If You Dare - Cole Kresley - Страница 11
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"No. My father is deceased."
He inclined his head to her slightly. In a moment of insight, she thought that's how a gruff Highlander might say, "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Your brother's, then? The big bastard whose clothes I wear?"
"He's no bastard!"
Studying. "It's a figure of speech. No' literally."
Her face colored again, and she brought the glass to her lips. "Oh. Yes, it's his."
"And where is he, leaving you alone like this?"
She set the glass down. Had it wobbled? "He's away on business, but is expected to return this week."
"Is he, then? This very week?" he asked, plainly disbelieving her.
"Is that not what I just said?" She sounded exasperated.
"How is it you speak English as well as a native? Spanish and French, I understand, but no' the queen's English."
She frowned at the abrupt change in topic. Polite conversation followed rules. Topics were sequential, orderly, and flowed from one to the next like a gentle current when all those conversing were skilled. Why deliberately disrupt it? She sighed in a put-out way, then replied, "I went to school abroad and learned it there. English, you might not have heard, is the worldwide language of the nobility."
The truth was she'd had to learn it to communicate with many of her schoolmates. The Brits and Yanks couldn't seem to string together a foreign phrase to save their lives, though everyone else was at least trilingual. Worse, the Yanks polluted the language with irregular phrasings and slang that were difficult to keep pace with. As difficult as they were secretly amusing.
"Which school?"
"It's very exclusive. I'm sure you wouldn't have heard of it." She absently tapped her nails against her crystal glass. Apparently, he took that as a sign to refill it. Since it was empty.
"Try me."
"It's called Les Vignes."
"Aye, The Vines. Just outside of Paris in Fontainebleau."
She just stopped herself from dropping her jaw. How had he heard of it?
He smirked. "Aristocrats and heiresses."
"Indeed," she said in a pained tone. His gloating look rattled her, but also simply thinking about the school made her yearn for her time there. Life had been simple then. She'd loved it there, loved acquiring knowledge, but most important, Annalia had attained her coveted aura of worldliness.
Unfortunately, this worldliness was, as yet, a facade. She'd never been farther north than Paris or farther south than just past the border with Spain. She had never even seen the sea. The Highlander, just by virtue of his traveling from Scotland to Andorra, was worldlier than she.
But MacCarrick would never know it because she could put on a grand show. She'd learned contemporary American sass and slang from a princess of railroad royalty, fashionable disdain from a pouty French inheritrix of some medical patent, and British loftiness from a "fifteenth from the throne" duke's daughter.
"It's very exclusive," she repeated absently. In fact, she'd scarcely been received. Annalia wasn't so closely related to a throne, unless you followed Pascal's insane despot logic, of course. However, she was distantly related to eight of them.
"Yet you were born and raised in archaic Andorra."
Her expression felt brittle. She should have known he would cut through the facade and go straight to the heart of her insecurities. When she didn't answer, he continued, "I've always said there are just no' enough Andorrans in the world."
"And what makes you so sure I was raised here?"
"I've heard you speak Catalan to the people here. You've never spoken it to anyone outside of Andorra, have you?"
She'd yearned to visit other Catalan-speaking countries, but Llorente had forbidden it. "Why do you ask that?"
"This country hasn't changed much since medieval times and neither has its language."
"Are you saying I speak with a medieval dialect?" She couldn't.
He leaned back and nodded with obvious enjoyment.
"And with you being a Highlander, I'm sure you recognize medieval when you come across it." Ha!
His lips curled at the side. Not quite a smile. "So the Scot and the Andorran. We're no' so different."
She was decidedly different from everything that he was. "I'm Castilian," she snapped, surprising herself. That information rarely came out sounding like a declaration. Next to a Scot she could be proud of anything, she supposed.
"A hot-blooded Castilian, then? Collared with Cleopatra's jewel." Never taking his eyes from hers, he lifted his glass and growled over the rim, "Fascinatin'."
She barely prevented her lips from parting in disbelief. Straight to the heart. How did he manage to brush so closely to her secrets? He didn't know her. He knew nothing. He was merely provoking for reaction….
The next several minutes were odd. If she tilted her head, his eyes narrowed. If she touched her hair, he scrubbed his good hand across the back of his neck. When she drank more, he stilled, as if awaiting something. That was one thing she realized about him—he was always scrutinizing, always weighing, and deciding. She wondered what he'd decided about her.
Here she sat drinking with her worst enemy—well, worst after Pascal—but not because she wanted to be near the man. Certainly not that. And not because she'd forgotten what he was. He was a Highlander, and it was because of people like him and his miserable kinsmen—those cursed killers for hire—that the general had enough power to force her to his will. He was her enemy and she didn't care.
She'd heard that liquor made one brash, but now Annalia knew it also made one uncaring. Underhanded, even.
Because she would use him.
What if she could hire him and his men to help her? What if she could tempt him to want to help her? If she was one of those women—if the whispers about her were true—then surely she could have some effect on a man.
What did she have to lose by trying?
Before her courage failed her, she stood, then walked around the desk toward him. When he quickly stood as well, she stopped and reached back for her glass—just one more little sip for courage…. She turned back and he was directly in front of her, looking at her face in his intense, watchful manner.
He took a gentle, shuffling step closer, as though he didn't want to frighten her away. She backed up to the desk, but he kept drawing nearer, surrounding her with his body, with his appealing scent. And some common, base part deep inside her reveled in his size, reveled in the heat she could feel from his skin.
His gaze caught hers, as if he couldn't stop looking at her. Up so close, she could see how much his eyes had cleared, could see how remarkably dark they were, the irises black like obsidian. And the way he looked at her…as though he was hungry for her. As though he lusted, and understood like no man had before how incredibly much she did, too. She felt like she'd caught fire.
She set her palms against the edge of the desk, wrapping her fingers around it, then nervously licked her lips, unsure of what to do. He must have realized she wasn't leaving, wasn't moving from this spot, because he appeared baffled, his brows drawn. It was as though she could hear him thinking. She knew he was suspicious of her behavior. She also knew he would decide to enjoy now and figure it out later. As if on cue, his expression changed to one of intent.
As she'd seen women do on bridges across Paris at sunset, she brushed her hands up over his chest and then rested them on the back of his neck. When her fingers twined behind him, his breaths hastened. "MacCarrick," she murmured. "Do you…like me?"
His gaze was flickering over her face, sometimes resting on her lips, but now meeting her eyes. "Right now I like you very much."
She threaded her fingers in his hair. "After tonight, do you want to be my…friend?"
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