I may not have reacted well to the Wentworth situation. I called Armstrong the next day and ripped him a new asshole. Except he seemed to think my reaction was hilarious and uncalled for. Then he went on to tell me I had nothing to worry about because Ruby was a frigid bitch as far as he could tell, and he doubted she opened her legs or her mouth for anyone. I ripped him an additional asshole for that comment.

I also know that’s untrue. She opened her mouth for me. And I’m hoping her legs will, eventually, follow.

A full fifty-seven hours later she finally picks up when I called her via video chat. I had apology flowers delivered this morning hoping it would defrost her a little. “Hey,” I say by way of greeting.

She glares at me through the two-dimensional screen. If I was in my condo with her, there are so many ways I could wipe that glare off her face. But I’m an ocean away, so all I have are words.

“I’m sorry.”

The side of her mouth twitches, just a little. It’s barely a tic. She’s eating pasta. She dips her fork into the bowl and lifts it, twirling the noodles slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on her food. Ruby opens her mouth. Her luscious-looking mouth. The one I’ve had my tongue in. The one I’d like to have wrapped around my . . . the fork slides between her lips.

A noise startles her. And then I realize it’s me. Groaning.

The fork slides out from between her lips. She’s eating pasta primavera. The sauce is oil and garlic based. Her breath would be horrible right now, but her lips are glistening and I have no control over my head or where it goes—or how hard the one in my pants gets.

She has the upper hand. She knows it. She raises a brow and chews slowly. It takes forever before she speaks. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes.” It comes out low and raspy. Goddamn it. I need to get a handle on myself. Not a real handle, well, at least not while I’m talking to her . . . afterward maybe. Why is she so sexy? Why do I like that she refuses to let me get away with the shit I pulled the other night? Why am I looking so forward to her wrath?

“What exactly are you sorry for? Being an asshole?”

“The flowers came?” I sort of expected them to smooth things over for me a little better than they have.

“They did. They’re beautiful. But I’d still like to know what exactly you’re sorry enough for that you’d send flowers.”

That’s a great question. It’s also legitimate. The card didn’t exactly allow for an extended inscription, so I went with Sorry for being an asshole. I need to word my explanation in a way that isn’t going to get me into more trouble. “For questioning your character.” When all I get is more staring, I continue. “I’m well aware that you’re an intelligent woman who is more than capable of making sound decisions. My concern wasn’t your ability to make decisions, but Wentworth’s propensity for taking advantage when he sees opportunity.”

Her silence is long. Her chewing is slow. She sets her fork down and dabs daintily at her mouth with a napkin. “Well, I suppose your concern is warranted. Wentworth is a massive douche and I did kiss a random stranger under the influence of a single martini. But in my defense, it was rather unexpected and he was incredibly attractive.”

Now I’m silent. “Was?”

“Mmm.”

“But isn’t incredibly attractive anymore?”

“Recent behavior has taken him down a few points.”

“A few?”

“I’m sure with some good behavior he’ll be able to recover most of them.”

“How many points did I lose?”

“You think I’m talking about you?” The lightness in her tone drops as she continues, and her focus moves away from me to her pasta. “How do you know I haven’t kissed any other random strangers under the influence of a single martini while you’ve been off enjoying the extracurriculars in Amsterdam?”

“Extracurriculars?”

She lifts her fork, twisting the noodles, but they slip off, along with what appears to be false bravado. “Come on, Bane, you’re in the country where narcotics are legal and so is prostitution. I’m sure it’s not all work and no play.”

“You think I’d pay for sex just because it’s legal?”

She lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug, but her body language is stiff. In the time I’ve been away I’ve become fairly good at reading her. She’s expressive—hand gestures, the look on her face, her posture all tell me things her thorny words do not. The idea of this bothers her. And that makes me happy, because I feel like we are on a level playing field now.

“Honestly, Ruby?” It comes out with real bite.

Her gaze shifts my way. I see the thing I want: worry.

“I’m offended,” I say. “You should know me better than that by now, don’t you think?”

She scoffs.

“What’s that sound supposed to mean?”

This time when her gaze drops, so does her voice. “Armstrong implied you were enjoying the perks.”

Fucking Armstrong. The next time I play golf with him I’m going to Charlie horse him with a nine iron. “Armstrong can be an asshole.”

She fiddles with her napkin, twisting it until it tears. “So you’re not enjoying the perks? You haven’t even gone to a café and smoked a hookah?”

“Is that an approved activity or will it cost me more points?”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You might even earn some back if you send me a picture.”

I wish I could reach through the screen and touch her. “You could use it for blackmail purposes.”

She bats her lashes. “You think I would stoop to such low tactics?”

“I don’t know. You did lead me to believe you intended to sleep with Wentworth. My faith is shaken a little.”

“You were trying to tell me what to do!”

“You were drunk and at risk of poor decision making!” I counter.

She leans in closer, eyes narrowed, her fire having returned. “I was not drunk.”

I arch a brow.

She tips her head to the side and concedes, “Okay. I was a little drunk.”

“And there was cleavage. Excessive cleavage.”

“It wasn’t excessive. It was a perfectly tasteful amount of cleavage. You used the word forbid. At this point, you should know that words like can’t and forbid make me want to do exactly the opposite. You know what happened the last time someone forbid me to do something?”