Chapter Sixteen
SIXTEEN
MAVEN
It doesn’t take long to find Ronan’s house. In a town where historical buildings are a dime a dozen and the architecture of most everyone’s home is some charming variation of Victorian or Colonial, Ronan’s place could be on the cover of Architectural Digest’s Evil Overlord from Outer Space edition.
There are so many reflective surfaces, it might as well be a solar farm. I wonder if pilots have to be diverted from the airspace overhead to avoid being blinded.
I press the security button at the imposing front gate, then stand there chewing the inside of my cheek and regretting this decision until a buzzer sounds, and the gate swings open.
I take a deep breath and head up the stone walkway. Before I’m even halfway there, Ronan opens the front door.
He’s in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that’s stretched tight across his broad chest. His feet are bare. His dark hair is mussed. His pale eyes are piercing.
It’s irritating that he’s so good-looking. Villains are supposed to be hideous.
He calls out, “Good morning, fair Maven. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“There’s no need to talk like you’re in a Shakespeare play.”
“If that were the case, I would’ve said ‘good morrow.’ Isn’t it a little early to be scowling so hard?”
“My retinas are trying to recover from the glare generated by this giant disco ball you live in.”
I reach the front porch, stop, and gaze up at him. He’s standing one step above me and so is taller than usual. He seems to enjoy it, however, gauging by how much easier it is for him to stare condescendingly down his nose at me.
He says, “Is that a smile?”
“No, this is just what my face does when I smell something stinky.”
“Oh good. For a second there, I thought hell had frozen over.”
It’s a contest to see how long we can keep our faces straight. He wins when I start laughing.
Grinning, he says, “What’s that awful noise you’re making? You sound like a herniated donkey.”
“At least I don’t look like one. And stop flashing those expensive veneers at me. I’m blind enough as it is.”
He makes spokesmodel hands at himself. “These teeth are natural, as is everything else about me.”
“Except your ego, which was grown in a lab. Are you going to invite me in or what?”
He morphs from teasing to solemn in a snap. “Oh, that’s right. Dracula needs an invitation to enter someone’s home. Please, Princess of Darkness, come in.”
He gestures theatrically toward the open front door. I sweep regally past him, biting off my smile.
If I thought the outside of his home was modern, the inside is modern on steroids.
It’s all neutral colors, echoing spaces, and a complete lack of clutter.
The living room is so large and sparsely furnished, it could easily be rented out as a roller-skating rink.
The walls are bare save for a few abstract oil paintings in bold slashes of black and white.
There isn’t a bundle of dried herbs or a handmade beeswax candle in sight.
Ronan comes up behind me and gazes around, looking over my shoulder. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s got all the appeal of a mausoleum.”
“So you like it, then. Feels like home.”
I suppress a laugh. “It’s only slightly nauseating, which is more than I can say for you.”
“Wait until you see the kitchen. You might actually vomit.”
He grabs my hand and drags me off without waiting for a response. My footsteps echoing off the marble floor, we walk down a corridor flanked on either side by walls of glass displaying lush atriums of palm trees and tropical plants within.
I’m sure he’s hoping I’ll comment on how stunning they are and how expensive they must be to maintain, so I don’t. The corridor opens to another gigantic, empty space that has a spectacular view of the mountains through more soaring walls of glass.
I look around, confused. “This is a kitchen? Where’s the fridge? Where’s the stove?”
Smirking, he strolls over to the giant rectangular hunk of black stone sitting by itself about six feet away from a smooth oak wall. He waves his hand over a spot on the end of the stone, and two panels slide slowly back to reveal more glass, this piece black.
“What the hell is that?”
“The cooktop. It’s state-of-the-art induction technology.”
I stare at the cooktop in confusion. It’s devoid of dials, switches, or any visible form of operation. “How do you turn it on? Verbal command?”
“Human sacrifice. If you could just step a little closer…”
His smile is irritatingly appealing. Even my vagina thinks so. She’s suddenly generating more heat than Ronan’s modern stovetop ever could.
“Have you ever actually cooked on that?”
“No. It’s just for looks.”
“Ah. Like your entire existence.”
“Do you want to see the refrigerator?”
“I can barely contain my excitement.”
Eyes sparkling with amusement, he walks over to the oak wall and presses his palm against a spot that appears exactly the same as the rest. A four-foot-wide portion of the wall rolls silently up to the ceiling and disappears into an invisible overhead compartment, revealing what I can only assume is a refrigerator, though it looks more like an entertainment center with all the interactive display panels and glowing blue lights.
“Why do you need a black modular thing with more digital displays than the command center at NASA probably has to keep your food cold?”
“I don’t need it. I just liked the way it looked.”
I snort. “I’m sensing a theme here.”
His eyes grow heated, and his voice grows husky. “I like looking at beautiful things.”
My heart must be suffering from a sudden case of dementia because it trips all over itself in excitement. I look away, squinting at the wall of windows. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”
“I could, but I’d rather ask why your face is red again.”
I glare at him. “It’s rosacea.”
“Hmm. Or maybe it’s because I have an effect on you that you don’t want to admit.”
His frank stare contains a challenge that I have no intention of rising to. Instead, I walk away from him to the hunk of stone masquerading as a kitchen island.
Surprisingly, the other side has an overhang with three barstools tucked underneath. So someone could sit and eat a meal here if they wanted to. Not that anyone would.
Dining on top of a tomb would be more comfortable.
Eyeing the MacBook open at the end of the island, I say, “I never cook, either. Don’t have the time.”
“Too busy scaring all the neighborhood children, I imagine.”
“It’s a full-time job, really. Like yours, looking pretty and being useless.”
“Ouch. Although wait—did you just call me pretty?”
I meander closer to the computer. From this angle, I can see that the screen is open to a web page. Seized with curiosity about what he was reading when I rang at the gate, I casually keep walking, trailing my fingers along the smooth, cold edge of the stone.
“Did I say pretty? Silly me. I meant petty.”
“That would sting a lot more if it made any sense. Nobody looks petty.”
“Guess you haven’t passed a mirror lately.”
I stop in front of the computer, see what’s on the web page, and draw a sharp breath. When I glance up at Ronan, he’s standing with his arms folded over his chest and his head tilted to one side, that signature smirk of his curving his mouth upward at the corners.
“Just doing a little research on your baby daddy. That shouldn’t bother you, though, considering you have nothing to worry about. It’s not as if you’d lie to me or anything. Right, Maven?”
My heart thudding and my stomach in knots, I contain my anger by sheer force of will. If I lash out at him, it will only make him more suspicious.
“I have no reason to lie to you.”
“You have generations of reasons to lie to me, little witch.”
He drops his arms to his sides and swaggers closer, baring his teeth in an unsettling wolfish grin. Stopping a few feet away, he leans on the island and looks me up and down, making a show of it because he knows it makes me uncomfortable.
I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “I came by today because—”
“Take your hair out of the braid.”
Startled, I confirm I heard what I thought I heard before giving him a look meant to eviscerate.
It only makes him smile wider. “Nobody on earth gives the evil eye like you do.”
“It’s a gift. Can I tell you why I came now or are you going to make another random demand that I’ll ignore?”
“You can tell me why you came until you’re red in the face. Again, I mean. It still won’t make a difference. I won’t help you until you take your hair out of that hideous braid.”
Insulted, I raise my hand to my head. “It’s not hideous. It’s utilitarian.”
“Between that and the shapeless gunnysack you’re wearing, you look like you’re about to go churn butter somewhere. Or reshoe the old mare.”
Ah, yes. This is classic Ronan. Clever insults delivered with a charming smile. He wields his scorn with the finesse of a swordsman.
I feel the heat creeping up my neck but pretend it’s not burning. “Pardon me, Little Lord Fauntleroy, but not all of us can afford five-hundred-dollar haircuts and tailored underpants.”
“Take it out.”
“What’s the big deal about my braid, for God’s sake?”
“Beautiful things shouldn’t be hidden. And your hair is beautiful, even dyed to match coal.”
I curl my lip. “You should know me well enough to realize flattery doesn’t work.”
“It wasn’t flattery. It was truth. Big difference.”
We stare at each other as I will my blood pressure to stay within safe limits and my vagina to behave. If she gets any more excited, I’ll have to change my underwear.
I say coolly, “Here’s where I remind you that you told me you wanted to help me find my grandmother. ‘Help’ being the operative word.”
“I do want to help. But good relationships are all about reciprocity, don’t you agree?”
I keep my voice low when I threaten him. “You’re so close to becoming a eunuch, it’s not even funny.”
That does nothing to intimidate him. He straightens and closes the distance between us. I refuse to retreat, so I find myself looking up into his eyes.
He murmurs my name. He looks at my lips. He smells dangerously delicious.
Now I hate myself because I’m calculating the exact amount of space between our mouths and the time it would take me to rise up on my toes and close it.
“Look at those wheels turn,” he growls, eyes aglow. “What could the Princess of Darkness be thinking?”
“It involves sharp objects and lots of your blood.”
“You don’t want to hurt me. I don’t want to hurt you, either.”
Maintaining eye contact, he slowly reaches up and gently tucks a stray hair behind my ear. At his touch, all my nerve endings jolt to life and start screaming.
“Should I tell you what I do want?”
Breathe. Don’t faint. Don’t do anything. He doesn’t affect me at all because I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. But why does he have to smell so good?
“I want us to be friends.”
“I already told you no.”
“Why not?”
“It’s like the Joker asking Batman to be friends.”
“I assume I’m the Joker in this scenario?”
“I mean, if the shoe fits…”
“I’m not all bad, despite what you think.”
“I think … I don’t know what I think. My brain is egg salad at the moment. Could you please step back? I’m feeling a little…”
“Turned on? Excited?”
“Sick to my stomach.”
Staring deep into my eyes, he says gruffly, “Liar.”
I swallow, hesitating to speak because my brain is topsy-turvy, and I’m not 100 percent sure what will come out of my mouth when I do. “If I said yes, I’m a liar, would you have mercy on me and change the subject?”
“Only if you say we can be friends, too. Then I’ll change the subject and won’t bring it up again.”
“Really?”
“Probably not. Try me.”
After a drawn-out moment where I try not to melt into a sweaty little puddle at his feet, he adds blithely, “By the way, would your fiancé approve of the way you’re looking at my mouth? Because it’s a little predatory. Unless he’s not the jealous type. Or, as I’m guessing, he’s imaginary.”
I hear a faint ping! as the last of my willpower snaps, his thrall on me breaks, and rage floods my body.
What a relief. For a minute there, I was on the brink of doing something stupid.
“I’m going to kill you in your sleep. I’m going to sneak in through a window in the middle of the night, find something pointy and lethal in this antiseptic glass box you call a home, and plunge it straight into your chest, over and over, until you’re so dead, you’ll never remember you were ever alive. ”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“Hmm. Sounds serious.”
He’s laughing at me, which makes me even more incensed. “It is!”
“You know what else is serious? This.”
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me.