Page 8 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“It depends on who’s doing the telling,” I say sweetly. I’m not usually like this, but I can’t help myself. Not after all the insults he’s hurled my way.
He says nothing as we tear out of the parking lot. How has he managed to wheedle his way under my skin so quickly, eliciting these seismic reactions, riling me up as much as I have him? All of a sudden I want to sleep with Max just to piss him off.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Unit base. First loc.”
He’s speaking an alien language, but I don’t ask him to explain. I don’t want to be accused of insolenceandstupidity on my first morning.
Without warning he takes a sharp right, and my hand splays out against the passenger door to steady myself. The man drives like a maniac, but he’s all precision and control. I steal another glance at him. His perfect jaw is rigid and his disheveled hair is so black it’s almost silk-like in appearance. In contrast, the knuckles gripping the steering wheel are ghostly white.
“So, where’s this ‘first loc’, then?” I ask him carefully.
“West. Sahara.” He’s speaking through gritted teeth.
“Are we filming today? I thought the shoot doesn’t start for another—?”
“It doesn’t.”
There’s a pause. “What’s with the accent?” I ask.
“What’s with the questions?”
“We’re both adults. It’s kind of what we do. You and your brother sound more British than American. Max said something about your mother being—”
“Oxford,” interrupts Jake, giving me nothing more than that.
“University? What did you read?”
“Books.”
“Very droll,” I say, gazing out of the window again. “Of the closed variety, perchance?”
There’s another pause. “What about you?”
“Huh?”I whip my head round in surprise.
“What didyoustudy, besides how to irritate the crap out of people?”
“English literature,” I say, caught off guard.
His lips curl into a scornful smile. “But of course you did.”
“Little Women,” I declare with a huff.
He frowns, his dark brows creasing into that now-familiar warning sign. “Why the fuck are you slinging book titles at me?”
I consider him for a moment. “You swear a lot, don’t you? I read somewhere that swearing is a sign of more intelligence, not less. I guess there are always exceptions to the rule.”
“Book title,” he says coldly. “Why?”
“I was pre-empting your next question. You heard what my major was and you assumedPride and Prejudicegroupie. I hate to refute the old cliché, Mr. Dalton, but not all female English literature students are lured to their lectures by Mr. Darcy.”
“Is that so?” He sounds amused suddenly. “And here I was thinking all women were attracted to arrogance and indifference.”
To men like you, you mean…
“Not this one,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “I like books. I have a very dedicated seven-books-a-week habit. And you never told me whatyoustudied.”
