“I don’t think I do. You see, I’ve never wanted to fuck your brother.” He doesn’t glance Sandy’s way, not that it matters, because I can’t believe he just said that. Another step and we’ll be pressed against each other. Thighs. Stomachs. Chests. Perhaps even lips. Here, in this room with so many people around us, looking on.
I’d dare him to, but for the love of my brother.
“Don’t play games, Niko,” I whisper. My heart continues to hammer as my tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip. He watches the moment, his lids dropping closed as though to savor the moment, and I find myself thinking how those sandy half-moon lashes look like the sweep of an angel’s wing.
“Oh, darling.” I physically startle as his eyes flick open, now devil dark. “The games I could play with you.”
“Could, but won’t,” I reply in a bored tone. “Why are you even here?” My voice feels stronger than I feel, braver. “You never accept Sandy’s invites to dinner.” At least, I’ve never seen him here.
“Perhaps I didn’t know who I was missing.” He reaches out, and I think, for a moment, he might be about to touch me when he points at something behind me instead. “Tell me about the figurine, Peanut.”
I answer without looking. “I don’t know anything about antiques.” Even if the house is full of them. I don’t even know much about art. I do know lots about pouring wine to ease art purchases. I know about making coffee, photocopying, and listening to the other office girls talk about their ponies and the dates they’re trying to turn into husbands.
“Turn around,” he coaxes. “Take a look at it. Please, for me.”
I turn reluctantly to the Edwardian-era credenza, heavy with silver picture frames, each containing a piece of family history. Images of long-dead family members featured in far-flung places. Ladies in large hats and high-necked gowns with bustles, men with bowler hats and handlebar mustaches. Flapper dresses and tuxedos, striped blazers and cricket whites. More than a century of Dalforths living their privileged lives. But that’s not what he’s pointing at as his arm brushes my waist, setting off a million burning, yearning fires across my skin.
“This?” I whisper, tracing my finger over a dark, wooden patina.
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s just a wooden frog from Indonesia.” From Bali. “I bought it for Sandy when I was a teenager.” A smile touches my lips. I’m surprised he kept it.
“Isla.” My name is a whisper that maps my body, teasing every nerve ending in its path. This is what he’ll sound like when he comes, I think to myself. His mouth pressed against my hair as he buries himself inside me one last time, breaking apart at my name. Islaaaa. “What are you doing with him?” He’s so close, I can almost convince myself that I can feel the heat of him. “He’s not the man for you. You deserve someone a thousand times better.”
“Someone like you, you mean?”
“I’m not nearly good enough for you, Peanut. But then, neither is floppy over there.”
“Floppy?” The word is warbly with laughter though I tamp down a flare of disloyalty. I’m not particularly attached to Alistair, but I did invite him here. “Van, don’t be unkind.”
“What happened to Niko?”
“I’m beginning to wonder about that myself.” Is this a change of heart or a way to torture me?
“Floppy hair, florid features, a flaccid—”
“Stop!” I giggle despite myself.
“Am I right?”
“His hair is a little … floppy.” I frown down at the frog. I’d thought Alistair was cute, but next to Niko, he now seems all wrong. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I think he looks like a young Hugh Grant.”
“Like I said, floppy.”
“Maybe I like floppy things.” I turn, expecting him to step back, but he doesn’t, those glacier-cool eyes intent on mine.
“That isn’t my recollection.”
A thrill courses through my veins at his velvety tone, my insides pulsing emptily in my own remembrance. He was so hard, and I ached for him.
No. I halt the thought, racking my brain for some comeback, for some distraction. Or just letting my mouth run away with me.
“I’m a big fan of floppy things. There’s nothing so endearing as Labrador ears.” Why did I have to think about her right now?
He crooks his finger beneath my chin, tilting my face up, bringing my gaze level with his. “That doesn’t look like a good memory.”
“It’s fine.” I lift my head away, his cool-blue gaze too much to handle in such close confines. “I was just thinking about the chocolate lab I owned when I was a girl,” I say, fixing on a smile. “Did you have pets?” I add, redirecting the conversation. Some memories are just too much.
“No.”
“Not even a goldfish?”
“I suppose you had one of those lop-eared rabbits, as well.”