Dirty Halo Page 3

  Get it together, Emilia.

  Tearing my focus from the striking stranger, I try to catch the eyes of one of our suit-wearing kidnappers. I’m beyond pissed at myself for getting so distracted I didn’t scream for help when I had the chance.

  “Wait!” I yell, locking eyes with one of the gun-toting guards. “Please—”

  Before I can finish my plea, the suit gives a sharp shove that sends the drunk, dark-haired stranger toppling forward into the SUV — and practically onto my lap. I hear the door slam shut behind him and the locks click, but I don’t glance that direction. I’m a bit preoccupied with the messy head of black hair currently face-planted in my crotch.

  Seriously, could this night get any worse?

  Chapter Three

  “Get off me!” I squawk, blinking stupidly at the back of his head.

  “I usually buy a woman a drink before she lets me put my head between her thighs,” he mutters, his deep voice muffled by the fabric of my mini-skirt. “But if you’re game, love…”

  Snarling, I roughly shove him off me and smirk with no small amount of satisfaction as his forehead bonks painfully against the partition.

  “Fuck!” he curses. “What was that for?”

  “You really have to ask?”

  I watch warily as he maneuvers his body onto the seat beside mine with a low grunt. His eyes are pressed closed, so I can’t see their color, but I find myself studying the angles of his face in the dark. The set of high cheekbones protruding beneath his tanned skin. The broad column of his throat, each corded muscle on display with his head craned back against the leather. The thick hair—

  “Can I help you with something?”

  I flinch. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re staring.”

  How did he know?!

  I whip my head forward to face the partition, cheeks flaming. “I was not.”

  A low chuckle assaults my ears. “Whatever you say, Orchid.”

  “Orchid?” I ask, glancing back at him despite my best intentions.

  One eye cracks open — crystalline blue, a whole Caribbean sea in a single iris — to peer over at me. “The purple hair.”

  Oh. Right.

  I reach up to smooth my lavender strands, feeling suddenly self-conscious about my most recent color choice. Last month, I was an ashy gray-blonde. Before that, I was navy blue. Before that… I don’t even remember, if I’m being totally honest. I haven’t seen my natural hue since I was old enough to do something about it.

  “So, who are you hiding from?” he asks, a slight slur in his voice.

  “Um…” I blink, utterly confused. “What?”

  “Simple enough question. Who are you hiding from?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He just stares at me. There’s a perceptive edge in his eyes, despite the fact that his brain is sloshing around in a puddle of Johnnie Walker. Even through a drunken haze, looking into them is unnerving. I wonder fleetingly what this man would be like while in full possession of his mental faculties.

  I don’t think you want to find out, Emilia.

  Pushing aside the urge to fidget, I set my face in a dispassionate mask and boldly return his gaze. He may think he can intimidate me, but I refuse to be intimidated. In my head, I pick him apart piece by piece, feature by feature, hoping I might discover some fatal flaw. A chink in his armor.

  It’s a useless endeavor — even his imperfections are annoyingly attractive. The bump in his nose suggests he’s got a few bar fights under his belt. The small scar bisecting his left eyebrow lends character to a face that would be too perfect, in its absence. And if his dark hair is messy, it’s only because someone has been running her fingers through it all night — or, so I’d guess, judging by the smudge of bright magenta lipstick marring his collar.

  What kind of girl left that pink kiss behind? I can’t help wondering as I study him. What kind of girl spent her night with him, her fingers up in that hair, her lips on that muscular throat? What kind of girl would he pick out of a crowd and take home to ruin?

  Probably some model-perfect blonde with killer hair and a knockout figure. Certainly not a purple-haired hot mess with streaked eye makeup and a body type that suggests a begrudging-at-best relationship with her gym membership.

  “You planning to answer my question any time soon?”

  I startle. “Maybe I would if it made any sense. I’m not hiding from anyone. And I sure as shit don’t understand why a total stranger would make an assumption like that.”

  His head cants to the side, examining me. When he speaks, his voice is soft. Almost contemplative. “The hair.”

  I reach up and touch the offending strands, stunned into momentary silence.

  “It’s either a disguise or a distraction technique,” he murmurs. “Just trying to figure out which.”

  My eyes widen a shade and a scoff flies from my lips. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to defend my cosmetic choices to this random stranger — I’m not even sure why I’m wasting time talking to this random stranger — but I can’t seem to stop myself. “Look, it’s not some big personal statement. I liked the color. Don’t read into it.”

  “Only one reason a girl who looks like you does something like that: she’s hiding. Either from herself or someone else.”

  “N— No,” I stammer, going pale. “That’s—”

  “People see all that in-your-face purple and never bother looking deeper. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

  I blink rapidly. “Look, Freud, much as I appreciate the psychoanalysis, you can keep it to yourself.”

  “Doesn’t take a shrink to spot a social chameleon.”

  “I am not a chameleon!” I hiss, feeling my blood pressure rise. “And, for future reference, it’s generally considered impolite to equate people to lizards. Especially people you’ve just met and don’t know a damn thing about!”

  His mouth twitches. “I know your type. You’re hiding in plain sight. Under that hair and that heavy eye makeup and those cheap clothes…”

  My mouth falls open. “For your information, this outfit is from Zara and—”

  “Love, I don’t give a shit where you shop.”

  “Then do us both a favor — keep your unsolicited options to yourself, asshole!”

  “Bit defensive for someone who claims I’m totally off the mark, aren’t you?”

  My hands curl into fists. I strive for a cool tone. “I’m not defensive. I simply have no interest in hearing some deep, bourbon-drenched dive into my psychological profile from a drunk jerk who’s known me for approximately five minutes.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but I had you figured out in about five seconds, love.”

  I gape for a second, then swiftly recover. “Are you always this arrogant?”

  “Are you always this transparent?”

  “You don’t know anything about me!”

  “I know women.”

  “Oh I’m sure you do.” I look pointedly at the lipstick on his collar. “But I guarantee, I’m not like any woman you’ve ever met.”

  He shrugs. “Every swimming pool thinks it’s an ocean.”

  “And I suppose I’m the swimming pool in this scenario?!” My teeth sink into my bottom lip to contain a scream of outrage.

  His eyes flicker down to my mouth and hold there, unshifting. “Look, no offense, but everyone thinks they’re a big mystery that needs to be solved. The truth is, most people aren’t all that complicated.”

  “Did you seriously just say no offense before that statement?” I practically growl. “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  “I’m not generally known for my humor.”

  “Well, there’s a shocker!”

  People who look like him — the genetically blessed, so to speak — rarely develop a sense of humor because, unlike the rest of us mere mortals, they don’t have to work for attention or affection. It’s simply handed to them from the minute their perfectly-forme
d faces pop into existence.

  He arches a brow at my sarcastic tone, but I don’t elaborate. I’m not about to feed his — already enormous — ego by telling him he looks like a Greek god. I simply glare at him in stony silence, wishing he’d evaporate from my presence.

  “You know…” His mouth curls up at one side. “Girls don’t usually look at me with this much hostility until after I’ve told them I have no interest in screwing them again…”

  “Ugh! You are disgusting.”

  “Disgustingly attractive?”

  “No. Just regular old disgusting. For a list of synonyms, see: vile, repellent, repulsive.”

  “You forgot abhorrent and despicable.”

  “I was getting to those,” I snap. “Trust me, the list is quite extensive.”

  His lips twitch again and his eyes flare with heat, banked embers sparking to life like I’ve just lit a match inside him. I must be going crazy, because he looks almost pleased with the fact that I’ve insulted him using more than a few colorful vocabulary words. As though my harsh statement was not a character assassination, but rather…

  A challenge.

  Setting my shoulders, I shake off the strange thoughts and focus on the situation at hand. I’m not sure how he’s managed it but, in the span of just a few minutes, this stranger has managed to piss me off so thoroughly, I’ve completely forgotten about the fact that I’ve been taken into custody by a set of gun-toting suits. I don’t know what I want to do first — scream in his face or smack that smug look clean off it.

  Unfortunately, before I can do anything at all… he reaches across the distance between our seats, directly into my personal space, and grasps one of my purple curls between his thumb and his index finger.

  I go totally still.

  The words ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ are poised on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to get them out. I can’t seem to do anything, really, except sit there staring at him in the dark. Waiting.

  In a deliberate gesture that makes my eyes widen and my heart stutter, he trails his way slowly down the lock, his fingers moving with surprising gentleness as he stretches the curl to its full length. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe. When he finally reaches the end of the strands, his eyes flicker up to mine.

  “You know, Orchid…” The smirk returns and, with it, a deep, rasping tone that makes my throat close up. He leans in, as if he’s sharing a secret. “I like a little color in my life.”

  Ignoring my racing heart and burning cheeks, I smack his hand away. The curl springs back upward toward my breasts. “Hands to yourself, Johnnie.”

  “Johnnie?”

  “Yes. As in, Johnnie Walker. As in, bourbon. As in, the smell radiating from your pores,” I explain sweetly, gesturing at him. “Since we’re trading nicknames, and all.”

  He doesn’t laugh or smile. There’s no amusement in his gaze. Just a stark, unflinching intentness as he sits there, watching me watch him. His liquor-drenched eyes rake me up and down, taking in every detail at his leisure, making my pulse skitter dangerously beneath my skin. I’m not sure if the alcohol has lowered his inhibitions or if this is simply him, even sober. Raw sexual magnetism and pure male entitlement.

  Just looking at him, I can tell he’s the ultimate game-player. The kind of man who spins the cards so artfully, before you know it, you find yourself following his rules, chasing whatever dice he throws. Desperate to prove you aren’t just another bimbo about to get cleaned out and tossed aside.

  I’ve encountered men like this before. Players. Perhaps not ones of this caliber, but certainly the JV version to his varsity. They’re in every dark pub and college classroom; just look for the most attractive man in the room, the one who seems to radiate that potent mix of self-confidence and condescension… and who wields it like a weapon against every girl in his path, conquering with a ruthless sort of efficiency.

  Well, I’m not playing. Because I know full well, when it comes to men like him…

  The house always wins.

  “There she goes with that murderous look again,” he says lowly, almost to himself. “This should be good.”

  “Excuse me?!”

  “Did you know your face gives away everything you’re thinking? It’s obvious you’re working yourself up to a lecture. Spit it out, already; I don’t have all night.” He pauses. “Actually, I do. But that doesn’t mean I want to spend it listening to that extensive list of flaws you’ve compiled in our short time together.”

  God! The nerve of this man…

  I try to gather my words, but it’s a struggle. I’m more flustered than I want to admit. There’s just something about this man that makes all my cylinders fire at once; contempt, confusion, curiosity — each blazing in equal measure, boiling my blood until I can barely draw breath.

  “Tick, tock, little orchid,” he drawls, goading me. “My neck is starting to hurt from looking at you all the way up on that soapbox of yours…”

  That’s it.

  He wants a lecture?

  Good.

  He’s about to get one.

  “You say you know my type?” I narrow my eyes at him. “I know yours, too. You’re a master manipulator. A heartless player. You put girls down to make yourself seem taller. You maneuver yourself into a position of power with little patronizing comments. You put on an air of superiority because you know it makes you seem unattainable. And there’s nothing girls like more than a man they can’t have, right?” My voice goes cold. “But the thing is, if you were actually the kind of man worth having, you wouldn’t have to work so damn hard to trick people into believing it. You wouldn’t have to pick other people apart to make yourself feel whole.” I lean in, breathing hard. “My hair may be a way to hide, my face may give away my emotions… but you — you are just smoke and mirrors. All show, no substance. And I see right through it.”

  I expect him to flinch. To recoil from the insult of my words. To glare at me, or snap back with something even more awful in response. Instead… he does something unexpected. Something that totally flips me out.

  He smiles.

  Actually smiles, as though I’ve genuinely amused him — a flash of straight white teeth that take a bite right out of my beating heart. Then, without another word, he settles back against his seat, cranes his head, and closes his eyes.

  Clearly, he’s done with this conversation.

  Done with me.

  I don’t know why that surprises me so much.

  I don’t know why it leaves me strangely disappointed.

  I don’t know why I feel so hollow, now that I’ve released all those angry words into the air between us.

  Swallowing hard, I face forward and try to remind myself that there are far bigger fish to fry right now. Namely, the fact that I’m still locked in the back seat of an SUV, barreling along an unknown road in the middle of the night.

  Or have you forgotten that you’ve been taken against your will? That they cracked your best friend over the head with a gun and left him bleeding in a dark alley? That, as much as you’d like to deny it, you have a sinking suspicion you know exactly who ordered these men to extract you from your life in a vehicle that costs more than your yearly tuition?

  Focus on that, Emilia.

  And… forget about him.

  Chapter Four

  We drive for a long while in total silence.

  I soon discover it’s not so easy to ignore the man sitting beside me in the dark. I’m pressed against the door panel, as far from him as physically possible, yet he still seems to take up all the space in the car. His presence is indelible. It’s as though he’s changed the chemical composition of every molecule of air that enters my lungs, ensnared my eyes and ears until he’s the only thing my senses can perceive.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Emilia.

  With considerable effort, I force myself to stop replaying our strangely heated conversation. To direct my thoughts towards things that matter — namely, getting o
ut of here and getting some answers. Not necessarily in that order.

  Maybe… I glance over and see his eyes are still closed. I wonder if he’s passed out. Maybe he knows something…

  I wince at just the thought of attempting another conversation with him, considering our last one went about as smoothly as sandpaper. Yet, my options are limited. He may be a total asshole, but he’s also the only ally I’ve got right now. The only one trapped in this insane situation with me.

  So, much as I’d like to ignore him for the rest of eternity… if there’s even a chance he knows something…

  I have to ask.

  A few more minutes pass in silence before I finally work up my nerve to speak. I clear my throat lightly to shatter the silence. “Look, clearly we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here…”

  He snorts.

  Okay. Definitely not passed out.

  “Listen, we don’t need to be friends, but—”

  “Wow,” he says drolly. “I’m hurt. Deeply.”

  I grit my teeth, ignoring his flippancy. “Do you happen to know what we’re doing here? Why they grabbed us?”

  “Me? Yes.” He pauses. “You? Not so much.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means, O Incessant One, that I know why I’m in this car right now. But you remain a mystery.” His eyes finally crack open, cutting over to lock on mine in the span of a heartbeat. “So. Consider me official curious…”

  “Are we talking bi-curious? Curious George? The Curious Case of Benjamin Button? I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific…”

  “Who are you?”

  I stiffen. “No one. I’m no one.”