Emma may be smart and unbreakable but god she is soeasyto rile up. “They’re classics?—”
“They’re boring,” she interrupts, standing up and crossing her arms in a mirror of my own earlier posture. “And you know whatreallypissed me off? The Hemingway. You actually gave meHemingway. Who looks at a kidnapped woman and thinks, ‘You know what she needs?For Whom The Bell Tolls’?”
I feel a smile tugging at my lips again despite my irritation about the Corsicans. “How was I supposed to know you hate Hemingway?”
“Maybe by doing literally any research on my actual reading preferences instead of assuming I want dense Italian philosophy texts?” Emma’s on a roll now, her eyes flashing with indignation. “I read romance novels, Leo. Trashy ones with shirtless men on the covers and improbable sex scenes. I read true crime where women murder their shitty husbands and get away with it. I read contemporary fiction that doesn’t require a doctorate to understand. But sure, give the kidnap victim some Nietzsche.That’llbrighten her day.”
“Romance novels,” I repeat, trying not to laugh at the image of Connor Brennan’s daughter reading trashy romance. “With shirtless men.”
“Yes, with shirtless men.” Emma lifts her chin defiantly. “Men who don’t kidnap women, for the record. Men who actually ask for consent before—” She stops herself, her cheeks flushing slightly.
“Before what?” I ask curiously and also enjoying her discomfort.
“Before anything,” she finishes firmly, her face definitely pink now. “The point is they’re better men than you.”
“They’re also fictional,” I point out. “I’m real. That’s got to count for something.”
“Being real just means you’re a real kidnapper instead of a fictional gentleman,” Emma shoots back. “Not sure that’s the winning argument you think it is.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I realize I’m actually enjoying this.
Enjoying her.
The way she doesn’t back down, the way her mind works.
It’s…
Dangerous.
That’s what it is.
Dangerous and stupid and I need to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.
“I’ll see if we can get you some romance novels,” I hear myself say, like an idiot. “Can’t have you suffering through quality literature.”
“How generous of you,” Emma says drily as she sits back down, her hand reaching for her sketchbook. “Providing reading material for your prisoner. You’re a real humanitarian.”
“I do what I can.” I turn to leave then pause, watching her pull the pad toward herself. “What are you drawing?”
She tenses slightly, her hand moving almost protectively over the sketchpad. “Nothing.”
Ooh. She’s hiding something. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s none of your business.” Her tone is defensive in a way that makes me curious.
“Everything in this room is my business,” I remind her, taking a step closer to the desk. She stands up and uses her body to hide her sketchpad. “Including whatever you’re drawing.”
“It’s just the view from the window,” Emma says quickly.Tooquickly. “The gardens. Very boring. Very not worth looking at.”
She’s lying.
I can tell by the way she’s not quite meeting my eyes and the way her fingers are curled around the edge of the sketchpad like she’s ready to snap it shut if I get too close.
Which of course makes me want to see it even more.
“Show me.” It’s not quite an order, but it’s not quite a request either.
“No,” Emma replies flatly, her jaw set in that stubborn way I’m starting to recognize.