“And you?” I asked.
“Surrey.”
“I’m guessing that, unlike me, you didn’t grow up in an apartment though.”
“Not quite,” he said, lip hooked up at the side. “Do you have siblings?” he asked awkwardly, like he was clutching at anything to make things less strained. If we were being honest, there was no love lost between us, so I was surprised he was trying so hard to engage in conversation. If it made the time pass more quickly and with less pain, I could put my animosity aside and engage in meaningless small talk with the viscount.
“Nope. Just me.” I winked. “Couldn’t let anyone else share my spotlight, could I?”
“I fear not,” he said; then he glanced at the emergency phone as though he were wishing for it to ring and rescue him from this uneasy situation. “I believe God broke the mold when He made you, Miss Parisi.”
“A defective model?” I joked.
His blue eyes met mine, reminding me of a cerulean sea. “I wouldn’t say that.” That strange feeling was back underneath my sternum. What the hell was it?
I cleared my throat. “So, do you have siblings?”
“No,” he said. An air of sadness seemed to wrap around him for a moment, before it quickly faded away. “But I have a cousin I am particularly close to. He is my pseudo-brother, I guess. My best friend.”
“Is he in England?”
“Yes.”
“You miss him?”
“Very much.”
An ache burst in my chest when it occurred to me that Harry might be lonely. I had always viewed him as uptight and distant, cold and unapproachable, which I supposed didn’t make for easy friendships. And he certainly appeared to be all of those things. But I had met his father, who was a complete and utter prick.
It couldn’t have been easy growing up with King Sinclair. From the outside, it seemed like Harry had a very sparse social life outside of HCS Media. He always gave me the impression that he was wound so tightly he was about to snap. That he didn’t have a clue how to operate if he wasn’t looking at people with utter distain and ensuring he could be viewed as nothing but powerful and prideful. For all I knew, every assumption I had about him was correct.
“Do you have hobbies, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Harry,” he said. Then, “Just the usual, fox and badger hunting. Pheasant and grouse shooting. All when in season, of course.”
My mouth fell open in disgust. “Are you kidding me?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, deadpan. It took me a moment for his response to sink in.
I shook my head, laughing. “Damn! I was just about to rip into you about the barbarism of blood sports.”
“God forbid,” he said dryly. “But that’s what you expected, did you not? The stuck-up English aristocrat taking part in those typically nefarious sports of ours.”
“I mean,” I said, “if the three-thousand-dollar suit fits.”
When he smiled knowingly, dimples caved into his cheeks. As if he needed to be any more handsome. “Fear not, Miss Parisi, I find blood sports as atrocious as you. In fact, I have put a great deal of money into banning them altogether.”
He undid his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. I checked the elevator for fire. I was suddenly getting really hot. He sat back and slouched against the wall.
“But to answer your question, I like rugby, lacrosse. And I ride horses.” My head immediately went to the man dressed as a pony last night in NOX. I snorted a laugh at the thought of tearing the equine mask off his head, Scooby-Doo style, and finding Harry neighing underneath.
“You normally find things of the equestrian persuasion so amusing?”
I waved my hand in front of my face in an attempt to calm down. “Sorry. No. It just reminded me of something funny.”
“Clearly.” Harry checked his watch. His cheek twitched as though in irritation. “And you? What are your hobbies?” he said absently.
Well, Harry. As of last night, I am a member of NOX, you know the infamous sex club? I guess you could say my hobbies are heading in the delightful direction of orgasming, nipple-play, and giving really good head.
In reality, I said, “Are drinking vodka and judging cooking shows from my couch considered hobbies?”
“One could argue the point, I suppose.”
Conversation faded, yet I felt Harry’s gaze on me. He was probably wondering what demon was punishing him by trapping him in this elevator with me. I checked my watch again and hope drained from me. I had the sneaking suspicion that Maître Auguste would see lateness as a final strike against me and swiftly revoke my membership from his club.
Just as my hope had begun to run out, the elevator rattled, the main lights lit up the place like a Christmas tree, and it began to move down—thankfully not at a breakneck speed.