When I walk down the hall, I hear it first—oil spitting in a hot pan, metal scraping against metal. Then the smell rolls through, warm and sharp. Garlic. Butter. Lemon. My stomach knots hard enough I have to slow down.
I stroll inside and stop.
Justice is at the stove. Sleeves rolled up, forearms shifting as he tilts the pan. Chicken sizzles in a sauce that sends up curls of steam. The briny hit of capers cuts through the air, and asparagus glistens on the counter, waiting.
“Sit,” he says, not looking up.
I move to the marble island and drop onto a stool. The surface is cool under my hands.
“Red or white?” he asks. “Chicken piccata. Asparagus.”
“White.”
He already has the bottle in hand. Rombauer Chardonnay, chilled. He pours with precision and places the glass in front of me. His fingers brush mine.
Heat fills me. My heart kicks up. Darn it. This is bad. I can’t fall for this guy. Is that his plan? He’s smart, I know. He also probably really knows women.
I pull back too fast and take a sip to cover it. The wine is crisp and buttery and unfairly good.
Justice plates the food without comment. The chicken is golden, the sauce glossy, and the asparagus bright green. He slides it across to me. My stomach growls, loud and humiliating. His mouth curves, faint amusement flickering and gone.
I cut a bite and chew slowly. The taste is lemon sharp, garlic warm, with the butter melting into everything. It’sperfect. I should be planning a way out of here. Instead I’m sitting in his penthouse, eating dinner he cooked, every nerve wired tight.
Maybe he isn’t so bad?
He eats standing across from me at the counter, fork in one hand, eyes flicking between his plate and me. Halfway through, he reaches for an unlabeled glass bottle filled with something dark. Without asking, he shakes a dusting of spice over his chicken, then leans across the counter and adds more to mine. “Try that.”
I hesitate but take another bite. The flavors sharpen—heat, smoke, a bite of something I can’t name. It’s better, although it was already good. My head reels, not just from the food but from the sheer wrongness of sitting here, eating dinner with Justice as if this is anything close to normal. No wonder he’s the most eligible bachelor around. The magazine got that one right.
He glances at his watch.
“Justice,” I say quietly, laying my fork down.
His gaze lifts, pinning me in place. Dark, unblinking. “Here’s the deal, Ella. I don’t like that you created that virus, and I want to know everything about it. Show me how it works.”
I grimace. “I thought we all agreed that the knowledge should be buried? That nobody should be able to do that.”
“If you can, somebody else will be able to do the same thing, so we need to work on countermeasures,” he says calmly.
My gaze narrows. He’s not telling me everything. “What else?”
One dark eyebrow rises. “With the computers? Nothing.”
I gulp. “Is there something outside of the computers?”
“Yeah. You and me. Forty-eight hours. I plan to be inside you most of the time.”
My clit jumps. Seriously. “That wasn’t the deal.” So much for the couple of romantic thoughts I had about him. He only wants sex and my computer skills. Asshole.
“Sure, it was.”
I hadn’t been specific, now had I? “Whatever.” I can be such a pain in the ass he changes his mind. Maybe. “For now, let me at your computers, and I’ll try to re-create the code.” It’s a bad idea, but the countermeasures do make sense. I’d like to be able to protect Alana, since she charges the aquamarines that run Aquarius Social. “Okay. I mean—I have the code. I can look at it. But I’ll need access to your system.”
“I’m well aware.” He checks his watch again, this time with impatience.
“Do you have somewhere to be?” I ask.
“I really do,” he says. “A couple of men need to be tortured. Probably killed.”
