“I’m concerned.”

“About what? I told you I wouldn’t hook up with Douchey McHornball. What more do you want?”

“That’s not what you said at all.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

I wish I could see her right now. I imagine her with a hand propped on her hip, chin tipped up in defiance. “No. You said you wouldn’t bring him back to my condo. You left that wide open for interpretation and other possibilities.”

“What are you even talking about?” She falters a little.

It’s all I need. “And I think you did it on purpose.”

“You’re not making sense,” her voice wavers. “Is there a purpose to this phone call, or are you just looking to start a fight over perceived context?”

“It’s not perceived context.”

“You’re infuriating. What exactly is the issue here?”

“I already told you, I’m concerned.”

“Because?”

“You’re under the influence and you’re susceptible to making bad decisions when you’ve been drinking.”

“Oh my God. You are seriously pissing me off right now.”

“You kissed a perfect stranger after one drink in the past. You don’t think that’s a poor decision?” I’m pushing her buttons. It’s a bad idea, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t want someone like Wentworth to get her intoxicated and take advantage of her. I want to be the one to do that, repeatedly. Okay, that sounded bad in my head. I’d like her to be sober and willing when I get her naked.

“This is your emergency? You’re going to shame me over kissing you back, for what purpose? To ensure I don’t sleep with some jerkoff friend of Armstrong’s? I assure you, I’m not the least bit interested in Wentworth. He’s the exact opposite of my type, but if you call again tonight and try and pull more of this bullshit on me I’m going to sleep with him out of spite.”

“You will not.”

“Are you still trying to tell me what to do?”

I’m pretty sure she would reach through the phone right now if she could and throttle me. “There’s no way you would sleep with someone just to spite me.”

“Are you sure about that, Bane?” Her voice is suddenly soft, menacing even. “Are you willing to test that theory?”

There’s no right answer to that, I realize, as I open and close my mouth and no words find their magical way out. I’m not totally sure. I think I’m right. I hope I’m right. I get the sense that Ruby is a bit more traditional than she likes to let on, or at least she’s more selective.

Her embarrassment over kissing me back tells me this. I also think she’s far more liable to make rash, poorly thought-out decisions when she’s been drinking—hence her kissing me back in the first place. Which I don’t regret in the slightest. What I do regret, maybe just a little, is not staking some kind of claim prior to leaving her in my condo. Although, at the time, I had only known her for two days. That might’ve been a little weird and preemptive.

All it would’ve taken was a few words. If Ms. Blackwood hadn’t interrupted our good-bye I would’ve followed through on that kiss and maybe we wouldn’t be having this argument.

I take a deep breath and go with honesty. “Ruby Scott, I know better than to think I can tell you what to do, but the very last thing I want is for someone as dickish as Wentworth to get his hands on you, especially if it’s solely for the purpose of spite.”

I get breathing for several seconds. Deep breathing. The kind I’m not opposed to. The kind I’d like to hear as a result of my abilities to make her feel extraordinary. In a very sexual way.

“I’m going to hang up now, Bane, and you’re not going to call me back tonight, because I don’t think you want to see how far you can push before you reach my limit.”

I don’t get another word out before the dial tone happens. As much as I want to call her back right away, I know it’s a bad idea. A very bad idea. So I keep it together and leave things alone. It’s late. I should go to bed. But I can’t, because all I can think about now is that fuck Wentworth and how one man can put things in perspective and screw everything up for me at the same time.

* * *

It’s been forty-eight hours. I tried to call Ruby yesterday. The only response I received were pictures of Tiny and Francesca, like they’re ransom notes in image form. Tiny was on the back of her hand. Francesca was hiding under my sheets. My messed-up sheets. A reminder that she has my pets and she has access to all my things, including my bed.

I may not have reacted well to the Wentworth situation. I called Armstrong the next day and ripped him a new asshole. Except he seemed to think my reaction was hilarious and uncalled for. Then he went on to tell me I had nothing to worry about because Ruby was a frigid bitch as far as he could tell, and he doubted she opened her legs or her mouth for anyone. I ripped him an additional asshole for that comment.

I also know that’s untrue. She opened her mouth for me. And I’m hoping her legs will, eventually, follow.

A full fifty-seven hours later she finally picks up when I called her via video chat. I had apology flowers delivered this morning hoping it would defrost her a little. “Hey,” I say by way of greeting.

She glares at me through the two-dimensional screen. If I was in my condo with her, there are so many ways I could wipe that glare off her face. But I’m an ocean away, so all I have are words.

“I’m sorry.”

The side of her mouth twitches, just a little. It’s barely a tic. She’s eating pasta. She dips her fork into the bowl and lifts it, twirling the noodles slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on her food. Ruby opens her mouth. Her luscious-looking mouth. The one I’ve had my tongue in. The one I’d like to have wrapped around my . . . the fork slides between her lips.

A noise startles her. And then I realize it’s me. Groaning.

The fork slides out from between her lips. She’s eating pasta primavera. The sauce is oil and garlic based. Her breath would be horrible right now, but her lips are glistening and I have no control over my head or where it goes—or how hard the one in my pants gets.

She has the upper hand. She knows it. She raises a brow and chews slowly. It takes forever before she speaks. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes.” It comes out low and raspy. Goddamn it. I need to get a handle on myself. Not a real handle, well, at least not while I’m talking to her . . . afterward maybe. Why is she so sexy? Why do I like that she refuses to let me get away with the shit I pulled the other night? Why am I looking so forward to her wrath?

“What exactly are you sorry for? Being an asshole?”

“The flowers came?” I sort of expected them to smooth things over for me a little better than they have.

“They did. They’re beautiful. But I’d still like to know what exactly you’re sorry enough for that you’d send flowers.”

That’s a great question. It’s also legitimate. The card didn’t exactly allow for an extended inscription, so I went with Sorry for being an asshole. I need to word my explanation in a way that isn’t going to get me into more trouble. “For questioning your character.” When all I get is more staring, I continue. “I’m well aware that you’re an intelligent woman who is more than capable of making sound decisions. My concern wasn’t your ability to make decisions, but Wentworth’s propensity for taking advantage when he sees opportunity.”