Page 70 of Captive Ruin

That’s insulting, after Lucy’s instruction last week. “Familiar enough, but some bastard stole my bullets.”

“Moved them,” he corrects. “They’re in the kitchen drawer.”

Part of me wants to go and fetch them right now and try for another shot. I take a sip of wine, wondering if I could get to the gun when he’s not expecting it.

“How was the art? Any good?” The segue is casually delivered, but I get the impression he’s been dying to ask.

“It’s more than good,” I say grudgingly. “They are spectacular pieces.”

“Glad to hear it.” He looks at me expectantly.

I swallow, steeling myself. “Thank you, Van Wyk.” I suppose it’s warranted. One-point-five million of art at sixty percent commission. It’s a hell of a lot of money.

He inclines his head, taking his due. “You’re welcome. And call me Lukas.”

“You didn’t need to do it. I can’t help but wonder why you did.” Fuck, I can’t deny it. “My gallery would be ruined without you. I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”

“Don’t worry, Little Stray,” he says, lips curving with a wicked smirk. “I’ll extract my payment in full.”

That simple comment is loaded with innuendo, and for the third time, heat and unease twist together until I can’t separate them. It takes me a moment to catch my breath.

“A share of the profits?” I ask, trying to keep it light.

“Not interested.” He regards me with those steady steel-grey eyes. “It’s you I want. You can pay me back by spreading your legs, curling into me, moaning my name. You can pay me back by coming around my cock whenever I want, however I want.”

Fuck. Now I can’t eat. Damn it, I can barely stop myself from trembling. I clench my thighs and tighten my core, hoping my pulse stops racing.

Say something. Anything that isn’t about his cock.

“You… uh… must know Mr. Fournier well.” Good recovery.

One eyebrow lifts in wry amusement, then he nods, acknowledging I’ve done some digging. “He’s a friend.”

“Oh.”

Van Wyk dabs his lips with his napkin, dropping it carelessly on the table beside his now-empty plate. Mine’s still half-full, but I set down my fork. He watches me, expression as guarded as ever. Even now, even after what’s just been said, there’s still no hint of a smile.

Now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t get it out of my head. What will it take to make this man happy? Not satisfied, not merely content, but actually happy.

“Why do you never smile?”

He picks up his wine glass, leaning back in his chair. “I do, but only in the dark.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

It makes me want to pry.

“You must smile when you’re having fun.”

“I suppose.”

A flatter delivery I’ve never before received, and he’s tensed up, like the conversation is making him uncomfortable.

Good.

“Is this making you nervous, Van Wyk?” I smile, because I can. “So you’re not infallible. Good to know.”

“Far from infallible. And I’d be more likely to smile if you called me Lukas.”