Dragon Bound(79)

Graydon looked like he was watching a train wreck. Rune sprawled, long legs stretched out, his expression unreadable. She curled up at one end of the couch, thanked Dragos for the coffee as he set it beside her and concentrated on keeping her head down and eating her breakfast while the men talked. She was so hungry again she almost inhaled the apple walnut oatmeal.

She pulled out of her bag a bottle of nail polish remover, cotton balls and a bottle of Dusky Rose nail polish. She cleaned the chipped red polish off, tucked cotton balls between her slender toes and began to paint her toenails.

From what Dragos had described, Cuelebre Tower was a small city. Just from listening to the men, she got the merest glimpse of how vast and complex Cuelebre Enterprises was. It was quite the global corporation.

There was a pause in the conversation. She looked up. Dragos had angled himself toward her, one long leg hooked up on the couch cushions, an arm draped across the back. His head was tilted as he watched her work. She glanced at the other two men. Still not a whole lot of friendly coming from that quarter. She looked down at her half-painted toes and her cheeks burned.

“I’ll go into the bathroom,” she said.

“No,” Dragos said. “You are to be comfortable here.”

She sighed and muttered, “You just can’t dictate things like that happening, big guy.”

“I can dictate anything I want,” he told her.

She rolled her eyes. She decided to try to ignore the other two men and went back to painting her nails. She finished one foot and started on the other.

“Anything else?” Dragos asked the gryphons.

“One last thing,” Rune said. “The Elven High Lord is demanding a teleconference and proof of Pia’s well-being. She’s become somewhat of a problem.” The gryphon’s tawny, expressionless gaze flicked to her; then he looked away.

Sudden anger burned. “I am not a problem,” she announced. She finished painting her little toe. “I am a ‘tactical consideration.’ ”

Dragos dropped his hand to her shoulder. He squeezed her. She glanced sideways at him. He smiled at her. He said to Rune, “The Elven High Lord can go fuck himself. You can quote me.”

“Ms. Giovanni,” Rune said. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that you are a problem. I meant to imply that the Elves are turning the subject of you into a problem.”

Chin resting on upraised knee, she looked at the gryphon. The apology seemed too easily offered, his handsome face too smooth.

I don’t think you meant that, slick. She looked at him hard and made sure he saw it.

But now was not the time to pick another confrontation. Instead, she said, “If they’re turning the subject of me into a problem, why don’t we just make it go away?” She turned to Dragos. “You could have the teleconference and let me be there.”

His white teeth showed a little too much as he enunciated, “I have no intention of pandering to that son of a bitch’s demands.”

She set aside the nail polish and put her hand over his. “Is this important?” she said to him. He looked at her from under the dark slash of his brows, gold eyes obdurate. She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “Wouldn’t it be better if the Elves would just shut up and go away? Hey, what if they stopped throwing a fit at you walking across their backyard. It’s not like you ate their tulips or dug holes in their lawn. You didn’t piss on any trees when I wasn’t looking, did you?”

The thundercloud that had darkened his face broke apart. He laughed. “I would have if I’d thought of it.”

Rune grinned. A snort exploded out of Graydon, who covered his smile with a hand as big as a dinner plate.

She ducked her head and wiggled the cotton balls from between her toes. It wasn’t acceptance. But at least it was something.

While Dragos showered and dressed, Pia gave in to the urge that had been eating at her ever since Rune and Graydon entered the room, and she made the bed with quick efficiency. She felt better when it was done, less exposed, even though it was crystal clear that she and Dragos had shared that bed the night before. She kept her face averted from the gryphons’ covert stares while CNN continued in the background.

Dragos strode out in boots, fatigues and a black shirt that molded to his muscled torso. The symbolism of his attire didn’t escape her. He was still in a combative mood. She ducked past him to pick out a pair of sandals to wear. She chose black slipons with silver sequined straps and low heels. She mourned her tennis shoes. They had been a big splurge, custom-fitted, and she doubted the dried blood and filth could be cleaned from them enough so that she would feel comfortable wearing them again.