Sarcasm was thick and mean in his tone, and he licked his lips provocatively, a premediated gesture meant to make her feel slutty and small. A debonair dismissal. A line he’d told a thousand women a thousand times, meant to remind Libitz that she was a tiny blip on the landscape of his conquests. And a kiss that had momentarily rocked her landscape was actually just…nothing. She knew that’s what his words and gestures were trying to convey.
And yet…his eyes were intense, despite his efforts to relax them. With a man who had a modicum of respect for women, she might have wondered if it was a defensive move—if maybe a kiss that had been utterly intoxicating to her had unexpectedly been the same for him. But with a predator like J.C., who, according to people she trusted implicitly, cared about his own pleasure and nothing else? These were words and gestures purely meant to one-up her refusal of him and make her feel dirty. It was a good strategy on his part. It worked.
“I hope not,” she murmured, ignoring the flush of heat in her cheeks as she adjusted the bodice of her dress and took another step away from him. “I hope never.”
His eyes flashed with anger.
“Tu vas fermer ta putain de gueule,” he growled softly into the phone.
She’d learned enough French curse words at prep school to know that he’d just said, Shut your fucking mouth, and she gasped softly at the lewdness of his language, wholly uncertain if he was talking to his sister or to her.
Only one thing was certain: J.C. Rousseau was a minefield of a man—nothing about him was simple or genuine. He was complicated and ruthless, smart and devastatingly sexual. And yet Libitz was drawn to him, fascinated by him, her body still throbbing, her heart still fluttering. Even now, both of them having rejected each other and exchanged insults meant to sting, she felt more raw lust for him than she’d ever felt for anyone.
In all her life, Libitz had never run from anyone, yet she felt an overwhelming urge to flee from J.C. Rousseau—to get away from him and never look back. It took all her strength to stand her ground and wait for him to hang up his phone so they could settle their business and go their separate ways.
“I’ll be there in five,” he spoke into the phone, still staring at Libitz with cold, narrow eyes. “You owe me.”
Without looking away from Libitz, he tapped on the phone and put it in his pocket. He was angry. She knew he was angry, yet his eyes seemed to soften a little as he tilted his head to the side and looked at her like he couldn’t quite figure her out.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it. One kiss.”
“But it was good, n’est-ce pas?”
Her lips parted in surprise.
The unexpected gentleness in his voice caught her off guard, confused her, moved her even, but she’d already decided, long before this moment on a terrace in the moonlight, that J.C. Rousseau was off limits for her, and she had no interest in rethinking that conviction now.
She shrugged with ennui, hoping she looked much more dismissive than she felt inside. “I’ve had better.”
He clenched his jaw, his quick temper flaring, his last vestiges of patience or gentleness gone. “You’re a bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she replied, refusing to let him see that his words stung.
“I feel sorry for the man that falls for you,” he lashed out, clenching his fists by his sides.
And though she didn’t take the time to dwell on it, somewhere deep in Libitz’s mind, she marked the moment, because his reaction felt…off. It felt far more emotional than it should be.
“That’s your prerogative.”
He sniffed, his expression mean. “You’re skinny, flat, hard, and cold. You’re not my type anyway.”
Her stomach fell, and she had to swallow forcibly over the lump that rose up in her throat, but she raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. “And you’re disgusting, egomaniacal, and think you’re God’s gift to women, but volume doesn’t equal skill.”
“So we basically hate each other,” he muttered.
“Pretty much,” she whispered.
Feeling strangely and unaccountably miserable, she gulped, unable to look into his eyes anymore. She glanced over her shoulder at the happy couples dancing in the ballroom, blinking her eyes rapidly.
“That said, my best friend just married your…”
She turned back to finish what she was saying, but he was already gone, a lone figure striding across the dark lawn, farther and farther away with every second.
Libitz took a ragged breath, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.
Wait. Tears? Tears for him when she almost never cried?
Oh, no. No, no, no. That was not okay.
“Stop it,” she hissed, closing her eyes and inhaling again, a smoother and deeper breath this time.