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Has it not occurred to you that I might have pursued you out of some genuine concern for your well-being?” She gave him a doubtful look. “I’m not saying I did. Only that it should have occurred to you.”
He admired her frock for one reason: because it would make such a satisfying heap on the floor.
“Because,” he said, “I like to know the names of the people I despise. I keep them in a little book and pore over it from time to time, whilst sipping brandy and indulging in throaty, ominous laughter.”
“You’re mine,” he said hoarsely, lifting his head and staring deep into her eyes, willing her to believe. “If you leave, I will follow. Do you hear me? I will follow and find you and cart you home.”
“Don’t love me.” The words came unbidden from his throat. Not a thought, but a plea. “Too late,” she whispered in his ear.