Love to Hate You Read Online Free Page A

smile. “They usually are. Or have your tastes changed recently?” I ask with an expression of perfect innocence.
    Ian leans close to my face and, struggling visibly to control himself, says, “God how I wish I could shut that big mouth of yours once and for all. It would be the greatest satisfaction of my life.”
    In his eyes I can see an anger that's close to uncontrollable. I've really made him lose his temper. Good.
    With a determined yank I manage to remove my arm from his grasp and put a safe distance between us. I've already broken his nose once, I wouldn't want to have to do it again.
    â€œPoint one, Beverly wants us to work together, and the two of us, being the perfect professionals and adults we are, are going to do it,” I explain. “Second, there isn't going to be any team, there will just be the two of us on this job – we're already irrational enough without involving other people in this feud of ours.”
    His expression is a mixture of irritation and understanding. I see he's starting to guess where I'm going with this. “Point three, when we have to pull each other's hair, figuratively of course, we will do it
outside
this office. As far as everyone else is concerned, the two of us will get on like a house on fire for the duration of the assignment. Our inevitable rows will take
not
take place here,” I conclude.
    â€œYou don't want witnesses, you mean,” replies Ian, without a trace of surprise.
    â€œOf course not, and neither do you. Last time, the constant arguing nearly cost us both our careers, and I don't want anything like that this time.”
    â€œEspecially because it cost me my nose—” he points out with irritation.
    â€œAnd I wouldn't want to have to ruin your plastic surgeon's sterling work,” I answer sarcastically.
    I know that Ian didn't have any work done on his nose after its appointment with my fist, but insinuating that he did always gives me some satisfaction, because it's an issue he's particularly sensitive about. His obsession with his appearance is well known to all, as is his terror of hospitals and operations.
    â€œThe sterling work I would have
liked
him to do, you mean,” he points out angrily.
    â€œGod, honestly – you're more obsessed with the shape of your nose than a woman! I've got an ugly nose but I manage to have a perfectly normal life,” I say, feeling wise.
    â€œYou don't have an ugly nose,” he says with conviction, “you have a normal nose which is perfectly suited to your face.”
    His words leave me in shock for a moment: Ian saying nice things about my nose? Where on earth is this conversation going?
    â€œOf course, if we were talking about your hair, I'd have something to say,” he adds hastily.
    Ah, there we go – I'm more comfortable with criticism. For the record, I have very normal hair, a very normal brown colour and of an extremely average length. There's not really much to criticize.
    â€œSo is it a deal?” I ask, ignoring his comment as I stand up and proffer my hand instead. Professionalism above all.
    â€œDo I have a choice?” he asks, a resigned look on his face.
    â€œOf course not,” I reply affably.
    Ian sighs. “Alright, it's a deal,” he says. He looks doubtfully at my hand, and I'm almost starting to think he won't shake it when he suddenly makes his mind up and grabs it. A firm grip, which leaves no room for indecision.
    I look up and meet his gaze. And that's a mistake, because those infamous blue eyes of his trap me immediately, and it's a struggle to pull myself away. I can see why he has the whole of London at his feet. Seriously, I can be objective and recognize when a man is objectively, annoyingly good-looking. They tell me that he's often in the tabloids: a nobleman, future duke, first in line to an empire of immense riches and with a physical presence that doesn't go unnoticed. He's always being photographed