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“I’m not?” She was standing too close to him. He simply reached out and wrapped his long, elegant fingers around her exposed neck. He pulled her closer, exerting just the slightest amount of pressure. His fingertips were just under her jaw, his thumb stroking the soft flesh of her throat. “Maybe I feed on pain and terror. Maybe I just brought you this far to kill you the moment you begin to trust me.”
She swallowed. The touch of his hands on her throat was unnerving, and it took all her strength to keep from swaying against him. “And maybe you’re full of shit,” she said. “You may not want me but you don’t want to kill me either.”
His smile was wry. “Now that’s where you’re wrong.” The pressure of his fingers against her throat increased for just a moment, and she felt dizzy, disoriented, until she realized he’d pushed her up against the wall of the damask-paneled living room, his elegant body pressed up against hers, his fingers cradling her face as he looked down into her eyes in the gathering darkness. Wrong about what, she thought distantly. Wrong about killing, or wrong about wanting?
He was about to tell her. “If this were a different time, a different place, I would take you to bed with me and make love to you for days,” he said, his voice slow and deep and intent. “I would use my mouth on you, until no part of your skin went untouched, and I would make you come, over and over again until you could stand no more, and then I’d let you sleep in my arms until you were rested and then I would start all over again. I would kiss your wounds, I would drink your tears, I could make love to you in ways that haven’t even been invented yet. I would make love to you in fields of flowers and under starry skies, where there is no death or pain or sorrow. I would show you things you haven’t even dreamed of, and there would be no one in the world but you and me, between your legs, in your mouth, everywhere.”
She stared at him, eyes wide. “Breathe,” he said softly, with a self-deprecating smile, and she realized she’d been holding her breath.
“You would?” she gasped.
“I would. But I won’t. It wouldn’t be a very good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be very good for you.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what’s good for me?”
He laughed then, and she realized she’d never heard him laugh before. For a moment he looked beautiful, gilded by moonlight, a perfect man in a perfect place.
And then the shadows closed down around them once more. “You have Stockholm Syndrome, remember?” he said with gentle mockery. “It won’t be much longer. By midnight you’ll be safely away from this, and by next week it will all be a distant nightmare. In a year you’ll forget you ever met me.”
“I don’t think so.”
But the subject was closed. He took his hands away from her throat, and she realized he’d been caressing her. “You’ll do what I told you, yes? When I give you the signal you pick a fight with me, then storm out of the place and go hide in the toilet. I will come and get you as soon as I can.”
“And if you don’t come?”
“Though hell should bar the way,” he said lightly. “You’ll be seeing your old friends from the château. Such good times.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “I promise to keep my mouth shut.”
“You don’t need to. This will all be over tonight. It doesn’t really matter what you say, as long as you don’t tell them about the device I’m wearing. Just keep away from Christos.”
“Who’s Christos?”
“You haven’t met him yet. He’s arriving tonight, and he makes Hakim seem like Mother Teresa. Steer clear of him if you can. Your artless prattle might get on his nerves, and he’s not a man to cross.”
“Artless prattle…?”
He ignored her outraged protest. “If you just keep your head about you and do as I say you’ll make it through the night in one piece.”
“As will you?” It was a question, not a statement.
She didn’t like the faint irony in his smile. “As will I,” he said. “One more thing. You haven’t finished dressing.”
“There was no bra,” she said nervously.
“I know. That’s why I chose it.” He might as well have been discussing orange prices. He reached in the pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a glittering string of diamonds. “You need proper ornamentation. Turn around.”
He was holding a heavy, old-looking necklace that had to be diamonds. She didn’t, couldn’t move, so he simply put his arms around her neck, fastening the clasp behind her. The light splintered and danced through the jewels, and the white-gold setting was oddly warm against her skin. He looked down at her, tilting his head to one side to judge the effect. “They look good on you.”
“Whose are they? Stolen swag? Or the best fakes money can buy?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really.” He’d opened the door, and she knew she wasn’t coming back to this place. She was never going to spend time alone with him again, and when he took her arm she held back, just slightly.
