“Not even this type?” She flattens the T-shirt over her breasts, revealing that her nipples are pebbled.
Fuck, this girl. She’s going to match me at every turn. “I like that type, yeah. Though I’m distracted by your legs at the moment.”
She shakes her head and gives a huff of sceptical laughter as I lead her into the kitchen.
I pull out a chair at the table, and wait while she peeks from under her eyelashes, taking in the black-grey cabinets with brass fittings. The darkness makes her look angelic by comparison.
She sits, and although I intend to push in her chair like a gentleman—making the attempt, anyway—she pulls up one knee protectively.
“Are you hungry? I am.” Mainly for her rather than food.
“Kidnap is hard work, huh?” She watches me with cautious eyes.
“I asked because orgasms can give you the munchies.”
“So does trying to escape.”
“What would you like?” I ask. Let’s move the conversation away from why she’s here, and onto why she’ll love being here.
“What are my choices?”
“Anything. You can have anything you want.” I’d present this girl with her enemy’s head on a plate without a blink.
She narrows her eyes, as she thinks. “We could go to a restaurant?”
“You want a formal dinner? We’ll go to Bethnal and there’s any cuisine you fancy.” I open the fridge to hide my smile, and I’m pleased to find it well stocked. “But don’t you need a snack beforehand, to keep your energy up for your next escape attempt?”
I glance over my shoulder and yes, that was definitely a twitch of her lips upwards. “Wow,” she deadpans. “Might be almost a date, rather than a kidnap.”
“First date?” I ask, though I think I know the answer, and I’m waiting like it’s Christmas.
“Yes.” Her voice is softer for that acknowledgement. “Are you going to cook?”
“Yeah.” I lean my hip against the black marble counter. “I had a decent kitchen installed when I bought this house. I’ll make you something you’ll like.”
She hesitates, then nods, and fuck that glimmer of trust lights me up. I busy myself by selecting what I need from thecupboards, then chop the juicy fresh tomatoes I found and set them neatly aside.
“You clear up as you go,” she says as I give the chopping board a quick rinse, then dry it and cut the bread.
“Yeah, force of habit. I didn’t always have staff to do everything.”
She watches curiously, as though I’m very odd to her. “What are you making?”
“Poor man’s pizza.”
“What?” She laughs with disbelief.
“Bread, chopped tomatoes, grated cheese.” I point at the ingredients in turn. I’ll sprinkle some herbs on too. “It’s like pizza, but very low budget.”
Wriggling to get more comfortable on the chair, she examines me as though I’m a puzzle she’d like to solve. “I thought you said you were rich.”
“Mmm,” I agree, and continue putting it all together, slathering the whole thing in cheese. “I am very wealthy, but I wasn’t when I was a kid.”
“So poor you couldn’t afford pizza?”
I nod and stand back once the food is under the grill. “Yeah. And I still make my own snacks sometimes.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off me as I put out plates and toast the cheese to perfection—no walking away or getting distracted when I’m making food for Willow. I have this urge I’ve never felt for a woman before. I want to care for Willow, and impress her. I want her to approve of everything I am, and decide to stay.
