âZAIR, CAN I trust you?â Nora Grant asked.
But his gaze was bleak. His mouth a hard, bitter crook.
âAbsolutely not,â Zair al Ruyi told her, his voice low. âI would sooner trust a fat-tailed scorpion than the likes of me. It would be far less likely to strike you dead where you stand.â
And Nora didnât know if she was crazy to trust him anyway. How could she tell what was crazy after a night like this? When everything inside her felt torn into pieces and turned on its head? But the fact remained: sheâd offered herself up to him on a platter, on her hands and knees in front of him, and he hadnât taken the bait. He hadnât taken her.
If he were the man he claimed he was, he would have.
âIâm looking for someone,â she said, before she could think better of it. âA friend.â
He went still, though the green of his eyes seemed sharper somehow. âI think you need a better class of friends.â
âYouâve met her.â She smiled, even if it felt strange on her lips. âYou said once that she was like a lightbulb.â
He let out a long breath with a muttered curse at the end, and raked a hand through that thick hair of his again. âThe tiny little brown-haired one. I remember.â
âSometimes we also call her Harlow.â
Zair sent her a dark look, but he didnât respond. Nor did he allow the mood in the room to lighten. He moved over toward the bank of windows and frowned out them, as if his gaze could penetrate the night. Was Harlow down there, Nora wondered? Did he know where?
Would he help Nora find her?
âWhat would make you look for her here?â he asked after a long moment, and his voice was weary despite how straight he stood, how tall. âIn a place like that auction? And do not kid yourself, please. An auction was exactly what that was. Flesh for sale to the highest bidder.â
She laughed, though she wasnât sure why. âGoogle?â
âIs this amusing to you, Nora?â That politely relaxed tone reminded her how dangerous he was. She wasnât sure why she kept allowing herself to forget it, especially when he turned and fixed that cool green gaze on her. âA time for jokes? If Iâm understanding you, you have some reason to think your friend has found herself neck-deep in the worst kind of trouble. It might dress up nicely for Cannes and parade around in front of the paparazzi for a couple of weeks in May, but make no mistake, itâs a grimy spiral of a brutal, painful, deeply bleak existence. It is no place for a soft little thing like that friend of yours. Much less you.â
âI was fine.â
âYou had a target painted on your head, and what I canât decide is whether you did it deliberatelyâif that was your plan all alongâor if youâre truly so stupid that you were oblivious to the danger you were in. Laurette Fortin makes a run-of-the-mill monster like me look like a guardian fucking angel.â
âI was handling myself fine,â Nora told him, from between her teeth. âThis isnât about me. Itâs about my missing best friend.â She lifted her head, tilting up her jaw. âThereâs nothing I wouldnât do for her.â
âHow poetic.â His voice could have stripped paint. âThat sentiment goes nicely in a greeting card, Iâm sure, but is less comprehensible when it involves prostitution. Or am I misunderstanding the common American concept of friendship?â
âShe would do the same for me,â Nora said staunchly.