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sucked in a breath and added in a less angry voice, “It was really decent of you to help me out. I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience.”
    “Inconvenience,” he murmured, smiling.
    “Would you please mind taking me home now?”
    “Not a problem. I live to help spoiled little Greenwich princesses.”
    The way he looked at me said it all. He didn’t think very much of me. The idea stung more than it should have. I was used to guys liking me. At least superficially. And face it, that’s as much as I let them see. I never let them get to the real me, the Em beneath the party girl veneer. Assuming they ever tried. Most were content with simply fooling around. No strings attached.
    “This morning, can you tell me where you live—princess? Then I can get on with my day because, believe it or not, I have things to do.”
    I bristled. So he thought I led a charmed life . . . that I was a spoiled princess who teased guys by licking them (yeah, I remembered that) and then passed out like a pathetic drunk. My face burned. I guess he wasn’t that wrong . Except my life was far from charmed.
    Not that I was telling him that. Who cared what he thought of me? He could think what he wanted.
    “Let’s go. I don’t want to keep you from the things you have to do . . . like plan the next crime wave with your biker gang.”
    He grinned again, and I realized he was enjoying this. Me baiting him. Him baiting me. Now that my panic upon waking in a strange place without any clothes on had subsided, I realized I maybe enjoyed it, too.
    “Sure. And you don’t want to miss your nail appointment.”
    I cocked my head. “That’s tomorrow.”
    The sound of his chuckle followed me as I turned and walked off the porch. His truck was unlocked—why wouldn’t it be all the way out here in the middle of nowhere? I yanked open the passenger door and hopped inside.
    He climbed in and started the engine. We sat there for a few moments as it warmed up. I stared out at the frozen lake, marveling at the peacefulness of it. I wouldn’t have pictured a place like this as his home. It was . . . nice. Which was weird. He was a biker. Some crapped-out meth house might have been a more accurate image. A stereotype, I knew, but it wasn’t as though he wasn’t stereotyping me.
    I slid him a glance. “You live out here long?”
    “It was my grandfather’s. He died a year ago and left it to me.”
    I quickly faced forward again, my hands squeezing around my knees. It was the first bit of anything real we had exchanged beside taunts, and frankly, it made me uncomfortable. But then he made me uncomfortable. Undeniably. From the first moment I sawhim.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, because I had to say something. They had been close. The man had left him his house. Obviously they had been close. “About your grandfather.”
    He put the truck in reverse and backed out of the property. “He went fishing with a friend, came in, made a sandwich, laid down for a nap, and never woke up. He was eighty-nine. We should all be so lucky.”
    I blinked against the illogical burn that suddenly pressed against my eyes. Gazing at the strong line of his profile, I wondered at my sudden surge of emotion. I suppose it came from hearing the love in his voice for this man who had clearly meant so much to him. And his grandfather had obviously cared for him. I wished I had that. I wished I had someone. Honestly, there was no family member who overly cared whether I lived or died. No one in my family would lose sleep if anything bad happened to me.
    “Still . . . I’m sure it’s hard. I’m sure you miss him.”
    He glanced at me, but there wasn’t any of the derision I was coming to expect. No cocky half grin. He looked at me curiously, almost as if he was surprised I could say anything kind. “Yeah. It is . . . thanks.”
    Nodding, I faced forward again.
    He drove us into town with no further conversation. I tucked my hands beneath my thighs and only