Once upon a time, I’d been his angel.  The reminder was yet another reason I’d have loved to wring his neck.

“More champagne?” I asked him, holding up the bottle, wondering if the other passengers would notice if I quietly poured it over his head.

He looked away, and I saw his lip curl up in disdain.

That made me grind my teeth.

It was shitty champagne, cheaper than he was used to, and he couldn’t hide his distaste.

God, he was a snob.  It was one of the things I hated most about him.  At the top of a very long list.

“Oh.  The brand too low class for you?  You poor baby.  You should put it up on your blog:  spoiledrottentrustfundbrats.com.

Here was the part where he was supposed to make a biting crack about me being from a trailer park, or pointed out how far I’d fallen that I was slinging drinks on an airplane, or asked archly about how my failed acting career was going.

That’s how this little play worked.

Only he didn’t.

He just raised suddenly tired, sad eyes back to me and said, “We need to talk, Scarlett.”

That set me off.  Here he was, wasting my time, and he wasn’t even giving me the reaction I wanted.

Scratch that.

Needed.

“Oh yeah sure,” I said flippantly, fake-distracted eyes traveling away from him to skim leisurely around the rest of the cabin, letting him know that he was barely worth my attention.  “Go ahead.  Talk.”  I snapped my fingers.  “Be quick about it.  There’s still time for you to get your privileged ass off my plane before we close the doors.”  My voice was dismissive and bored.

“Not here,” he ground out.  I could tell by his tense tone that I’d gotten to him.

Score—another hit for me and my fake nonchalance.

I knew how to push every single button he had.

I’d keep pushing them until my fingers fell off or he left.

I saw one of my other crewmates, Demi, giving me a strange look from the coach cabin.

Dammit, I’d forgotten for a second that I was working.  I had at least a hundred things to do in the next five minutes.  I didn’t have time to indulge in this hatefest just then.

“Excuse me,” I told Dante coldly, not even looking at him again, and strode away.

CHAPTER

TWO

“Why slap them on the wrist with feather when you can belt them over the head with a sledgehammer.”

~Katharine Hepburn

I approached him again as I was taking dinner orders.  I’d skipped him on my first sweep, only getting to his seat when everyone else was taken care of.

With every other passenger, I’d politely inquired what they’d like from the menu.

Dante, as always, got special treatment from me.

“We’re out of everything but chicken,” I told him flatly.  “Take it or leave it, princess.”

Dammit, I’d overdone it.  That actually made him smile.

“I’ll take it,” he said, sounding amused.

I hated it when he sounded amused.  It made me want to smile, and also perversely, to smash a blunt, heavy object over his head.

“It’s good to see you, Scarlett.”  The fucker actually managed to sound like he meant it.  “You look as amazing as you always do.  How’ve you been?”

Shut up, I wanted to say.  Just stop talking.  

Just leave me alone. 

Forever.

But I’d never say any of that.  It would be too much like letting him win.

And if he won, I lost.

I’d lost enough.

“Peachy,” I said through my teeth.

“I saw that commercial you did.  The one for the body lotion.  You were really good.”

He was making fun of me, of course.

“Fuck you,” I drawled.

His brows lowered, bright eyes squinting at me.  “I wasn’t being sarcastic.  You were good.  Beautiful.  Charming.  Charismatic.  I’d bet a lot of money that the exposure from that is going to get you some offers.”

“Offers for what?  Go on.  Let’s hear it.  Stripping?  Prostitution?”

He sighed.  “For an acting job.  God, you don’t make anything easy.  I was trying to say something nice to you.”  He sounded sincere.

“Why?” My tone was outright hostile.

His mouth twisted, his eyes imploring me as he answered with a soft, “Because, insane as it is, I miss you.”

He sounded like he genuinely meant it.

It made me feel violent, so unhinged that I couldn’t keep it in, couldn’t hold back a quiet and vehement, “Go fuck yourself.”

I turned on my heel and stormed off.

Add another point for The Bastard.

Make no mistake.  He can be a charmer but Dante is every bit as difficult as I am.  This is not some scenario where I’ve tormented a sweet man in love.

I have tormented some sweet men.  Broken hearts and shattered dreams.

Men are punching bags, and I have a hell of a right hook.

But (unfortunately) none of those broken hearts belonged to Dante.  His heart is black and cold and made of sterner stuff than most.

I’d tried once.  Given it my all when righteous rage had driven me to do some awful things in the name of revenge, things done for the sole but futile purpose of stomping his lying black heart under my heel, but in the end I’d done more harm to myself than to him.

That wasn’t to say I wasn’t capable of hurting him.  I could and had many times.

But it was never enough.

Breaking him until he was as broken as me was the only thing that would ever be enough.

I tried to ignore him as much as I could for the duration of the flight, but it was impossible to snub him completely.

Still, he was served everything last and with insolence.

I sneered as I handed him his food.  It was burnt.  I’d left it in the oven for an extra ten minutes.  On purpose.

“Thanks,” he told me cheerfully.  I could feel his eyes searching my face, but I refused to look at his.  “Would a gin and tonic be too much trouble?”

“Yes,” I said curtly and stormed off.

But back in the galley, as I was refreshing another passenger’s champagne, I remembered how much I liked to get him stinking drunk.

I made him a triple in the biggest glass I could find, and put a laughable splash of tonic on top.

I didn’t add ice, stir it, or give him a straw.

We had limes, but I didn’t add one.

I wanted it to be a bitter drink.  Let him taste how he made me feel.

Just the thought of getting him good and drunk had me in high spirits, recovered from the debilitating round earlier and determined again to play this game.

I handed him his glass of bitter with a bright smile.

He eyed it warily.  “What’s this?”

“Your gin and tonic.  Drink up.”

He tipped it at me in a toast and took a drink.  His eyes stayed on me while he did it, so I got to watch them scrunch up as he got a proper taste.

“Not to your liking?” I asked him archly.  “Too strong for you?  Need something weaker?”

He shook his head.  “No, it’s fine.  I’ll drink it.  Almost forgot how much you loved to get me drunk for no good reason.”

“If you’re determined to have that talk about God knows what that you mentioned, then yes, I’d rather deal with you drunk.  You’re more pleasant.”

“Fair enough.”

“And clever.”

“Really?”

No.  It was an insult, you ass.

I hated it when he didn’t play along.

“Absolutely.  You’re actually funny when you’re drunk.  Hell, inebriated you is almost human.”

He winced.  That one had gotten to him.

Hit scored.  Point for me.

I made another sweep through first class, and a quicker one through coach.

Dinner flights were nonstop busy, and I’d never been more happy about it than I was on that one.

I passed him again on my way up to the front galley.  He was nursing his glass of gin and nothing.