I try asking what he means by that but my words trip over my thoughts and cause a crazy, conflicting traffic jam of emotions, desires, and the good old-fashioned common sense the streets of Chicago taught me. My body, on the other hand, has no problem expressing what—or rather who—it wants.
Heat infuses my skin with an instant flush of pink, and I can feel the second my cheeks turn red.
Like everything else about me, he notices and the second his gaze falls to my breasts, my nipples double-time it, spiking against the cheap, harsh polyester. He pulls out a white handkerchief from the jacket I tossed aside a moment earlier and presses it into my hand.
“You’re too beautiful to be crying.”
I was so mad, confused, oddly turned on and utterly pissed that I failed to realize I was crying.
The steam driving my anger, and my snark, evaporated all at once and I lean into his warm touch again, taking comfort. What the hell was wrong with me?
“There’s more, isn’t there? Your words are clipped, and I can see a hard edge to your expression. It’s hidden under the kind patience you’re showing me, but you’re hiding something else. What are you not telling me? What did that man tell Scarface over there that has you pissed off? And don’t try to lie. I know when I hear one fall from people’s lips. It’s what has kept me one step ahead of the freaks like my landlord and the street thugs who think I’ll pay for their protection coming and going from my apartment.”
“You no longer have to worry about dealing with those people, and I already told you your father owes more than me, yes?”
I nod. “There’s no love lost between me and my father so you don’t have to sugar coat anything for me.”
He studies me for a minute and I see the hard edge I mentioned soften a fraction. “Tell me, Katriona, how much do you think you’re worth?”