are you comparing me to street vendor hot dogs?” he asked.

“Nutritionally,” I told him. “Don't worry, you're hung better. My point is that you don't need to be nutritionally sound, uh, emotionally speaking. You're still delicious.” This metaphor had gone bad places. I tried to salvage it. “I'll survive somehow.”

He watched me for a long few seconds, his dark eyes contemplative. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I suspect you always do.”

“It's a talent,” I told him. “I'll totally teach it to you.” Triumphantly I speared a tip of asparagus and shoved it into my mouth, where it melted in a delicious mush of butter and salt. I chewed it with relish before swallowing.

Malcolm was still watching me with that pensive, thoughtful expression on his face. “So...” he said at last. “You are going to try to convince me to not kill myself?”