“You’re not a gentleman.” His eyes flicker with the tiniest flame of amusement. “No?” “You own two yachts.” “The Queen of England has eighty-three.” I blink. “You’re a Visconti.” “So is Nico, and you seem to like him just fine.” “You carry a gun!” He runs two fingers over his bottom lip, trying, and failing, to hide a smirk. “The gun is fake, Penelope.” “My ass.” “What about it?”
The banter is bantering
