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The door closes behind me just as I hear Hawk’s voice.
“Mother fucker,” he says. “Just make sure the family’s taken care of.”
He ducks his head as he descends the stairs and when his strange eyes meet mine it feels like a thousand butterflies take flight in my stomach.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he says, eyes on me as he disconnects the call and tucks his phone into the pocket of his suit jacket.
The house looks tiny with him in it. Not to mention old and dusty.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, taking a step back when he comes to stand just a few feet from me.
He shrugs a shoulder. “That lock wasn’t keeping anyone out.”
I look at the door and remember I’d only used the lock on the doorknob the other night.
“Don’t worry, I’ll fix what I broke.”
There’s that accent again. And it’s so subtle, I imagine most people don’t notice it at all.
I turn back to find he’s moved closer. His gaze roams over my face, travels down to my chest, then back up to my eyes.
“Get out,” he says.
“What?” I ask.
But then his men leave. He was talking to them.
“Why did you refuse the ride this morning?”
I step backward to give myself space. Room to breathe. I turn my attention to putting my keys and tote down on the table by the door.
“I didn’t need it.”
“You took a bus.”
When I turn, it’s to find him in the same place still watching me. “What’s wrong with the bus? Men like you don’t ride it, I guess? Too good for public transportation?”
He chuckles, shifts his weight to one leg. “Men like me?”
I shrug a shoulder, hoping I look calmer than I feel because my heart is racing and in my mind are images of the way he looked last night. The way he looks under those clothes.
Images of the way he looked at me.
“I don’t mind public transportation,” I say, my voice coming out strange.
“No, please, explain the men like you part?” he says, stepping forward.
It takes all I have not to back up. “Don’t you have a stable of women available to you at any moment of the day?”
He cocks his head to the side. “What does that have to do with public transportation?”
I flounder. Why did I even say that?
“Or are you jealous?” he asks.
“Jealous?”
“Of those women. My stable. Maybe you’d like to join—”
“No. I…of course not. Just forget it. What do you want? Why are you here?”
I swear he comes even closer if that’s possible. “Take better care with your words, Melissa Chase.”
I note the emphasis on my borrowed last name. I wonder what he knows and why he’d care to know anything at all.
“Where are you going?” He breaks away and I can breathe again.
“What?”
“Half-packed bag upstairs.”
Shit. “You had no business going through my house.”
“I wanted to see where you live. And by the way, you’re messy.”
“Why did you want to see where I live?”
He shrugs his shoulder now. “Curious.” He looks at my wrist, at the bracelet there.
I cover it with my other hand.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.
“I was unpacking, actually,” I lie.
He studies me like he doesn’t quite believe me but then he drops it.
“Do you have whiskey?” he asks, turning to walk into the small living room. I’m pretty sure this entire house fits inside one room of his penthouse
I shake my head when he looks at me. “I have vodka.”
“That’ll do.”
I exhale and walk into the kitchen to get the bottle of Absolut out of the freezer. I take out two water glasses, not wanting to feel embarrassed but feeling it anyway.
I don’t have a lot of nice things. No crystal tumblers. My furniture is second-hand. Most of my clothes too. I’ve never been embarrassed by it before.
“Ice?” I ask, not turning around.
“No. Dilutes it.”
Of course, it does. He wouldn’t want that.
I pour the vodka and go back into the living room. I hand him his and when his fingertips brush mine, it makes my breath catch. It’s like electricity, that spark, and all I can think when I’m around him, when I smell his aftershave, is how he looked at me. How he touched me. Held me.
How he had his mouth on me.
I swallow my vodka in one go.
He chuckles. “Do I make you nervous?”
I try to chuckle too, but it just comes out weird. “Yeah, actually, you do.” I don’t lie. What’s the point of lying to him about this?
He takes this in. Drinks a sip of his vodka.
He looks around again. “No photos, Melissa. Not anywhere in the house.”
“I haven’t had a chance to unpack them,” I lie.
He turns back to me, swallows the rest of his drink. “You’ve lived here for years.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Why did you lie to me just now?”
