13
Ifreeze, genuinely unsure how to react to Isabelle’s unexpected kiss. I’ve wanted precisely this for months but not now and not like this. I’m angry, remorseful, and confused. I’m also reasonably sure I’m being played. By whom, I don’t know, but I do know this isn’t right.
With my mouth refusing to answer the pleas of Isabelle’s lashing tongue, she soon withdraws from our embrace. The further she inches back, the more wetness bombards her eyes. She’s devastated I’ve rejected her, but the pain in her eyes is only half the hurt I’m experiencing. My empire has faced numerous allegations since Ophelia’s death, but this is the first time it’s felt personal.
As her teeth gnaw her bottom lip, Isabelle slings her watering eyes to Harlow and Cormack. “Thank you for a lovely evening.” Her voice is clear and without worry, a stark contradiction to the brutal shake of her hands when she snatches her purse off the tabletop, then leaps to her feet.
My confusion is pushed aside for vengeance when I foil her quick getaway by seizing her wrist in a firm grip. I want answers, and although the last person I should attempt to get them from is the very woman at the root of my confusion, prior dealings also award me the knowledge she may be the only person who will be brutally honest with me. An honest enemy is better than a friend who lies.
“I’ll drive you home.” Isabelle shakes her head as if my command is a suggestion. I wasn’t asking permission. I’m telling her this is what we’re doing.
With my hand still circling Isabelle’s wrist, I stand to my feet before drifting my eyes to Cormack. The shock of both Harlow’s and his face reveals they are not a part of the second attempt to derail me. Cormack is so confused by my response to Isabelle’s kiss, it takes him glaring at me for several long seconds before the truth smacks into him. He forgot what day it is, his astuteness irrelevant when his soulmate is in his vicinity.
The knowledge doesn’t lessen the angst in my voice, though. “Can you take Harlow home?”
“Yeah.” Cormack nods before cranking his neck to Harlow. “If Harlow is okay with that?”
As cautious as me, Harlow wordlessly seeks Isabelle’s opinion on my suggestion. If her chin so much as moves an inch in the wrong direction, she’ll shut this down like a second worldwide pandemic has been recently announced.
When Isabelle nods, although hesitant, Harlow leans across the table to give her a farewell hug. I’m unsure what she whispers in Isabelle’s ear since her voice is so soft, but if the daggers she’s shooting my way are any indication, I doubt it’s pleasant.
As I walk Isabelle toward the restaurant’s back entrance, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket so I can request Hugo to bring around my car. I wasn’t devious when I said I’m watched more cautiously this day every year. Hugo reverts to being my chauffeur since he’s afraid the whiskey in my veins could get me in a wreck, and Cormack arrives at my office every morning and afternoon at precisely the same time as if I’m incapable of functioning without his constant nagging. Even Catherine gets in on the act. She stocks my refrigerator with enough desserts, pre-cooked meals, and baking to force a relatively fit man into a weight reduction program.
When our race through the packed restaurant gains us the eye of many, I walk even faster. Isabelle can barely keep up. She stumbles over her pretentiously high stilettos several times, her fumbled walk no doubt adding more false rumors to my once previously unstained reputation. By the time we make it outside, my suspicions are at a pinnacle, and Isabelle is pulling away from me instead of toward me.
The knowledge she’s once again trying to run has me tightening my grip instead of lessening it.
“Let go of my arm,” she snaps out a couple of seconds later, her command stern and direct. “You’re hurting me.”
I drop her arm before raking my fingers through my hair, hopeful it will hide the brutal shake of my hands. Even if I were certain she was playing a cruel, malicious trick on me, I’d never intentionally hurt a woman.
After a couple of seconds of awkward silence, Isabelle whispers, “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. It was just a harmless kiss. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Then why did you do it?” I fire back before I can stop myself, too worked up to save my interrogation for a more suitable location. “If it didn’t mean anything, why did you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to.” Not an ounce of deceit highlights her tone. “And I wanted you to admit you lied.”
“I didn’t lie.” When the reasoning behind her comment comes to light, I get defensive. “I said no brunette I have fucked has maintained my interest outside of the bedroom.” Her pupils expand when I take a step closer to her. “If you want to prove your point, Isabelle, I’ll have to fuck you first.”
I anticipate for my cheek to feel the sting of her wrath, so you can picture my shock when nothing but lust roars through her impressive eyes. A person acting on the orders of another wouldn’t respond with so much hope. They’d be mortified, perhaps even disgusted. They wouldn’t act as if their every wish is on the cusp of being granted.
As my eyes bounce between a pair begging to be kissed, consumed, and utterly annihilated, I crowd Isabelle against the brickwork in the alleyway bordering my restaurant. No longer thinking about the consequences of my actions, I cup her cheek, then rub my thumb across her pouty, Cupid’s bow lips.
My voice is as rough as the brickwork I have her squashed against when I ask, “Is that what you want, Isabelle?”Do you want to be fucked, ravished, wholly consumed?“Because your body says one thing and your eyes relay another.”
I can smell how much she wants me. It’s slicking her skin, voicelessly screaming for me to let go of the restraints I’m governed by, to forget the ghosts of my past and race toward my future, but her eyes can’t hide her inner turmoil. They’re the gateway to her soul and the very barrier no amount of optimism could have me ignoring.
With my disappointment at an all-time low, both displeased about the manic I’m portraying and Isabelle’s inability to admit what this is truly about, I shove the hand that was caressing Isabelle’s cheek into the pocket of my trousers, then nudge my head to my car Hugo just pulled to the curb. “Get in the car, Isabelle.”
Incapable of facing her next rejection head-on, I spin away from her and pace to my car. If she lets me leave without protest, I will be done. The chase will be over. If she doesn’t… I don’t know how I’ll respond. I’ve never handled such an array of emotions before. I’m struggling, and that’s putting it nicely.
Hugo’s eyes stop dancing between a frozen Isabelle and me when I snatch the keys for my sports car out of his hands. “Can you drive?”
“Yes, Hugo.” My tone reveals I am unappreciative of his distrust of how I handle my alcohol, but I also understand it. A drunk driver killed his sister and unborn nephew. He can’t bring Jorgie back, but that won’t stop him from doing everything in his power to ensure the same thing doesn’t happen to another family. “Festivities were cut short. Whiskey is barely heating my veins.”
“Because something else is?” His tone is a cross between amused and hopeful. “Or should I say ‘someone?’”
Instead of answering him, I raise my eyes to Isabelle, whose back is still balancing against the brickwork. The thrust of her chest is brutal, and apprehension is seen all over her face.
