Page 50 of Diamond In The Rough
“Too?” He chuckles. “My stock-market ventures are reported to the IRS cleanly. The rest…”
“Not exactly polite conversation topics. No college?”
“No time,” he admits. “No desire. But I research whatever shit I’m heading toward so I can make sound decisions. Mostly.”
“You didn’t research me.” I place my fork down and swap it for using my fingers. My food has cooled enough, and the act of licking the sauce from my fingers makes my meal tastier. It’s odd and unscientific, but it’s my stance, all the same. “You made assumptions about me that were wholly wrong.”
“A lesson learned,” he concedes. “And the very reason I research something before showing my ass. You caught me off guard, it would seem.”
I snicker—Why am I smiling? Am I on a date? What the fuck!—and bring my gaze down to my plate. “I hope you’re embarrassed. Your behavior since we met has been less than appropriate. Your mother would surely be ashamed.”
Like day and night, his eyes find mine, fire burning deep inside his until my stomach jolts. “My mother is dead, Ms. Hale. Surely you know that, since you’re so educated.” He picks up his wine and takes a long drink, halving the contents without taking a breath. Then, setting the glass down, he reclines back and looks anywhere but at me. “Have you always wanted to work with antiques?”
“Um…” My heart thunders, my nervous system brutally aware of how close to death I come with every ballsy question I ask.
“Antiques.” He looks across, impatience glittering in his stare. “You always wanted to serve rich fuddy-duddies, and work for a woman who would throw you in front of a train if it made her look special?”
I choke out a soft laugh, shaking my head and reaching out for a new piece of gnocchi. Because hell if he isn’t right. “Antiques, yes. Jakeline Colby… No. That was just one of those right places at the right time kind of things.”
“Or wrong place,” he counters, “wrong time. Colby would toss you over for a fat-free candy bar. It’s not safe, surrounding yourself with people who lack loyalty.”
“Well… in theory, perhaps. But I live a regular life. On the legal side of the law. So while you may have enemies you need protection from, my biggest threat is Jazzy stealing my vodka mixers, or Roscoe locking me away from everyone else.”
Micah’s eyes turn to terrifying slits, his calm silence, as loud as a red light and a siren bleating Danger! Danger! “He isolate you against your will often, Tiia?”
“Um…” Shit! “No, I?—”
He drops his pizza back to the plate and turns my way, so our legs almost intertwine. “Because I could take care of it for you.”
“Take care of it?” My pulse thunders. My stomach whooshes. My brain spins out of control, making it damn near impossible to formulate a sensible, rational thought. “J-just like that? For a woman you consider your enemy.”
“Not my enemy. And I’m not gonna lay the specifics out right here in a restaurant.” He looks down into our laps, his eyes scraping my exposed thighs, even as I fuss with my dress to make sure I’m adequately covered. “But I think we’re both educated enough to know you don’t have to tolerate any shit in your life. If Roscoe is a problem for you, then you say the word, and I’ll fix it.”
“Are you a man for hire?” I bring my gaze up and lock onto his emerald stare. “I give you money, you give me freedom?”
“I’d give you freedom because I won’t stand to see a woman in a bad situation. And if Roscoe is the reason for yours, then that’s the way it’s gonna go down.” He sits back, relaxation coming to him like flipping a switch as he grins and picks up his pizza. “I’m sure he’ll back off when I tell him he’s not being very nice.”
Okay, but, like… does Roscoe get to live after that?
“Eat.” He takes a bite of pizza and studies the door we came through.
His nose and lips strike a profile I think I could pick out in a crowd of millions. His jawline, square. His hair, just long enough to be roguish. He chews and swallows, so the movement draws my eyes to his throat as the lump works its way down.
But then a small dot, out of place against his tan skin, pulls my focus. A crimson spot, standing out like a buoy in the sea.
Leaning closer, I know he feels the warmth of my stare when I come within six inches of his neck.
“What?” He brings his right hand up and cups his neck, though he misses the subject of my interest. “What’s the problem?”
“Is that blood?” I tilt my head the other way and wonder how this man ended up with a spot of blood on his skin—and not the kind of spot one might get after nicking themselves shaving. “You have blood on you, Micah.”
“Time to go.” He shoves up from the booth and folds a fresh slice of pizza in half. For the road, I suppose. Then he chugs the last of his wine before placing the glass down, and tugs me out behind him. “Bring your plate if you’re still hungry.”
“Wait—” I stumble when he pulls me out of the booth, and risk rolling my ankle when he releases me. But while I glance around, dumbfounded by his quick actions, he tosses cash on the table and picks up my plate for me.
“Eat and walk. I have things to do this afternoon, and you have a sale to make.” He snatches up the file from Jakeline’s shop, then he starts away. “Let’s go.”
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