Apparently Lizette agreed with him on that because she stopped walking, turned around, and slapped him.
Holy crap. His head snapped back and he stared at her, stunned, cheekbone aching. She had some force behind those little hands. “What the hell was that for?” He could honestly say he’d never been slapped before in his whole life. Not even by Bambi, and she had been hot tempered. He had assumed slapping was reserved for eighties soap operas and Tom and Jerry episodes.
It was kind of hot, he had to admit.
“For calling me a slut!” she said hotly, eyes flashing, mouth trembling with rage.
Whoa now. “I did not call you . . . that. I was just saying that maybe we were making an assumption, that we don’t know for sure what happened.”
“Why, are you horrified at the mere thought of having slept with me?”
Ninety-some years alive and he still couldn’t figure out women. Why would she get a stupid idea like that? “Of course not! I’m fascinated at the idea that we might have had sex. It just seems like the last way things would have turned out last night. You know, since we get along so well. But the very idea of seeing you naked and kissing your cherry lips has me totally hard.” And just to prove his point, he brought her hand with his and ground it onto his cock, which was starting to feel like a rattling pressure cooker.
“Oh! Mon dieu!”
“He’s got nothing to do with it,” Johnny assured her.
Lizette made a sound of exasperation, yanked her hand away, then whirled back around and started walking, muttering in French and dragging Johnny along with her.
He had no idea what she was saying, but he could guess it was filled with name-calling and her affronted dignity. “You’re going the wrong way,” he pointed out. “We need to turn left here.”
She practically hissed at him, then followed it up with more rapid-fire French. But she did turn left.
“It’s not my fault I don’t remember,” he told her, because he was feeling a little bitter about that. “I wish I did, trust me. And just for the record, I would be jealous if you slept with someone else.” It was true, and he figured it would win him points. Women liked jealous guys, didn’t they? They did in movies, anyways.
Johnny walked down Dumaine and pondered how it was that he’d never really understood women. His relationships such as they were had been like origami, full of little folds, then when he tugged one piece the whole thing collapsed. Here it was happening already with Lizette and he wasn’t even sure he actually liked her. He was pretty damn sure she didn’t like him.
He really hadn’t been passing judgment, but he knew he was right; they had no way of knowing if they’d really had sex. If she had banged someone else, well, she had been out of her mind. Hell, if she had banged him she had clearly been out of her mind. Not drugged, he was 100 percent positive she would not have come near him. He wouldn’t have hit on her sober either. Because he would have gotten slapped.
Johnny worked his jaw and fought the urge to grin. Yeah, she was hot, there was no doubt about it. The uptight paper-pusher had a fiery side, and he couldn’t help but want to explore that side of her.
Lizette had dug her phone out and was speaking into it in French, which made Johnny wonder if it was Dieter, because he could have sworn her assistant was German, but then again, what did he know? Besides, Germans probably spoke French. He was starting to feel like a real potato farmer next to her, which was stupid. He was a musician and chicks everywhere dug that. He wasn’t a loser. Even if he was walking behind her, attached to her like a disobedient dog.
The submissive lifestyle wasn’t for him, he had to say. He was happy for Saxon if that was his thing, but Johnny didn’t like to take orders. He liked to coax and tease and charm his way to get what he wanted. What he wanted right now was Lizette, naked, below him, quivering, her plump lips parted.
“Hey, brother, what’s up?” A man on the corner of St. Philip and Bourbon Street outside of Lafitte’s gave him a wave and a friendly smile. “Where’s your bucket tonight? My wife loved the picture of her with you guys.”
Okay. What picture might that be? And why the hell would he have a bucket? Johnny figured this was a good opportunity to gather some information. He touched Lizette’s arm so she would stop marching down the street. “That’s awesome. I’d love to see it if you have it on your phone.”
“Sure, sure, no problem.” The guy was wearing a golf shirt with large sweat stains in both pits, and he wiped his forehead with a hankie. “I’ll tell you, it’s hot out here. Okay, let me pull it up on my phone. The wife is inside having a hurricane. Little hair of the dog, if you know what I mean.”