his head. “You’re absolutely certain about that? Because if it was actually my call…”
She wilts a little, as if Arden’s sarcastic banter is already starting to wear her down.
I want to flatten his face like molding clay.
Instead, I stretch out my fingers for the sake of grasping Kara’s hand. “Come on, Arden. Surprise us all. Become the gentleman you keep hinting at instead of acting like a teenager who got turned down for prom.”
“Says the guy who’s already screwed the prom queen?” He punctuates the verbal jab with a silky smirk, brandished with the glee of an evil prince.
I freeze every muscle, recognizing his game. He’s still openly baiting me, which means he’s either fearless, stupid, or tempting me into a display of jealousy that will serve his own interests.
My money’s on the latter, so I fight down the rage. Again. It’s not easy. I focus on deep, cool breaths through my chest while ignoring the violent viscosity of my blood. Prieto won’t own any part of me like this—just like he’ll never possess any part of Kara.
“Some things just aren’t worth it,” I say, glancing quickly to Kara. The determination in her eyes is like the end of a smoky sunset, nearly knocking me down. So worth waiting for.
“But some things are,” she says, “like taking care of all this so we can go home.” A faint smirk curves the edge of her lips. “And bake apple tarts.”
This time, I’m ready for Prieto’s nasty comeback, whatever it may be—only it never materializes. Though I don’t bother with even looking at him now, his stare is a palpable witness to my lingering look with Kara.
He clears his throat loudly. It’s a victory bell to my ears.
“In any case, Veronica has asked me to update you on the latest procurement opportunities for the collection.”
One day, hopefully soon, baking and making out will be our sole priorities in life. But for now, my stunning little demon has to wear a congenial smile.
With an arch of his eyebrow and a sweep of his hand, Arden gestures us into his office. He wastes no time ushering Kara toward his desk with a hand along the base of her spine. I hang back but ensure I’m in his periphery with my best thundercloud glare. I’m not at the point of openly threatening…but if he inches that hand any lower…
“Now this piece here…” he begins. “This is a listing I found just yesterday. It’s very interesting.”
“Beautiful,” Kara concurs, peering longer at the image of a circular object crafted in detailed silver and gold and dominated by two figures, a man and a woman. “Is it a plate? Oh, no. There’s a shallow lip along the edge and a center indentation. It’s a phiale.”
Arden’s approving hum sets my teeth on edge, but I keep my face set in careful neutrality.
“You’re absolutely right. The Greeks used these shallow bowls for libations. But you probably already knew that.” He grins shamelessly. “Are you sure you’re simply majoring in classics and not pulling a minor in Art History or Archaeology?”
She laughs, but it’s a courtesy. I saw her pull this too many times at the restaurant the other night, with those shallow brackets at the corners of her mouth, to conclude anything else.
“I only know the kind of artifact this is,” Kara protests. “Not who made it, or when, or even what this couple is supposed to represent.”
Arden pulls back and braces a hip on the edge of the desk. He finishes with a confident cross of arms, and I’m so relieved he’s not touching Kara anymore that I don’t mind the cutting glance he spares for me.
“The artist is unknown,” he says. “Likely because it’s been dated to the fourth or fifth century BC. They were also able to narrow down the age due to the piece’s subject matter.”
He takes another defined pause and swings his renewed focus on me.
“They’re definitely a couple, right?” Kara queries. “Either that, or those fourth-century heathens knew how to stare each other down.”
Arden pulls in air through his nose and juts up his Armani model chin. “They represent Heracles and Megara.”
“Heracles.” The name is instantly familiar, of course. At least once a week since hitting puberty, I’ve been compared to the Greek version of Hercules. “A half-mortal son of Zeus.”
“Very good, Professor,” he says, calmly dropping his hands between his outstretched legs. “Are you familiar with their story?”
And here we are, at last. To the heart of the point he’s been deftly angling