13 Chapter 13

I hissed back a breath and threw my hands over my stiff shoulders. Who’d left the doorway open? I stopped before the edge of the solid wooden door, not wanting to cross that stream of polar air slicing through the middle of the foyer, and leaned over to see if I could spot the villain who’d done this. The lights in the porch were sleeping, a dark veil wrapping the front of the Lady. I frowned. I looked back at the far end of the hall. The lights in the living room were off duty as well. Purposely, maybe. I could hear Buffy’s dim voice buzzing somewhere. Snuggling and making out with her darling on the couch most certainly—or rug. It would’ve given them more space to…

The snap of a car door outside ripped my hot-blooded visions. I jerked back my eyes to the porch and focused on the tall shape crossing the road, the lights of the fancy Range Rover blinking behind it in acknowledgment. So I’d been wrong about the tonsil hockey game on the couch, then. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course the villain was Ian. Who else?

“I should’ve known that uppity car was yours,” I said when he reached the porch steps, stepping out straight into the polar stream breaking through the threshold. There was nothing shaky about my stance, even if I was freezing my ovaries by standing in that torturous spot, even if my toes were purple-colored. But I wasn’t going to give it away.

He stopped on the first step and looked up at me. The light in the foyer cast shadows over his face, sharpening his angles and hollows in a dazzling way—a beautiful ballet of contrasts, worthy of a 2B and 6B pencil—not that I would ever sketch his annoying face. His eyes were rimmed with surprise and a pinch of nervousness danced in there—which was remarkably odd. If there was something steady about him, it was his steel-confident nature.

He cleared his throat after a moment of odd staring and looked down. “A gift for good behavior,” he explained the car, climbing up the last four steps.

“From whom this time? Daddy?” I cocked my head.

“Your psychic skills amaze me.” He strode through the threshold and circled around me, leaving behind him a soft breeze suffused with the cold nocturnal breath. My arm shivered.

“You were patting those leather seats, weren’t you?” I turned and closed the door behind me, mentally grateful for cutting off that stream of ice inside. “I bet you can’t stay away from your rocking Rover for more than two hours. I bet you even sleep in it, cuddling that dead skin you love so much.”

He snorted a laugh and spun on his heels to look at me. “Yeah, I even take my naps there and fantasize about you wearing that dead skin. It makes the whole experience more pleasant and addictive somehow.” He paused and stared at me, crooking a wicked smile. “Though I think I won’t need to fantasize anymore since you’re considering the PETA photo shoot more seriously.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I snapped confused at the swerve the conversation had taken.

“I have to say the view is now very promising.”

The view? I lowered my eyes to my body and almost plummeted to the floor. Oh. My. God. My arms and feet hadn’t been the only things that had reacted to the cold. And Ian’s X-ray male vision had certainly noticed it. No wonder he’d stared at me that oddly. With the open view I’d given him when standing there under the full light with my two friends saying hi, no more explanations were needed.

I flung my arms around me in a flurry of deep embarrassment, and anger for not putting on a well worthy bra, and for wearing that stupid, treacherous, white camisole. Tornadoes and fires paled next to this.

“You’re actually blushing,” he said in awe, amusement edging his voice. “How interesting this day ended up being. First you cry and then you blush—victim of soft emotions. I guess you’re not the ice queen everyone thinks.”

In a regular situation, I would’ve shoved back his words deep down his throat, but the mortification coursing through me with the strength of a tsunami veered my worries. “How dare you looking at me like this you…you Peeping Tom!” I barked in red-hot rage.

“Well, they were the ones practically poking my eyes. I wasn’t the one looking for it.”

“Couldn’t have you just turned around or…or told me something?”

“No, I couldn’t have, and yes, I did,” he said leaning his shoulder against the staircase railing with his arms crossed over his chest. “And it’s the best thing I’ve done so far. Your face was priceless—still is,” he added with a mocking grin.

“I swear I'm going to claw out your eyes.”

“Oh, come on, that braless thing is, like, the ultimate trend in fashion, right? It’s not that bad,” he said, as if trying to douse the fire in me, which only fueled it even more. The infuriating amusement in his voice lightened his words, as if he was drinking a coconut in a serene white-sand beach on an exotic island while an airplane plummeted into the ocean miles away. “It would’ve been quite a shocker several years ago but women don’t use underwear anymore for Christ’s sake—not that I'm complaining,” he said with a small, mischievous smile.

Guys, I thought with a roll of my eyes. “You can like that nasty exposure all you want, but I am not part of that.” I tightened my grip around me. “Underwear has a purpose, and I'm happy to follow that purpose—thrilled even. What happened tonight was just a…slip.” A mayor slip.

“You don’t have to explain anything, just avoid doing these slips around other people. Lucky you it was me and not some randy guy.”

Meaning, he wasn’t interested in me and that not even a white thin shirt would change that. Good. “Whatever,” I told him and walked to the staircase, my arms wrapped firmly around my chest. I’d decided the Bugs Bunny water glass wasn’t a go tonight.

My frozen foot was about to climb up the fifth slab of wood, when Ian’s hand shot up from downstairs, over the rail, and grabbed my elbow. “Wait.” I looked down at him confused. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He schooled his face into a serious expression, no mockery, amusement, or sarcasm playing in his voice this time.

He dropped my elbow and stepped back a little to see me better. “Okay,” I turned and neared the dark glossy rail. The thick piece of oak pressed against my stomach. “Where’s Buffy by the way? I thought you were half way down her pants earlier,” I said, suddenly remembering those hot-blooded visions on the couch.

“On the phone with Jessica and Jennifer.” He motioned his strong chin to the kitchen door. I bit my tongue to not add ‘and Charlie’ to his answer, but the Charlie's Angels analogy only seemed funny to Linda and me. “That’s why I went to take that out from the car.” He glanced back at the white blazer draped over the curved backrest of the mahogany settee. “Not because I suddenly had the urge to fantasize about you in the car, which would’ve been a big waste of time since I had the real thing waiting for me here—with perks and all.”

Back on the taunting, are we?