Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, a dirty British nobleman and absolutely nothing else, stares at his cell phone and then glances up at you. “I think it's bugged.”
No matter how you reassure him, anger leaps into his blue-gray eyes. When he's upset like this, they turn almost silvery with pale fire. He says, “I can't allow this, you know. Hand over your phone.”
You protest. Your phone isn't the one that's bugged.
“You're on my wifi,” he says, and you know it's true because you've been staying in his London penthouse for a week. Of course, you're hooked up to his wifi. And his internet. And everything else in his massive London flat. Arthur's Jack Russel terrier, Ruckus, is leaning against your leg and panting.
So, you hand Arthur your phone, though you swipe something out before he can see it.
“What was that?” he asked.
You demur that you didn't do anything. A trifle. Nothing to speak of.
Arthur gives you a crooked grin and thumbs a few swipes on your phone's screen.
It unlocks, even though you didn't give him the password.
One of his dark eyebrows twitches. “You should be careful about logging onto strange wifis. I assure you, mine is very strange.”
He sees the pictures you've been taking.
They're mostly over-your-shoulder selfies of Arthur as he walks through his apartment. In one of them, he'd just returned from a run and stripped off his shirt. That glorious full-back tattoo of his stains his skin like red and blue watercolor stripes and triangles. His heavy muscles ripple under his painted skin, and his glance back at you is smoldering hot.
You want to lick that tattoo.
He does something else to your phone and hands it back to you. “You didn't bring a trojan in with you.”
Oh, yes, you did. A whole box of them. But you don't tell Arthur that.
He says, “But they've been listening to me somehow and recording my conversations. Listen.”
You listen. And then you listen some more.
Because you could listen to Arthur all day and all night.