Chapter Eight #2
This dress added to a sense that she was more, because she looked…
sexy. There really wasn’t much to the outfit.
The skirt was brief, the neckline low. It emphasized her muscular frame, but with the right hairdo and makeup, she could soften that.
Make it alluring instead of intimidating. Or perhaps both.
Either way, it was an outfit—particularly with the heels—that would draw attention. She was so used to avoiding attention, it felt a mix of rebellious—a good, exhilarating feeling—and wrong—an uncomfortable amount of nervousness she didn’t like at all.
She could take care of herself, so drawing attention wasn’t such a risk, she reminded herself. Especially since Zervou would be there. She could take all sorts of risks with him as her companion for the evening.
Which led to an uncomfortable realization.
She’d begun to trust him. A mistake, surely, but it was just sort of there. A natural conclusion to enjoying spending dinners with him.
He was slick and arrogant but had a cutting kind of humor to him. She hadn’t seen him enjoy hurting anyone or go out of his way to try to wield his wealth or power. He knew what he wanted and made it happen—and she couldn’t help but respect that. She’d do more of it if she could.
And then there was the way he looked at her. The way he would look at her in this dress. Much the same way he looked at her while she was boxing.
She knew what professional interest looked like—what that male gaze was searching for when a man studied her as a boxer. She also recognized the look of a fragile male ego who wanted to conquer. She knew how all sorts of ways people looked at her when she boxed.
Nothing like Zervou. Nothing with any kind of sexual pull. Maybe she didn’t know a thing about sex, but she knew that this feeling could only have to do with that.
Which meant she was walking a dangerous line. But that was nothing new, she reminded herself before stepping out of the bathroom into the spacious, bright guest bedroom that looked out over Corfu.
She had never even thought to picture herself up here, in a fancy house. She hadn’t even considered being lucky enough to work at a place such as this. Never once in her life. Her dreams were much more realistic and humble.
Fight to survive. The extent of her dreams had been rest. And, okay, revenge on the father who’d caused so much of her struggle.
Now she was in this mansion as a kind of…guest.
Zervou stood looking out the window, hands behind his back. Tall. Still. Outrageously handsome and sure of everything he did. Powerful.
How she ached to have some kind of power over her life. Perhaps that was what made being in his orbit more and more enjoyable. Perhaps that was what made him feel something close to irresistible.
“We might need to discuss how appropriate some of your clothing choices are,” she said to his back.
He turned slowly. He said nothing at first. His dark, fierce eyes did the talking. His gaze took a tour. And took its time.
She liked that. There was no denying the heat in his eyes sparked some heat inside her. Some primitive desire. Knowing he found her some kind of enticing made her feel enticing.
His gaze made her wonder what it would be like for his hands to take the same path. Would she let him tonight? Would he offer? He had barely touched her since that kiss. Oh, he’d done plenty of looking, but his hands and body had remained resolutely to himself.
It had to be a purposeful choice, though she didn’t know why.
When his eyes met hers, and it felt like some kind of mini explosion erupting between them, she figured she didn’t need to know why he waited. Even if not tonight, some kind of offer seemed inevitable.
Necessary.
“I cannot identify one problem with what you’re wearing. I have excellent taste.”
She laughed in spite of herself. So arrogant.
His smile in return was sharp. Predatory.
Why did pleasure receptors across her abdomen seem to spring to life at that?
“It is a club. The attire is meant to be…” Again his gaze took a tour of her body. She felt…electrified, but pleasantly. A buzzing. A throbbing deep in her body. “Breathable. For dancing.”
Breathable. She rolled her eyes. What rot. But she didn’t argue with him. She instead followed him through his ridiculous house and out to the ridiculous garage full of vehicles. “Do you have this many cars at…where do you live full-time?”
“Wherever I like,” he returned.
“But surely you have a home base,” she said, sliding into the car after he’d opened the door for her.
He came around and got in the driver seat. He hadn’t driven them to any of their dinners. It was a strange change of pace. It made everything feel more…intimate. Real.
Now that is going too far.
“Home base? No.” He shook his head as if the idea was ludicrous. “I follow the business. Buy property wherever feels optimal. Or enjoyable. There is no need for a base when you are rich.”
Optimal. The word was so devoid of any emotion. Not that she had any great love for her home base, but it was home. It was…the ground from which she’d grown. Her roots were tangled in the poor, desperate soil.
“Where did you grow up then?” she asked him, wanting some sense of who he was at those roots. Maybe then she’d have a better handle on him.
“A small village near the Bulgarian border,” he replied somewhat flatly.
“Do you ever go back?”
There was a pause. She might have called it a hesitation except it was nearly impossible to believe Zervou hesitated over anything. “My mother and grandmother live there still,” he said.
Which didn’t exactly answer her question, did it? She opened her mouth to ask another probing question, but he spoke before she could.
“How is your mother faring?” he asked as he navigated the Friday evening traffic in Corfu. A clear attempt to change the subject. Away from him. Onto her.
She didn’t think he cared in any deep sense, but it still meant something to her that he would ask—even as a distraction. It meant he understood enough to know it mattered to her. Perhaps it was all a great ruse, but he was a good actor in it.
Enjoy, remember? Maybe even enjoy the acting.
As long as you understand it’s temporary.
And wasn’t she an expert at understanding temporary?
Her life was built on the shifting sands of other people’s whims, vices or fists.
So she did not need to know him or probe under the ruse or the change of subjects.
He could be a mystery to her. It changed nothing.
“She is…well, I think. It is a difficult process, even in the lap of luxury. She has no complaints about the facility.”
“Then what does she have complaints about?”
She studied his profile, surprised he could read what she wasn’t saying. Surprised he would call her out on it.
In the end, she shrugged. What did it matter if he knew her mother’s concerns? “The more sober she is, the more aware she is and the less she likes the idea of you paying her way. Or what she imagines I am doing to pay for you paying her way.”
“You did not tell her about our arrangement?”
“Regarding Erjon? No. I never mention him to her.” She stared out at the passing city. “And I never will, even if we are successful. She will think we had a grand love affair and it ended.”
“When we are successful, glikí mou. I will not be giving up until Erjon is begging for mercy and perhaps not even then.”
He said that with a dark fervor she appreciated. She also would not give up. Not until Erjon paid. Not until he suffered. It was a good talisman amid this strange turn her life had taken. As long as her mother was safe and Ari had boxing and the chance to ruin her father, all was well.
Zervou drove them to the back of the club. At what must have been some kind of private entrance, they were greeted by a man Ari thought might be the owner. A manager at the very least. He led them inside where the music pumped, the beat reverberating through not just the club but her entire body.
She’d never had time for clubs. For frivolous.
She was fascinated. But she was also surprised because this was not exactly the place for a photo op, with the low lighting and the crush of bodies.
She supposed not everything had to be about a picture.
Still, she was curious what had prompted this choice, much different than the ones he’d made so far.
It was clear the club owners knew Zervou and were eager to please. They were shown to a private corner. Though it took Ari a few moments of sitting there to realize it, someone had been installed just a few steps from their booth to act as a kind of security so no one approached them unbidden.
When the waitress arrived, Zervou ordered some drink Ari had never even heard of, but she had no doubt it was alcoholic, so she stopped the waitress before she hopped off eager to do a rich man’s bidding.
“I would like a club soda.”
“Oh. Of course.” The waitress smiled politely then bounced off.
“What I ordered was meant to be shared, Ariadne,” Zervou said with some disapproval.
“I will not drink alcohol,” she said firmly. There was no reason to partake in that which had taken so much from her mother. She braced for an argument. A lecture at the very least.
“Very well,” he said instead. “Will you dance?”
She looked out at the gyrating bodies. The thud of music. She glanced at him, felt that sizzle of his gaze on hers.
Yes, she would very much like to dance with him, to feel his body against hers in a kind of safe environment. A test, perhaps.
Still, she had never really danced before.
“I will, but I have never really danced. I cannot promise it will be much of a photo op, if that is why we’re here.” Maybe it was a little fishing, but he didn’t bite.
“Dancing is not so complicated. Especially here. Think of it as a boxing match,” he offered. He pointed out to the crowd. “See the woman in bright pink?”