Rush Me (New York Leopards 1)

“We have a fire-escape.”

Oh, please. “Do you treat everyone who doesn’t recognize you like this?”

His voice was flat. “Everyone recognizes me.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Do they genuflect, too?”

I’d thought that was a decent enough zing, but amusement sparked in his eyes. “Yeah, usually.” When I started, uncertainly, to smile in response to his reawakened humor, he added: “Weren’t you watching earlier?”

My smile collapsed.

His grew, though, pleased with himself. “I’ll get her out,” he said to Malcolm, and then gestured through the open door in a parody of a gentleman. “Ladies first.”

Would he would grab my arm and yank me through if I refused to move? I shivered, wrapping my arms around my body and wondering why the idea didn’t turn me off. It was damn unfair, the things beautiful people could get away with. It made them dangerous.

For

cing myself to jump up, I nodded at Malcolm. His friend might be an asshole, but I’d gatecrashed Malcolm’s party and hid in his room. “Nice apartment. I like the Munch. Not his most famous, but I can see why you wouldn’t want The Scream in your bedroom.”

There was a long stretched silence while the boys gaped at me, and when I realized what I had said I felt myself turn brighter than a stoplight. “The painting...” I fumbled. “I meant the print you have on your wall.”

Ryan, on the other hand, was filled with even more good humor. “Good. Because I think screams belong in the bedroom.”

I straightened my shoulders and tried not to run out of the bedroom. Not a prude, I chanted to myself. They’re immature, and you’re not a prude.

I hated being a prude.

At the edge of the cacophony, I halted, still not seeing an easy way to the outer door. Ryan stopped behind me. “Okay, I can see why you had trouble getting through.”

Vindication tasted sweet, and I smiled. Still, I was unwilling to simply plunge into the fray, so I stalled. “Where did all these people even come from?”

“The party. Most of them are friends. Or friends of friends.”

Shocked, I turned to look at him. “So this is an after-party? Good God, what was the actual party like?”

Utter disbelief crossed the perfect planes of his face. “It was for the season opener.”

“The what?”

I must have rendered Ryan speechless, because his mouth opened and closed several times before he gave up on me and faced the crowd. “Hey!” His voice cut through the music and high-decibel chatter, strong and demanding and accustomed to being obeyed. “Clear a path!”

I snorted. But then, slowly, people turned to look, and then, like dominoes, bodies pushed to the side. A narrow aisle cleared, lined by faces beaming at the chance to follow Ryan Carter’s orders. “Must be nice.” I couldn’t stop myself from snipping. “All these lackeys, jumping at your every word.”

He flashed a grin over his shoulder as he led me out of the apartment, finally making our way into the hall. I took a deep breath, my system shocked to no longer be inhaling warm, perfumed air. “Jealous?” he asked. It should have meant, jealous that I have lackeys and you don’t? Instead, it sounded like, jealous you aren’t one of them?

“Oh, please. I already told you. I’m not interested.”

He raised a skeptical brow and left a long pause, where the giggles and glances from other girls in the hallway stood out against our silence. “That’s right. I’m not your type. What is your type, again?”

“Definitely not self-centered, arrogant jocks.” I wanted to kill the satisfaction on his face but it didn’t work. Instead, he kept looking at me like my protestation was inconceivable enough to be laughable. But for God’s sake, just because he was beautiful didn’t mean he was attractive. “I like intellectual types. You know—people who went to college for academics, rather than coasting through on a football scholarship.”

His brows slammed together, and understanding spread through me. That was his weak spot. “You think you’re a hell of lot smarter than me, don’t you?”

“It’s not your fault—I’m sure getting knocked on the head all the time messes with your grey matter.”

He shook his head, incredulous. “You’re kind of a bitch.”

Having never been called a bitch in my entire life, I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. I swallowed the instant desire to apologize and experimented with a tiny, Gallic half-shrug. “At least I’m not a professional Neanderthal.” I raised my chin, and then I turned on my heel and left.