The Prize. Brenda Joyce

and they were as hard to come by as an Indian ruby, if not even more so.

      She shrank away from him, against the wall. “I have something to say to you,” she said fiercely.

      He had been about to go. He didn’t like her tone and he turned, awaiting her blow.

      “I despise you,” she said thickly.

      Oddly, he flinched, not outwardly, but somewhere deep inside his body. Outwardly, he felt his lips twist into a mirthless smile. “That is the best that you can do?”

      She looked as if she might strike him.

      “Do not,” he warned softly.

      She clenched her fists. “I am sorry I missed,” she said suddenly. “I’m a fine shot, and if only I had waited, you would now be dead.”

      “But I’m not dead, alas,” he mocked. Her words had an edge he refused to feel, cutting deep. “Patience, Miss Hughes, is a virtue. And you, my harridan, lack it entirely.” He strode away.

      “Why are you doing this? O’Neill!” she cried after him. “Harvey says you are rich!”

      He pretended not to hear.

      “Bastard,” she said.