12. Ruslan #2
I follow more slowly, irritation prowling steadily beneath my ribs.
* * *
Dinner is elegant. And cold.
The restaurant sits high above downtown Denver, all candlelight and expensive wine and wealthy people pretending not to stare at me from neighboring tables. Despite the article coming out tomorrow, word is clearly out that I’ve returned.
And beside me, Emma performs beautifully. That’s the frustrating part.
She smiles when appropriate, laughs softly at the right moments. Let me pull out her chair and touch the small of her back entering the restaurant.
But every interaction feels calculated now, planned. So different from the passion that consumed us when we both met.
And when we clashed in the guest bedroom at my home.
She is keeping herself away from me, inch by inch.
I finally lose patience halfway through dinner.
“You’re behaving strangely.”
Emma sips wine without looking up. “I’m behaving professionally.”
“No,” I correct calmly. “You are punishing me. And people will notice.”
That gets her attention. Her eyes lift sharply. “Excuse me?”
“You think distance protects you.”
“Maybe it does.”
I study her across the candlelight quietly. God, she is beautiful when angry. The dark dress exposes the elegant line of her shoulders, while the city glows behind her through the restaurant windows.
Mine.
A dangerous, untrue thought. She’s not mine; just a prisoner. Just staying, barely staying, for the money I’ve offered her.
“You agreed to this arrangement,” I remind her softly, feeling irritated once more at the thought that she’s just here for a transfer.
“And then I found out your business includes trafficking women.”
I stare her down. That’s not something I’ve mentioned, I don’t think, not in front of her. The money laundering yes. But she’s either been listening closely or being nosy. The latter is dangerous.
I set my wineglass down carefully. “Escort work is not trafficking.”
“Right,” she says flatly. “Because rich men paying vulnerable women for access has historically gone so well.”
Ah, there it is again, not judgment exactly, but fear. The very reason I decided to turn the industry on its head.
Something in her expression sharpens too personally for this argument to be theoretical. It burns a hole in my chest, the need to know why this is so close to home for her. Surely…
But no, Emma is nothing like the women I work with. Insecure, yes. But surely she’s never been beaten, been taken advantage of.
If she was—
The thought spirals, a hot rage burning up my spine. I’ll find them. I’ll cut them down. I’ll make them beg.
Emma shifts uncomfortably, biting her lip, and I realize I’ve been silent for too long. So much anger for an imaginary situation.
I lean slightly closer across the table. “You continue reacting like someone who has seen this world before.”
She goes still instantly. Then recovers too fast.
“I watch documentaries,” she says lightly.
A lie. She keeps telling them and probably thinks I haven’t noticed. But I have, and I’m keeping track. There’s a reason that Emma Pierce put that stipulation in the contract, and though I’m a man of my word, I’ll find out who she is sooner or later.
I smile faintly. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Her jaw tightens. For one brief second, I consider pressing harder. Demanding answers. Cornering her until whatever secret keeps flickering beneath her skin finally surfaces.
Instead, I say quietly: “Careful, Emma. You’re a smart girl. And you’re here to do a job. Do it, and I can let you go.”
The warning lands softly between us.
Her eyes narrow immediately. “Is that a threat?”
“Yes.”
Honesty unsettles her every time. It’s as if a part of her, somewhere deep inside, is still na?ve enough to believe, or want to believe, that I might not be as bad as I seem to be.
“You do not get to judge me while hiding things from me yourself,” I continue evenly. “Especially while living under my protection.”
Something flashes across her face then. Anger? Humiliation?
The rest of dinner passes politely enough for observers. Anyone watching us would see a wealthy couple sharing wine and low conversation beneath soft lighting.
Only we know every smile hides teeth tonight.
* * *
Back at the hotel suite, the tension worsens.
Emma disappears into the bedroom almost immediately after kicking off her heels. I loosen my tie slowly near the windows, forcing myself not to follow her right away.
Space. If I push her too far, she might crack. And we’re only at the beginning of my plan.
From where I stand in the hallway, I can see clear through the bedroom. Then the bathroom door opens briefly. And I look up at exactly the wrong moment.
Emma stands framed in warm bathroom light with one hand reaching for the shower controls, dress unzipped halfway down her back. Smooth skin flashes beneath dark curls before she disappears fully inside.
My body reacts instantly. I exhale slowly through my nose and close my eyes.
Close quarters are becoming a serious issue.
The more distance Emma tries creating emotionally, the more violently aware I become of her physically. The scent of her shampoo lingering through the suite. Bare feet against the hotel carpet. The sound of her moving around only one room away.
I could test how serious she is about those boundaries. Slip into the bedroom, wait for her…wait to see the water glistening on her skin.
The shower starts running.
I remain exactly where I am while tension coils tighter beneath my skin.
Four more days. And then my focus will shift; I’ll forget this woman, her softness, her sharpness. Revenge will consume me again.