There was nothing noble in those disturbing eyes. They were piercing, wicked, and shimmering with a mocking amusement toward the world. They were eyes that branded him a "badass" as easily as the long raven hair that carelessly tumbled well past his shoulders and the golden hoops he wore in his ears.
He was sex on legs. A predator. The sort that chewed up and spat out women like her with pathetic ease.
That was, when they bothered to notice women like her in the first place. Which was not very damn often.
"Dante. Do you have to skulk about like that?" she demanded, desperately aware of the priceless clutter just behind her.
He made a show of considering her question before offering a faint shrug.
"No, I don't suppose I have to skulk about," he murmured in his husky midnight voice. "I simply enjoy doing so."
"Well, it's a very vulgar habit."
His lips twitched with amusement as he prowled ever closer. "Oh, I possess far more vulgar habits, sweet Abby. Several that I don't doubt you would enjoyfully if onlyyou would allow me to demonstrate."
God, she just bet he did. Those slender, devilish hands would no doubt make a woman scream in pleasure. And those lips…
Abruptly she was squashing the renegade fantasy and stirring up the annoyance she most certainly should be feeling.
"Ack. You're revolting."
"Vulgar and revolting?" His smile widened to reveal startling white teeth. "My sweet, you are in a very precarious position .to be tossing about such insults."
Precarious? She battled the urge to glance down and discover if any shards of her crime were visible.
"I don't know what you mean."
With a flowing elegance, Dante was on his knees before her, those disturbing fingers lifting to lightly stroke her cheek. His touch was cool, almost cold, but it sent a startling flare of heat searing through her.
"Oh, I think you do. I seem to recall a rather precious Ming vase that used to sit upon that table. Tell me, lover, did you hock it or break it?"
Damn. He knew. She desperately attempted to think of some feasible lie to explain the missing vase. Or for that matter, any lie, feasible or not. Unfortunately, she had never been particularly skilled at prevarication.
And it didn't much help that his lingering touch was turning her brain to mush.
"Don't call me that," she at last lamely muttered.
"What?" His brows lifted.
"Lover."
"Why?"
"For the obvious fact that I'm not your lover."
"Not yet."
"Not ever."
"Tsk, tsk" Dante clicked his tongue as his fingers moved to boldly outline her lips. "Has no one ever warned you that it is dangerous to dare fate? It has a tendency to come back and bite you." His gaze drifted over her pale countenance and the soft curve of her neck. "Sometimes quite literally."
"Not in a million years."
"I can wait," he husked.
She gritted her teeth as those skillful fingers traveled down the arch of her throat and along the neckline of her plain cotton shirt. He was merely toying with her. Hell, the man would flirt with any woman who possessed a pulse. And maybe a few who didn't.
'That finger moves any lower and your stay in the world is going to be considerably shorter."
He gave a soft chuckle as he reluctantly allowed his hand to drop. "Do you know, Abby, someday you're going to forget to say no. And on that day, I intend to make you scream with pleasure."
"My God, how do you possibly carry that ego around?"
His smile was purely wicked. "Do you think I don't notice? All those covert glances when you think I'm not looking? The way you shiver when I brush past you? The dreams that haunt your nights?"
Conceited, puffed-up toad.
She should laugh. Or pooh-pooh. Or even slap his arrogant face. Instead she stiffened as if he had hit a nerve that she didn't even know she possessed.
"Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" she gritted. "The kitchen? The sewers? The fires of hell?"
Surprisingly the pirate features hardened as his lips twisted into a sardonic smile.
"Nice try, my sweet, but I don't need you to condemn me to the fires of hell. That was accomplished a long time ago. Why else would I be here?"
Abby gave a lift of her brows, intrigued in spite of herself by his hint of bitterness. For God's sake, what more could he want? He possessed the sort of cushy life that most oversexed playboys could