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Chapter seven
There wasn’t an aggressive bone in my body. I never had a reason for it. People were always my friend, either out of need or obligation. The palace had guards. I was sometimes outspoken—usually out of curiosity—but I never picked fights. I was every bit the princess my mother bred me to be.
Until now.
Now, I was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, with a knife I’d found in the kitchen tucked between the cushions of the sofa, patiently waiting for the enemy to come home.
As I peered out over the city, catching a glimpse of the river just beyond the buildings, I heard an electronic ping, followed by the sound of the elevator doors sliding open. There was movement in the glass, a reflection moving closer into view, a silhouette of hard lines and rough edges concealed beneath the expensive fabric of a custom-fit suit.
Slowly, cautiously, I turned to face him, holding my breath. Spellbound, I took in the sharp curve of his jaw and the five o’clock shadow that covered it. A few strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, stopping before hiding his bright green eyes. Which were a striking contrast to his tanned skin. His full lips set in a line that said he was either pissed off or unimpressed. Or both. He shrugged his suit jacket off, then tossed it over the back of a chair as he walked further into the room. The light-blue button-up he wore clung to his biceps and shoulders the same way his dark blue pants hugged his thighs.
Every image I’d conjured up of this man in the last couple of hours was wrong. So. Very. Wrong.
Well, the devil did start out as an angel.
My stomach clenched. Suddenly the large, open room felt too small for the both of us.
Definitely not forty.
He didn’t look a day over twenty-five.
“Hello, Princess,” he said, his voice nothing but deep, velvety smoothness that slid over my body like a silk robe on smooth skin.
I swallowed, hating myself for reacting to him this way. I should have wanted to run. “You must be Chandler.”
He lifted a brow. “Well, I’m not the pizza guy.”
My whole life, I’d been trained to wear the mask. Smile. Nod. Placate. It was as ingrained in me as knowing my own name. And right now, I was going to wear that mask, appease this man, then get him close enough to use that knife to get out of here. I forced a small smile, trying to break the tension in the air. “I thought you’d be older.”
“And I thought I’d have the place to myself tonight.” He smirked, and for some reason it made my heart thunder in my chest. “I guess we’re both shit out of luck.” Judgment, sarcasm, and contempt laced his every word.
He didn’t know I was going to be here.He didn’twantme here.Maybe I wouldn’t need the knife. Maybe he wanted me gone as much as I wanted to be gone.
Part of me wondered if Grey had forced this upon him as much as he had me.
Part of me was disappointed by his rejection.
I flicked that part away like a bug on my shoulder.
The mask slipped, just a hint, and my eyes narrowed on him. Once I’d put the mask on, itneverslipped. Not even when strangers’ babies puked on me and old ladies asked why I wasn’t married yet. This man had managed to make me do it within seconds.
“One phone call to my father should clear things up and have me out of your way.” If it was a ransom they were looking for, this was their chance.
He tilted his head, studying me the way a lion probably watched a mouse right before snatching it by the tail. “Sorry, Princess. Daddy’s not going to help you this time.”
I took a step toward him. “Then why am I here? What do you want from me?”
No answer. Just the same intense glare and a slight tic of his jaw.
“Is it money?”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and sighed as if he were bored.
I stepped closer to the sofa where I’d hidden the knife, closer tohim—a colossal mistake because now his scent was all around me, a heady blend of woods and spice. Masculine. Just like everything else about him. “Why aren’t you answering my questions?”
“Because you’re asking the wrong ones.” His lips curved in a small smile, like he was entertained by the whole thing. “And unless you’ve been standing here plotting some kind of kinky knife-play, I suggest you leave my knives in the kitchen where they belong.” His gaze dropped to the sofa, then back up at me before grabbing the knife and walking it back to the kitchen.
So much for threatening him at knife-point to let me go.
