lit Gus’s eyes before he squared off with her, his body no more than an inch or two away from hers. “You looked me up, too.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Uh,” she said, momentarily thrown. Wasn’t it obvious? “The same reason you looked me up, I’m sure.”
“Exactly.” He brushed her hair behind her ear, somehow managing to caress her cheek in the process, and it was all she could do to stop herself from shivering. “You’re interested in me. Admit it.”
“Of course I admit it.” Honesty was always the best policy, so she saw no reason to hold anything back. “In fact, saying I’m interested in you is like saying the sun is kind of warm. I’ve got the crazy-making hots for you, Gus Bloch. You’re gorgeous and so self-assured you’d make a ninety-year-old nun swoon. More than that, you ooze animal magnetism like a freaking pheromone, until all I want to do is see how fast my panties can drop, so yes. It’s safe to say I’m interested in you. But there’s a problem.”
“Fuck problems.” A wolfish smile curved those perfect lips as she spoke, and she’d never wanted to nip at anything more. “In fact, fuck everything. All that matters is you and me getting down to banging each other’s brains out.”
Well. She was the one who’d wanted honesty, after all. “This is a pretty big problem.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll knock it down.”
She took a deep breath and dived in. “The problem is that you’ve got a thing for princesses.”
“So the hell what? Show me a man who doesn’t.”
At least he didn’t deny it. “It has me concerned.”
“Concerned.” There was a world of amusement in his expression before he again brushed a hand over her hair. “Listen to me, Joelle. There isn’t a damn thing you ever need to concern yourself about when it comes to me.”
“Except that I’m not a princess,” she pointed out, determined to make him see the reality of her. “What’s going to happen when you realize I’m not your type?”
“Shit, you’re serious,” he muttered, looking like he didn’t know whether to swear or laugh. “You actually think this is a problem.”
“It’s only a problem when you discover I’m not what you want.”
That made his brows slam together. “Careful now, lady. You don’t get to tell me what the hell I want and don’t want. I know my own fucking mind.”
“That’s not an answer, and I’m not telling you anything that can’t be seen with the naked eye. You need to know who I am before you wind up wasting your time on someone who’s never going to fit your princessy fantasies.” There. As much as it hurt to cut off a potentially amazing relationship—and it would have been amazing, considering how her body reacted every time he touched her—it had to be done. This was who she was, and she wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.
“Okay.” He nodded after a moment, as if he’d taken the time to chew over her words. “I’ll admit I’ve got high standards when it comes to the women I want decorating my arm. They’re pedigreed, they’re pampered and so damn polished you can almost believe their shit doesn’t stink. I like that, because I come from Slag Valley, and you don’t get much shittier than that pit. When I was a kid on the streets and dreaming of what I wanted out of life, you can bet I never pictured myself with some neighborhood skank who made an art out of chain-smoking, and spread her legs for any dumbass who bought her a beer. Instead I pictured myself fucking high society princesses, because I was determined to be king of all I surveyed. I’m not apologizing for wanting the best, because I goddamn pushed myself to be the best.”
“Of course.” She found her hand had come to rest on his chest without her even being aware of how it got there. He felt warm and rock-solid under her touch, and it took all her strength not to roam that hand around and explore that fabulously muscled terrain to her heart’s content. “You should be applauded for all that you’ve accomplished in life. I’m simply telling you that I’m not the kind of woman you pictured having.”
“There you go again, telling me what I want.”
Arrrrgh. “I’m telling you that I’m not Francesca Osterhaus, with her never-ending trust fund and complete lack of humanity.”
“Thank fucking Christ.”
She tried again. “Nor am I Vivienne Romilly, who actually once said you’re not living unless you’re spending a