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I blinked. I hadn't expected him to say that. “And the baby pictures?” I said.
“Who keeps baby pictures of themselves around?” he asked me.
I stomped my foot. “You know what I mean,” I said. “Where are pictures of your family? And friends? You have family and friends, right?”
For a long moment he regarded me intently. “I see,” he said at last. “We're at this portion of the program now, are we?”
I stiffened. “What do you mean?”
He stood very still. “You said you wanted to know more about me. That's fair enough. Unlike you, I don't have a blog that you can check.” I knew I should have deleted that thing. “But I want things from you in return.”
Licking my lips, I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I never thought it would be otherwise.”
He glanced at the door behind me. “Have you been trying to get into the basement?” he wondered.
“I thought you might have a sex dungeon down there.”
That caught him off guard, and he laughed. I noticed that when he laughed, he always looked shocked, as though I had somehow inspired something foreign and strange in him. Visibly choking it down, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, there's no sex dungeon here.”
I noted that he didn't say there wasn't a sex dungeon at all, but I let that lie for now. “So what's down there?”
He shook his head. “Nothing of import.” Stepping forward, he put his hands on my arms, wrapping them in the warmth of his palms. A shiver raced across my skin at the contact.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you would like a glass of wine? And we can talk?”
Yes, I thought. God, yes. Anything to take the edge off. But out loud all I could do was say, “That sounds great.”
He gestured toward the kitchen. I slipped past him and the heat radiating from his body made my mouth go dry. He was like an overclocked machine. A sex machine.
Man, I should have been a poet.
In the kitchen, Anton opened the refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of white wine. I stood awkwardly by the sink as he popped the cork and poured out two glasses. Handing me one, he lifted it in a little salute. I did the same and swallowed half of it in one gulp.
Anton watched me. “I don't mean to make you nervous,” he said at last.
“You don't,” I said automatically. Which was a total lie and he knew it, so I just shrugged. “You kind of terrify me more than make me nervous.”
He raised his brows. “Do I? Why is that?”
“Oh... you know...” I said.
He shook his head.
I sighed and swallowed the rest of my wine, letting its bitterness curl over my tongue while I tried to form a complete thought. Without asking, Anton poured me another glass.
“That,” I said.
“What?”
“You're a business guy. You make me nervous because you act like you own me.” As I said it, I realized it was true. For the same reason I hated men like my father, Anton's intensity, his possessiveness, made me on edge, for more reasons than one. His touch branded me, but a brand is not a fence. On one level, being his was attractive, delicious, overwhelmingly submissive. On another, I couldn't help but feel he was slowly ensnaring me in a web, building a cage around me from which I could not escape.
Sadie told me to get over my parents, but how could I when I was suddenly in the same situation?
“I don't mean to act that way,” Anton said, cutting through my thoughts. “You are my wife. It is my pleasure to pour a glass of wine for you.”
“Yes,” I said, “but I'm your wife despite the fact that we didn't go through the whole getting-to-know-you phase. That's... that's kind of important, I think.”
He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “I hate that phase,” he said at last. “It seems to me to have been prudent to skip it.”
