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He found her coming out of the kitchen, a bottle of water in her hand. The hallway wasn’t dark or remotely dangerous, but the way she froze, wary and wide-eyed, they might as well have been in one of the dark alleys in the Bronx where he’d been forced to fight for his survival as a young rebel. It’d been one of those skirmishes in a dark alley that had seen him end up in juvenile detention. He’d thought then that things couldn’t get any bleaker. He’d been wrong.
Xandro exhaled abruptly, noting that the satisfaction he’d felt earlier, observing her discomfort, no longer lingered. In fact he was growing increasingly irritated by her skittishness around him, and by the fact that every time he was around her he recalled the darker circumstances of a past he’d rather keep under lock and key.
These days he used his intellect for mastering his opponents in the boardroom but there’d been times when he’d let his height and fists do the talking. He’d had very little choice then, after letting anger and frustration pull him down the wrong path. He’d learned very quickly that the streets were no place for complacency or soft-heartedness. He liked to think that each encounter while he’d been in the gang had been a necessity that prolonged his life, but the memory lived like a burr under his skin now, fused into who he was for ever.
The charity he’d set up—to build youth centres in his mother’s name to help disadvantaged families in rundown neighbourhoods like the one he’d grown up in—was thriving. He could never wash away the dirty stain of being a gang member, or the knowledge that he’d caused fear and intimidation just by proclaiming himself as a thug, but at least his charity was helping kids like he’d once been.
And the one small satisfaction he could find in all the past mess was that he’d never stooped to stealing from anyone. Witnessing his family’s pain and disgrace on that front had imprinted on him a vow never to take what was not his. There were many sins he detested but could forgive. Stealing and everything it entailed struck too close to home to forgive.
‘You obviously came looking for me. Again. So are you going to say something or is this a staring contest?’ Sage demanded, dragging his attention back to the present.
He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from shoving them through his hair in frustration, and gritted his teeth. ‘Has no one taught you how to tame that tongue?’
A shadow crossed her face, but she raised her chin. ‘No one’s found fault with it. Until now.’
He strolled towards her, noting her scent became a little more alluring the closer he got. He inhaled again and drew in a mix of lilac and roses. Xandro found his gaze tracing her slender neck, the valley between her breasts, her wrists, wondering on which pulse points she’d dabbed the scent. When his imagination conjured up a picture of her doing all of the above he gave an inward curse. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
Her gaze flicked past him for a moment before it returned to his. Xandro got the feeling he’d hit a touchy subject.
‘What you choose to believe is up to you. May I go now?’ she asked.
‘No, you may not. Tell me where your brother is.’
Her head jerked back a little at his abrupt reply, bringing his attention up to her flaming hair. Yet again. It was coiled in its customary knot on top of her head. As he stared, Xandro was assailed with a driving need to free it, see for himself how long it was. Whether it was as silky as it looked.
‘I told you, I don’t know. And no amount of manipulation on your part is going to get you a different answer.’
He took another step closer. In all their previous meetings she’d either been barefoot or wearing her dancer’s flats. Tonight her heels brought her a little closer to his height although she still had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. As he looked into clear green eyes, he experienced the barest rumble of the earth beneath his feet. Ruthlessly, he pushed the sensation away.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he replied. ‘If I recall, you said you wouldn’t tell me even if you knew.’
Her gaze remained squarely on his—something most people wouldn’t attempt when it came to face to face confrontations with him. A tiny bit of that grudging respect threatened to surface. ‘That was... I was annoyed with you.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘You know why. You were overbearing. Same way you’re being now.’
‘By all means, don’t hold back.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Do you enjoy making people feel uncomfortable, Mr Christofides?’ she asked.
‘I enjoy stating, and receiving, the truth. Do I make you uncomfortable?’
Her lips might have flattened but they still drew his attention to their plump, sensual curve, and the mounting need to test if they were as soft as they looked. ‘Not at all. I can’t say the same for everyone in the dining room ten minutes ago, though.’
‘You find what I said objectionable?’
She blinked, and her gaze dropped. ‘Not exactly. I just think you could’ve been a little less preachy about it. You made one half of the room self-conscious about losing and the other half guilty for winning.’
‘I speak my mind without seeing the value of couching it in soft words. Which brings me to my next question. Are you sleeping with him?’
Her eyes widened. ‘With who?’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Matt. Mark. That male dancer.’
Delicately winged eyebrows rose. ‘Michael?’
‘Whatever. Are you?’ he pressed, telling himself he needed an outlet for his rumbling emotions, and perhaps changing the subject was the best way to achieve that.
