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‘And surely the fact I have slept with you makes it blindingly obvious I never thought ofyouas an employee ofmine…’ he added. ‘Because FYI, that is a line I would never cross.Ever. I do have some standards and one of them is not to be as much of a total bastard as my…’ He stopped abruptly, realising he had said too much when her eyes widened and he saw the curiosity he remembered from the previous day, when she had mentioned the nightmares he’d had in her presence.
He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘This is a pointless argument,’ he offered, feeling brutally exposed. Why had he defended himself when what she thought of him didn’t matter?
He’d done some crummy things in his time: thoughtless, reckless, impulsive, arrogant and even entitled things. He would certainly never pretend to be a saint, and the way their one night together had ended proved that. But sleeping with women who might find it hard to say no to him was not one of those things.
He tensed as the phantom memory returned, which had come back to haunt him again last night—dreams of her, under him, on the rug in the living room, the tight clasp of her body massaging him to climax with staggering speed.
He shook his head to shake it loose, once and for all.
A dream, not a memory, dammit.
‘Sit, so we can eat before this becomes a burnt offering.’ He returned to the stove to dump the blackened steaks on the plates he’d laid out. He added the baked potatoes and split them open. Steam oozed out. The flesh looked too solid, but at least it wasn’t raw.
He placed the plates on the breakfast counter, glad to see she had seated herself. Then he collected the butter and dumped it in front of her.
‘Help yourself,’ he said, hating the sharp note which he couldn’t disguise.
Why exactlydidhe care about her low opinion of him when it was totally unfounded—on this score at least—and he had never cared about the low opinion of other women?
Then again, no other woman had ever been the thorn in his side that Melody Taylor had turned out to be.
To his surprise, she ate the meal he had cooked without making any more sarcastic remarks and didn’t complain about the charred steak or the undercooked potato.
When he went to pick up their empty plates though, she touched his wrist. He glanced up and looked at her for the first time since they had sat down.
‘Wait, I… I have something to say,’ she said. She didn’t exactly look contrite, but when she trapped her teeth beneath her bottom lip, the swift shot of lust felt less problematic than usual.
‘Once, when we were kids…’ she hesitated, her indecision strangely endearing because it was so unlike her ‘…you called me Isabelle’s little beg-friend. And it upset me, a lot. Because I knew she was a queen, and I was essentially just the cook’s daughter.’
He swore softly and sat back down. Damn, he’d forgotten about that insult. Probably because it was just one of the many he’d thrown at them both when he’d been left to his own devices in the White Palace while his father was visiting to speak to Androvia’s Privy Councillors. He’d had so much anger back then, because of the fear he lived with daily. And taking it out on Isabelle and her feisty friend had been easier, and safer, than letting his father see how afraid he was.
He had assumed they would be easy targets because they had been smaller than he was, and girls, and they obviously adored each other. The truth was, he realised now in some twisted part of his brain, he had wanted to hurt them, to make himself hurt less.
In the years since, he’d absolved himself of those sins because he had believed, at least as far as Mel was concerned, he’d never hit his target. She had always been such a tough little cookie, had always given back as good as she got. Unlike Isabelle, who had often started crying, which had made her a lot less satisfying to provoke.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wondering why it had taken him so long to apologise when her head rose and he could see how astonished she was. ‘I was a nasty bully back then and I’m not proud of the way I behaved towards both of you.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose I should have apologised for that a lot sooner.’
The smile which edged her lips did strange things to his insides.
‘Yes, you really should have,’ she murmured, not willing to give an inch. But oddly, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘In my defence, I had no idea you’d taken that insult to heart. You always seemed so annoyingly bulletproof to all my attempts to patronise and belittle you.’
The slight curve widened into a genuine—and rather smug—smile. ‘Of course you didn’t. I would have died rather than let you know you’d scored a hit. And let’s face it, you would have been even more insufferable if I had.’
‘True.’ He let out a rough chuckle. ‘Damn, I think you’ve bested me again. This is getting to be anextremelyannoying habit.’
She laughed, the smile brightening her face even more. And he wondered why on earth he had been so determined to upset her as a kid, when she had always looked so stunning when she smiled.
But then her expression sobered abruptly. ‘Whywereyou so mean to us, when we never did anything to you?’
He tensed at the forthright question. How could he answer without exposing himself again?
She tilted her head, still watching him, the curious expression becoming far too astute.
‘You know, I thought that you were just a naturally mean person back then. But I can’t help thinking now, you were desperately unhappy for some reason.’
He let out a strained laugh—and forced himself to shrug—determined to cover the fact she had just scored another direct hit. Luckily, he was an expert at avoiding talking—or even thinking—about that sullen, insecure and messed-up boy.