Page 21 of Ruthless Creatures

Also on the list of prohibited topics: If you don’t have a dead wife, why did you freak out when you saw me in my wedding dress? Why do you look at me like you want to run me over with your car but turn around and give me such beautiful compliments? Then hate yourself for giving them?

Last but not least, what’s up with the punching bag?

At a loss for what else to do or say, I pat my lips with my napkin again. “Well. I apologize. It’s none of my business, anyway.”

Very softly, Kage says, “Isn’t it?”

His tone suggests that it is. Now I’m even more flustered. “I mean… no?”

“Is that a question?” A faint smile lifts one corner of his mouth. His eyes have warmed, and there are tiny crinkle lines around them.

Wait—is hemockingme?

I say icily, “I’m not in the mood to play games.”

Still with that low, suggestive tone, he says, “I am.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. He sinks his teeth into his full lower lip.

In a wave, heat rushes up my neck to my ears where it settles, throbbing.

I grab the champagne bottle and attempt to pour champagne into my glass. My hands are shaking so badly, however, it spills down the sides of the flute and onto the tablecloth.

Kage removes the bottle from my hand, takes the glass, andfinishes pouring, all the while wearing an expression very close to a smirk.

It’s not a real smirk, mind you, because that would require smiling.

He hands me the champagne flute. I say breathlessly, “Thank you,” and toss it back.

When I set the empty glass back on the table, he turns businesslike. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.”

Oh, look, he’s being reasonable. I wonder which personality this is?

He sticks out his baseball mitt of a hand. “Hi. I’m Kage. Nice to meet you.”

Feeling like I’m in an alternate universe, I slip my hand into his, then doubt I’ll ever get it back because it’s lost somewhere inside his warm, rough, gargantuan palm.

What would it be like to have those hands on my naked body?

“Kage?” I repeat faintly, struck by the vivid mental image of him running his huge hands all over my naked flesh. I flush all the way down to my toes. “Is that your first name or your last name?”

“Both.”

“Of course it is. Hi, Kage. I’m Natalie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Natalie. May I call you Nat?”

He’s breaking out the manners, I see. And he still hasn’t let go of my hand. And I still can’t banish that image of him fondling me everywhere as I writhe and moan and beg him for more. “Of course.”

Please don’t let him notice that my nipples are hard. Please, please, don’t let him notice. Why the hell didn’t I wear a bra?

He says pleasantly, “So what do you do for a living, Nat?”

“I’m a teacher. Of art. At a middle school.”

I could also be an escapee from a mental institution. I’ll let you know in a minute, right after the throbbing between my legs settles down and the blood returns to my head.

What iswrongwith me? I don’t even like this guy!