He didn’t say a word when she came forward and picked up the coffee, and the silence was making her want to scream. “This is for me?”
“Yes.”
More silence. “I found the clothes you got me,” she said, then could have kicked herself for such an inane statement.
He tilted his head to one side. Mocking Reno was back, and he’d even found another pair of sunglasses that were now perched on top of his flaming hair. “Obviously,” he said. “I take it you’ve gotten over your traumatic experience.”
“Which one?” The words came out unbidden, and his smile was cool and unpleasant.
“Take your pick, Jilly. I don’t know which was worse for you—blowing a man’s head off or blowing—”
“Don’t!”
“Though actually you didn’t blow me, did you? You just lay back and enjoyed yourself. Except you’re not thinking it was that enjoyable after all, am I right?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
He put his feet on the floor, and she backed up nervously. He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch you again. I make it a practice to keep away from virgins.”
“I wasn’t…I mean, not really.”
“There’s no such thing as a semivirgin.”
“Actually, there is, but I’m not about to explain it to you. You’re acting as if I did something terrible to you.”
“Instead of the other way around? You’re forgetting one thing. I didn’t offer. You asked.”
“What?”
“‘Make it stop,’” he said, echoing her words. “So I did what you asked. I made it stop. A very big mistake.”
She just stared at him. The coffee was warm in her hand, the smell teasing her. But she couldn’t move.
“What do you mean?”
He gave her his lazy smile. “I mean, that when I’m looking for sex, I prefer a woman who knows what she’s doing.”
She could feel her face whiten. He leaned back again, nonchalant. “You know why I hate American women?”
“No.” She could still talk. Amazing.
“Because my mother was American. She thought it would be fun to play yakuza royalty for a while, but then she tired of it, and she left me with my grandfather and never came back. Poor, poor little Hiromasa with his abandonment issues and his mommy fixation.” He took another sip of his coffee and smiled at her, that cruel, ugly smirk that she’d hoped was gone. “So every now and then I like to fuck American women so I can fuck my mother. And then tell them to fuck off.”
She threw the coffee at him. The top came off and the hot liquid went flying, soaking his new white shirt.
“I told you not to do that,” he said in an even voice. “I don’t like being hit or having things thrown at me. I tend to react badly.”
“As opposed to what?” She’d managed to find her voice and her fury.
He rose and headed for the bathroom at a lazy stroll, pulling off his jacket and the coffee-stained white shirt as he went. Exposing his chest and his back. And the scratch marks. “I’ll give you this one,” he said as he headed into the bathroom. “But next time I’ll hit you back.”
He closed the door, and she heard the wate
r running.
Her shoes were by the door. It took her less than a moment to slip them on. And then she was out the door, closing it quietly behind her, and she never looked back.
14