“Bother?” Van’s brows rise. “I thought you and I were friends.”
“We’re not as friendly as you’d think.” I send Alistair an adoring smile, one that seems to confuse him, judging by the tiny crease between his brows. Come on, stupid. When a girl smiles at you, you’re supposed to smile back. We aren’t together-together. But it’s no good pining after a man I can’t have. A man who looks at me like he could swallow me whole.
“Aren’t we?” Niko answers in that smooth tone of his. “Or maybe we’re just not the kind of friends you’d like to be.”
“You mean frenemies?” I ask, intentionally misunderstanding him. He means friends with benefits. I can’t blame him for bringing it up. I did turn up at his front door and almost throw myself at him. And he almost kissed me. Again. But I can understand his reasons for oh-so gently rebuffing me, even if it’s hard to put myself in his shoes because I’ve never had the kind of friendship he and Sandy have.
Jealous? Moi? Just a teensy bit.
As I understand it, they’re about to go into business together. They’re buying a crumbling country house to turn it into some ritzy club or hotel. So I can respect his reasons. I can even (begrudgingly) respect the man. But that doesn’t mean I have to be nice to him.
Pride cometh before a fall and all that.
But I hate that just the sight of him makes my heart flutter like the wings of a fledgling, balanced on the edge of a nest. Will I fall backward or forward? Will I fly into his arms, or will he let me fall flat?
Yes, well. We already know the answer.
“Where did you two meet?” His avuncular tone suddenly grates on me. So this is how he’s playing it? My brother’s best friend, the old codger. Like we aren’t the same age.
“Alistair and I met in the gallery.” I turn my body toward my supposed beau, sliding my arm through his. I also have to clamp my fingers on his forearm when he jolts from surprise. “Didn’t we?” For good measure, I pat his bicep as though besotted.
Balls. It’s a wasted exercise, judging by the arctic twist to Niko’s lips.
“Ah, yes,” Alistair belatedly replies. “I’d just moved into a new place, and Izzy was able to help me with the art.”
“Ah, his art.” Only Niko could make that sound dirty. “Why don’t you come and help me with my art?”
Come up and see my etchings? I almost laugh, then sigh instead. “I think your wallet is a little plump for my little gallery.”
“I remember you were quite interested in the birdcage.”
My heart thumps loudly, the sensation echoing between my legs as a fractured image from my dreams flickers to life behind my eyes. Gold and velvet. The chair. His skin. I blink, realizing I’ve fallen quiet, drawing the attention of both men. One stares at me with confusion, and the other looks like he can read my mind. And that he likes what he sees.
“My experience relates only to wall art, not … installations.” Dammit, I nearly said etchings. I can’t do this with an audience. Hide my attraction to him, play nice knowing he won’t act on this. I turn to Alistair with my glass. “Would you mind topping me up?”
“Of course.” He acquiesces far too quickly for someone who is supposed to be playing the adoring boyfriend.
“Get me a beer while you’re there, would you?” Van’s murmur doesn’t have the air of a request.
“You don’t drink,” I accuse once Alistair is out of earshot. “And I’m certain you don’t drink beer.”
“Don’t I?”
I narrow my gaze. “Stop non-answering questions with more questions.”
“Is that proper English?”
“Well, it’s not Finnish. Or Russian.”
Van says something I don’t understand. It could be Russian or Finnish or something else, but I’m reasonably certain it sounded like a curse.
“It’s not that I don’t drink,” he adds tersely. “I just prefer to keep a clear head, but it’s a state I can’t quite manage when you’re around.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That I find you intoxicating.”
My breath freezes, half in, half out, my body seeming to comprehend his meaning before my mind does. I see the cuffs again, a bloom of sensation surging inside. I find myself tilting, leaning toward him as though—
But no. We’re not doing that. Shagging. Knocking boots. Bumping uglies. Fucking each other’s brains out.
“Intoxicating but not worth the risk, apparently.” Why don’t I just make a sad trombone sound!
“That’s not what I said.”
“You said you didn’t want to be that kind of friend.”
“What kind of friend is that?” he asks with an honest-to-goodness smolder. “Maybe you could refresh my memory.”
“You know what I mean.” He steps closer, and I’ve neither the will nor the space to step away, though my heart beats with the cadence of a prey animal. One looking forward to the chase and the kill. So a prey animal that’s kinky.