We stare at each other for several seconds, both of us barely illuminated by the last bit of daylight coming in through the window. His eyes are a fierce color of light blue that looks almost gray, especially when framed by thick lashes. His hair’s too short to get a good sense of its color, but it’s somewhere between blond and brown.
Finally my eyes land on his scars. Now that I’m prepared for them, they’re not as bad as I originally thought. Three raised lines run down the right side of his face, the shortest going from just below the outer edge of his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, as though it—whatever it was—just missed taking out his eye. The second is longer, running from the hair near his temple to the middle of his cheek. The last is the longest and ugliest, intersecting the other two as it runs from the corner of his eye, stopping just short of his lip. The straight lines of his lips are unmarred, but his mouth might as well be disfigured too, because I doubt he’s used it to smile in a long, long time.
Finally, finally I let my eyes meet his, my stomach feeling a little jerky when his gaze locks onto mine. He lifts his eyebrows as though to say, Well? It’s clear he’s been through this scrutiny before and knows what to expect.
I’m guessing most people try to pretend nothing’s amiss. The kind ones likely express pity—maybe even ask gentle questions under the idiotic misconception that he’d want to talk about it with a complete stranger. The cruel ones run.
I don’t want to be part of either group. I want Paul Langdon to see me as different.
So I do the unthinkable. As in really, truly horrible, and yet somehow I sense it needs to be done.
Wordlessly I bend my head, fumbling again with my purse.
“Mace won’t protect you,” he says with a sneer.
I ignore him as I go about my original task and pull a twenty out of my wallet.
“What’s this?” he asks, staring at the bill in my outstretched hand. I feel an odd surge of victory at the confusion on his face. For just a moment I have the upper hand.
I give a little rueful shake of my head. “A dollar in the hat’s not nearly enough. You should really think about charging more for the first glance. Twenty dollars, at least.”
Silence stretches between us, even though his expression doesn’t change.
My mouth goes dry as he studies me. It’s a risky move, and I know it. With someone else—anyone else—it would be unbearably cruel. And yet somehow I suspect that this sort of in-your-face acknowledgment of his scars is exactly what Paul Langdon craves.
Then with a strangled snarl he swipes at my hand, but neither one of us watches the bill flutter to the ground.
Whoops. So it’s possible that I’m wrong. Maybe he doesn’t know that this is what he craves.
My pounding heart demands that I take a step back before I get backhanded by the livid guy in front of me, but I keep still, standing toe-to-toe with a beast of a man who looks as though he’d like nothing more than to physically throw me out of his secluded lair.
“Get out,” he says, mouth barely moving.
I lick my lips nervously, noting the way his eyes follow the motion of my tongue, and I finally accept that in spite of myself—in spite of the fear—I’m ridiculously attracted to him. Attracted in a fierce, animalistic way that I’ve never felt ever.
I found Ethan attractive, of course. I mean, we dated for like half of my life. And Michael…I don’t want to think about Michael.
But nothing in my limited sexual experience compares to the magnetic pull this guy has on me.
I ignore his demand that I leave him alone.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, as though he hasn’t banished me from the room. “A cup of soothing tea? A turkey sandwich? Maybe sunglasses to protect yourself from all that happy sunshine you’re exuding?”
His eyes flash again, this time in puzzlement. I give him a fake-sympathetic smile and pat his arm. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Were your bear growl and caveman antics supposed to send me running away? Did you expect that I’d faint at your glower?”