“Of course I do,” I say, my voice quiet, my thoughts a confused jumble in my brain. What is going on here? Why am I even talking to him? Why do I want to be close to him? It makes no sense.
I can’t stand him.
Really. I can’t. I don’t care how good he looks in that suit or how his sexy hair probably needs a trim. How bad I want to run my fingers through it. Or maybe grab his tie and yank him closer, see what he might do if I reared up on tiptoe and kissed him . . .
“Then go out to dinner with me,” he suggests, his voice bold, his expression arrogant. The glint in his eyes, the curl of his lips . . . he’s too damn confident. Like he knows I won’t be able to resist him.
Irritating, because I’m this close to giving in and saying yes.
I slump my shoulders. Seconds ago I was imagining violently kissing him, and now I’m considering some other sort of violence toward him—like bodily harm. He infuriates me, yet he interests me. Usually if I’m interested in a guy, it’s because I like him. I don’t want to smack him upside the head.
“You’re going to force me to go out to dinner with you and in return you’ll help me arrange an appointment with Archer Bancroft?” I laugh though I find no humor in his suggestion. I might find it . . . arousing. Which is wrong on so many levels I lose count.
“I’m not forcing you to do anything, Marina,” he says softly, his eyes glowing as they drink me in. “Unless . . . you like it that way.”
Well, holy shit. The man needs duct tape wound around his mouth about twenty times. He says the worst things ever. “Did you really just say that?” I ask, my voice sounding deadly even to my own ears.
He seems to snap himself out of a trance. Standing straighter, he blinks, runs a hand along his jaw. God, his hands are big. I wonder what they might feel like on me. Sliding over my arms, my legs, between my thighs—
Get over it!
“Did I really just say what?” He looks dazed. The tension crackling between us has suddenly become unbearable and I have no idea why.
Um, maybe because you’re attracted to him?
I push the pointless thought out of my head.
“Is it just me you say idiotic, sexist, disgusting things to, or do you talk this way to all the women you encounter?” I cross my arms in front of my chest again, noting—again—that his eyes drop right to my breasts. Men. They’re all the same. And this one is so blatant, so cocky, and with such a rude mouth. He’s downright offensive.
Yet my skin is buzzing just being in his presence. My blood is warm, my body both loose and anxious all at once. I only ever feel this way right before I’m going to have sex and I’m all amped up. Excited and nervous.
And I am never. Ever. Having sex with Gage Emerson. Oh hell, no.
A little groan escapes him and he closes his eyes for the briefest moment, gripping the back of the chair directly in front of him. Damn, his eyelashes are thick. Of course. Everything about him is the epitome of male beauty.
He cracks his eyes open. “Did I really say that out loud?”
“Yep,” I confirm, enjoying his absolute misery.
“I was thinking it,” he admits, looking sheepish. Cutely sheepish. “That probably makes me a pig just the same, right?”
“Right.” I nod, letting my arms drop by my sides. “I won’t whore myself out on a date with you just to get a chance to talk to Archer. I can do that on my own.”
A dark brow rises in challenge. “You really think so? Think about it. I’m offering you an easy in. He might throw up roadblocks, you know.”
Knowing Gage, he’d probably ask Archer to throw up those roadblocks just so I’d go out with him. Jerk. “Oh my God. Are you implying I can’t see Archer without you? Do you really need to be such an arrogant ass?” I toss back, immediately wishing I could clap my hand over my mouth. This man makes me say things I regret every single time.
“You’re right.” His vivid green eyes dim. “I’m an arrogant ass and I’m sorry. Forgive me again by coming with me on this date? I’ll make it up to you.”
I’ll make it up to you.
There is a hint of sexual promise in his request, in that one specific sentence. I’m drawn to all that heady temptation, despite wanting to also knee him in the balls and tell him to go to hell. God, I hate rich dudes who think everyone owes them something. They are the absolute worst because usually, in the end, they always get what they want.
I’ve dealt with plenty in my lifetime. My family is both populated with and surrounded by wealthy, powerful men. We move in the same social circles. I went to high school and college with plenty of those who were going on to be successful, wealthy men—and women too, of course.