Nya was lonely, but she had suffered enough humiliation for one lifetime.

She gestured toward the door. “Get. Out.”

“I’m quite comfortable,” he said, settling in. “And let’s not forget that I was here first, Mademoiselle I Want to Be in Bed.”

This teasing was so much worse than all those times he had ignored her in New York City because she’d imagined situations just like this, despite her distaste for him. Situations where he couldn’t pretend she didn’t exist and was hit with the realization that she did and she mattered—and perhaps even that he wanted no one but her.

Your dreams are too big, girl.

Now he was finally looking right at her and all he saw was a woman to be treated like a joke. That was all anyone would ever see.

Her father had been right.

“I said get out!” Nya had never yelled before. It was strange, how the angry words scraped her throat. How did people do this all the time? No matter. She would shout him to the threshold of Ingoka’s abyss if necessary. “You rude, inconsiderate, selfish, arrogant—”

Her words caught on an ugly choking sound and tears spilled down her cheeks, a sudden graceless torrent. She raised her hands to her face.

Apparently, I haven’t been humiliated enough.

“Ah, scheisse.”

She could see the white of Johan’s dress shirt and the gray of his pressed slacks through the spaces between her fingers as he moved from the bed and stood before her, but she refused to look up into his face.

“Nya.” His voice was gentle now. So, so gentle, wrapping around her like his arms had, which somehow made everything worse.

She shook her head and sniffled against her palm. “I want to be alone.” Her voice broke like that of a reedy youth, and she squeezed her eyes shut even harder. She had spent so much of her life never breaking, pretending that everything was all right, and of course it would happen now, in front of him.

“Here,” he said, and then there was the feel of silky soft material against the back of her hand. “Take it, along with my apology. I’ve behaved . . . I won’t say it was quite out of character, but I know better and shouldn’t have spoken to you in that way. I took my bad mood out on you.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to that,” she said miserably as she snatched the handkerchief he offered. If her father had prepared her for anything it was that her happiness was always to be at the whim of some man.

She wiped at her face, inhaling the scent of lemon and lavender that had wrapped around her so comfortingly before.

“Used to it?” Johan’s voice was a little sharper now, the lazy, inviting drawl a little more firm. “That doesn’t make it right. I was an ass.”

She blew her nose, barely listening. She knew that men only apologized when you made them question their own idea of themselves. She would assuage him, so he could feel like a good man again and leave her alone. “It’s fine. I accept your apology.”

“Don’t pardon me so easily.” She glanced at him to see that he had one hand on his hip, the other behind his back as he leaned a bit closer to her. “Or pardon me if you want, I suppose, but don’t do it because you’re used to dealing with asses.”

“Sorry,” she said automatically. With her father, sorry had been a magic word to make unpleasant conversations stop.

“For what?” Johan pressed, and the brazen man had the nerve to sound annoyed with her.

Nya didn’t respond. She was annoyed herself—and confused. Johan had insulted her, then comforted her, and now was defending her from himself? Men were exhausting, truly.

She sniffled.

He made a sound of consternation. “I don’t have any more handkerchiefs, but my shirt is quite absorbent if you need a shoulder to cry on. It’s made of the finest cotton.”

“I have my own shoulders, thank you very much,” she said, aware her words didn’t quite make sense. “I’m not going to cry all over some disrespectful man.”

He rolled his eyes. “Come now. You’ve read the tabloids, I’m sure. I’ve been linked to worse bodily fluids than tears.”

“What?” She shouldn’t have asked—she wanted to be rid of him—but this was all so bizarre that she couldn’t suppress her shocked laughter. “Is that gross oversharing supposed to make me feel better?”

“Does it make you feel worse?” He grinned at her, then brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes.

She looked at him. “I suppose not.”

“Gutt.” His gaze flicked to the door and then back to her. “Do you still want me to leave?”

Nya was aware that he was no longer being flippant—that if she wanted him to stay, he would do that, too. Her head spun a bit at how quickly Johan could change the tone of the conversation, like a car shifting gears, but then she shook it. This wasn’t a game. He wasn’t her one true prince. In the end, he was just another tiresome man who wanted something from her.

“No,” she said. “You should go.”

“Comme tu willst,” he said softly. “The light switch is on the console on the bedside table, next to the USB port.”

With that he let himself out, taking the bundled-up top sheet with him. She wouldn’t conjecture why, given his whole bodily fluids thing. Instead, she flopped down onto the bed, still somewhat in shock.