Eighteen
Amelia
“Nice bath?” Van Wyk asks as I walk back in.
“Fine,” I say on reflex. Does he deserve more?
He’s laid two places, silverware ready, like this is a typical domestic scene.
Nothing this man does is typical.
I set my mostly full glass of wine down on the table and take a seat, ensuring my robe is tucked tightly around me.
“There we are,” he says, carrying over two plates. “Seafood linguine. I used a little of the white wine in the sauce. I hope that’s all right?”
His damn civility. Is it just pretension, or does he mean it?
“It’s fine.”
He sits down opposite me, taking his napkin and draping it over his lap. The way he moves, so graceful all the time. It reinforces the impression I’ve always had of him as a predator.
Twirling pasta around his fork, he takes a bite.
Both our portions are small because I bought food for one, yet he gave me the more generous serving despite being twice my size.
It should smell nice, but my stomach is queasy.
I was starving when I walked in. Now, to eat with him?
In my own apartment, that he’s broken into again, like he somehow has the right?
He nods to my plate. “You can start.”
Does he really think I was waiting for his goddamn permission? Asshole. Now I can’t pick up my fork because it’ll look like I’m obeying him. I give him a glare instead.
He takes another bite, watching me. Chews. Swallows. Then his head tilts. “Are you waiting for me to feed you? I will. You can kneel beside me.”
The image that flashes through my mind is… startling. My core tightens under a wave of heat, and my mouth starts watering. What is wrong with me? Is that visual actually appealing?
No, it can’t be. I pick up my fork, forcing myself to eat. The flavors hit my tongue, the pasta al dente and the sauce excellent, the right balance of sweet and acidic.
He watches me. “Is it all right?”
Is he really seeking my opinion, or is he just being… civil? “Bearable.”
“Bearable?” he echoes, amused. “Then next time, you can cook.”
What does he think this is, a regular event?
“Sure, just as soon as I restock my arsenic.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I expect him to leap up, drag me to the sofa, and pin me across it with my ass raised.
For the second time in as many minutes, the image makes it difficult to breathe.
I’m pushing, and I don’t know why. Who pulls the tail of a tiger?
Me, apparently. I just can’t help myself, not with Van Wyk.
I wait for him to move, but he just gives me a steady look. “I don’t think you’d poison me.”
I wouldn’t be so certain. “Might be more effective than shooting you.”
He takes that in stride, forking a spear of asparagus. “You’re not familiar with guns, are you?”
That’s insulting, after Lucy’s instruction last week. “Familiar enough, but some bastard stole my bullets.”
“Moved them,” he corrects. “They’re in the kitchen drawer.”
Part of me wants to go and fetch them right now and try for another shot. I take a sip of wine, wondering if I could get to the gun when he’s not expecting it.
“How was the art? Any good?” The segue is casually delivered, but I get the impression he’s been dying to ask.
“It’s more than good,” I say grudgingly. “They are spectacular pieces.”
“Glad to hear it.” He looks at me expectantly.
I swallow, steeling myself. “Thank you, Van Wyk.” I suppose it’s warranted. One-point-five million of art at sixty percent commission. It’s a hell of a lot of money.
He inclines his head, taking his due. “You’re welcome. And call me Lukas.”
“You didn’t need to do it. I can’t help but wonder why you did.” Fuck, I can’t deny it. “My gallery would be ruined without you. I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”
“Don’t worry, Little Stray,” he says, lips curving with a wicked smirk. “I’ll extract my payment in full.”
That simple comment is loaded with innuendo, and for the third time, heat and unease twist together until I can’t separate them. It takes me a moment to catch my breath.
“A share of the profits?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
“Not interested.” He regards me with those steady steel-grey eyes. “It’s you I want. You can pay me back by spreading your legs, curling into me, moaning my name. You can pay me back by coming around my cock whenever I want, however I want.”
Fuck. Now I can’t eat. Damn it, I can barely stop myself from trembling. I clench my thighs and tighten my core, hoping my pulse stops racing.
Say something. Anything that isn’t about his cock.
“You… uh… must know Mr. Fournier well.” Good recovery.
One eyebrow lifts in wry amusement, then he nods, acknowledging I’ve done some digging. “He’s a friend.”
“Oh.”
Van Wyk dabs his lips with his napkin, dropping it carelessly on the table beside his now-empty plate. Mine’s still half-full, but I set down my fork. He watches me, expression as guarded as ever. Even now, even after what’s just been said, there’s still no hint of a smile.
Now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t get it out of my head. What will it take to make this man happy? Not satisfied, not merely content, but actually happy.
“Why do you never smile?”
He picks up his wine glass, leaning back in his chair. “I do, but only in the dark.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
It makes me want to pry.
“You must smile when you’re having fun.”
“I suppose.”
A flatter delivery I’ve never before received, and he’s tensed up, like the conversation is making him uncomfortable.
Good.
“Is this making you nervous, Van Wyk?” I smile, because I can. “So you’re not infallible. Good to know.”
“Far from infallible. And I’d be more likely to smile if you called me Lukas.”
“I doubt that, somehow.” But that’s the third time he’s asked, tonight alone. “So what do you enjoy?”
“What?”
“Leisure activities.” I lean forward. “Movies, perhaps? Reading? I know, you must like to work out.” With a body like that, it’s a safe bet.
He stares at me blankly, saying nothing.
Okay, then. Playing hard to get. “Something must relax you.” I give it a thought. “I know! Burning orphanages? Shooting up barrels of puppies?”
“Pinning raven-haired beauties over terrace tables,” he replies, completely deadpan.
The impact of his words lands a heartbeat later, making my stomach clench, my thighs press together. Now it’s me that’s uncomfortable.
I cover it with a little laugh. “I didn’t see you smile then. And it was dark.”
“I’ll smile if you come on a date tomorrow.”
Is he serious? A frigging date like this is a relationship?
“Gallery,” I remind him, grateful for the out. “The exhibition.”
“Thursday, then. When it’s all done.”
He sounds so genuine I’m almost tempted to say yes. What’s the matter with me? This man isn’t dating material.
“I think you’d be bored,” I reply, as offhand as I can deliver it. “No kittens to torment.”
“I expect I’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “There’s a little stray I intend to keep.”
I swallow, my mouth dry. I know I’m aroused.
It’s not just that comment, it’s all of them.
The teasing between us, the charged atmosphere.
I’m suddenly even more conscious of the thinness of my silk robe, the way it clings to me.
Partly because I pulled the damn thing snugly around me, out of modesty.
Fuck, my nipples are hard and tight; they must be pushing against it. He can’t help but have noticed, even though his gaze hasn’t strayed from my face.
It’s taken too long to find my voice, and I cover my consternation with vehemence. “I’m not a whore for you to—”
He cuts across me. “I never said you were. I’ve never for a moment thought of you like that.”
The way he’s treated me, and he doesn’t see me as one? How does that make any sense?
Yet he’s not lying; there’s no doubting the certainty in his tone. He believes what he’s saying.
“So how do you see me?” The question slips out.
“Stunning,” he murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it. Then he speaks again, louder. “I’ve told you: you’re mine. You won’t escape.” He sets down his wine glass. “Are you done eating?”
His plate has been empty for a while. I’ve barely eaten half of mine. “I suppose.”
His gaze flicks to my lips, drops to my robe, then climbs back up to my eyes. “I’m ready for dessert.”
Not going there.
“I’m full, thanks, but be my guest,” I say flippantly. “Half a tub of chocolate ice cream in the freezer.”
He goes still, watching me with his face blank of expression, and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s calm within or about to grab me by my hair and put me on my knees.
“Yeah, all right,” he says at last, and I subtly let out the breath I was holding. Prematurely, as it turns out, for what he follows it with. “Go into the bedroom. Take off that robe. Lie down on the bed. Wait for me.”
I glare at him. How dare he order me around like this?
He thinks I’m his, but I’m not.
The playfulness between us has gone—if it was ever there, if I didn’t imagine it. The Van Wyk of old has returned, commanding me, threatening me. Is this how he deals with everyone? No wonder the man never smiles.
I could ignore him. I could refuse. I could stay right where I am, clutch my robe around me, stare at the dinner table.
But I know what he’d do: exactly what he was going to do anyway, only worse. I’ve already ‘earned’ a punishment, and I know he hasn’t forgotten. Do I want to provoke him further?
I lift my chin, square my shoulders. Hating that once again, I have no choice. I walk into my room and stand before the window, looking out at the night, but seeing only my reflection, illuminated by the soft light of my lamp. I’m trembling to my core.
Is it rage? Is it fear? Dare I admit it’s anything else?
He’s going to do what he wants, and I can’t stop him.
Part of me likes it. That’s the fucked-up thing. Part of me always has, even from that very first night on the terrace.
I cross my arms over my chest, fingers digging in so hard because I want the pain.
Damn him. He can go to hell.
I may not be able to escape, but I’m not lying down for him.
He doesn’t keep me waiting long.