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Qasim appreciated the subject change. though he’d expected them to return to the lower level first. The tour had ended in the entertainment parlor outside her bedroom suite.
Vectra didn’t believe she’d consciously ended things there on purpose. Subconsciously... She wouldn’t bet on it. Given how heated things had been between them earlier that night, serious discussion in the bedroom was perhaps not the best idea.
So be it, Vectra thought.
She got comfortable in the spot she’d selected on a wide chair upholstered in a print of violet, coral and hunter-green flora. The chair flanked an overstuffed sofa fashioned with recliners on either end of the U-shaped piece.
“Why can’t we be friends, Qasim?”
“I told you why. I want you in bed.”
“And wanting me in bed is a problem because...”
He began to walk the room, gradually pleased by her decision to talk there. It had a calming effect. An area rug covered gleaming hardwood and carried the same designs as the chair she occupied. The paint adorning the walls had a grainy texture, and the color was a mix of the same tones woven into the rug and furniture upholstery. The combination was sponged upon the walls and gave the image of a sky at sunset.
“Do you remember me telling you I was in the army?” He watched her nod.
“I went in right after high school, stayed until my midtwenties, started my business while I was in college afterwards.”
He smiled in a manner Vectra thought was adorably bashful.
“I have a talent for getting people to trust me with their money,” he added.
Vectra tugged her legs beneath her on the chair. “It’s a good thing you also have a talent for making them more of it.”
Qasim replied with only a half smile. “In the army, people trusted me to kill, and I had a talent for that, too.”
She blinked, a somberness filtering her wide, entrancing eyes. “And this is why you don’t want me in your bed? Because you enjoyed your army obligations a little too much?”
“Part of what led me to the army is still very much a part of who I am. I don’t have an insatiable urge to kill, but I believe deep down I’m still more prone to violence than I should be.”
She leaned forward. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”
“You don’t know me, Vectra.”
“Because you won’t let me.”
“Vectra, a guy like me...the kind of guy I have the potential to be...you don’t need that. Not after what you’ve had to deal with.”
Vectra shrank back, blinked. Reluctant understanding nudged aside the somberness in her gaze. “How do you know that?” Slowly, she shook her head. “You...you can’t know that...”
Qasim crossed to her, shredding the distance between them in that stealthy manner of his. He reached down, fingering the clipped strands of her hair before cradling her elegant jaw in his wide palm.
“I know it, honey. I know it.”
She expelled a puff of breath, blinking rapidly as though she were attempting to swat away the truth. She didn’t want to sit anymore and left the chair only to stumble and claim a spot on the sofa. Deep cold penetrated her bones, causing her entire body to tremble. She looked at Qasim. Disbelief coursed her veins motivated by the knowledge that he knew about her the very last thing she ever wanted him to.
* * *
Qasim went to his knees beside the sofa where Vectra sat, but she extended a hand to urge him to keep his distance.
“How? How do you...” She kept her face turned away from him. Tears hadn’t left the cradle of her eyes; they had merely pooled there. She swore that was all they would do. Never again would she cry over the weakness she’d once given freedom to rule her.
“Who told you?” She approved of the strength she heard in her voice.
Qasim toyed with the silken fabric of her flaring skirt. “I had drinks with Oliver a while back.”
Tears fell then out of anguish instead of self-pity. With an enraged cry, Vectra bolted from her place on the sofa.
“Oliver...damn you...” she whispered.
Regretting his honesty, Qasim drew a fist, which he slammed upon the vacated couch. Vectra had moved across the room, appearing to study a waterscape portrait on the wall. He read her profile and surmised that she wasn’t really seeing the artwork.
“In Oliver’s defense, I doubt he remembers saying anything to me.” Qasim sat in the chair, leaning forward and bracing elbows to knees. “We got pretty drunk that night.”
“How’d my name even come up?” Her voice was thick around the sob lodged in her throat.
“We’d finished talking business.” Qasim shrugged, a wry smile defining his lush mouth. “I asked how you were doing. Oliver couldn’t hide his concern, told me he and your father wanted you to stop locking yourself away.” Qasim sighed, massaging his eyes in an attempt to hide the rage stirring there. “He said that in spite of your friends and the gallery, romantic involvement was something you still shied away from. He said he knew it was because of that jackass who ‘touched you’ was the way he put it.”
