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“Classy place,” she said, after surrendering her menu. “Not a single chicken finger in sight.”
He couldn’t tell if she was making fun of his age or the food or both. Some of his satisfaction melted away. “I wouldn’t take you to a dive.”
“Maybe I like dives.” She leaned her chin on her fist, in a studied way that exposed the art on her nails. “You didn’t ask what I like. Younger men never do.”
“You shouldn’t generalize,” he said. “It’s a poor way to assess character.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I play characters. I don’t write them.”
Despite his irritation, he could feel himself rising to the banter, already searching for the words that would let him win. She had always seemed to take a perverse pleasure in criticism, and he had, just as perversely, enjoyed it, because it meant she cared enough to criticize.
“Everyone has a story inside them,” he said at last, leaning back. “I’m sure you do, too.”
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “Here’s mine. Once upon a time, a foolish, star-struck girl decided she wanted to make movies because she didn’t want to work in her mother’s café her whole life. It was a mistake she made, the first of many. And then that girl grew up and learned that the stars always burn those foolish enough to reach for them.”
“Sad story.”
She shrugged. “At least I’m not the villain in mine.”
Rafe felt his jaw tighten and from the fierce triumph in her expression, he knew that she had seen it. “I’m all you have,” he pointed out, undoing his cuffs and rolling the sleeves up. “Even my father—” but he cut himself off, deciding not to mention the photographs he’d found. “You need me,” he said instead. “Even if I’m still just an unworldly little boy to you.”
“I bet you’re just loving this,” she said acidly. “Having me at your mercy.”
“I’ve wanted you for ten years.” He folded his arms and leaned forward, and saw her fight the urge to lean back. “What have you waited ten years for? And how would you feel when you finally got it? I’m trying to be gracious in victory but yes—I have you exactly where I want you.”
She glared at him. “And you’re proud of this?”
“No.” He picked up his cocktail, letting the amber liquid fill his throat with its subdued fire. “But when did being noble ever get anyone what they want?”
The food arrived, along with another round of drinks. Donni had already drained her first sugary-sweet martini and was looking a little peaky. He watched her drain half of the second and then press the heel of her hand to her face, where her fucking Cartier bracelet caught the light.
“You’re a bastard.”
“You’ve met my mother,” he said. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
“God.” She let her hand fall to the table. “What a fucked-up thing to say.”
“We’re a fucked-up family,” he pointed out. “We can’t choose our families. Didn’t you tell me that?”
“Probably. I told you a lot of things—not that I ever thought you listened to me.” She frowned, like she was trying to remember something. It made lines form between her perfectly arched brows. “I saw how she treated you at the funeral.”
“She’s not well.”
“No, but that doesn’t mean that she can’t be unfeeling.”
“To be honest, with all the meds they’ve pumped her up with, I don’t think she feels much of anything anymore.” Rafe put a few pieces of everything on their plates, taking advantage of her distraction to give her more than she’d take for herself. “Tell me about your mother. I don’t think I ever met her.”
Donni traced the rim of her glass, flicking sugar to the floor. There were a few grains clinging to her lip. He wanted to suck them off before kissing her dizzy. “She wouldn’t have liked you,” she said, staring at the coupe glass. “She was strict.”
“I wasn’t exactly a hellion,” he said dryly. “I bet you were, though.”
She ignored that, though he thought her cheeks might have gotten a little darker. “She didn’t approve of my marriage to your father—or my acting career. My mother was very traditional. She didn’t want me to leave New York. She wanted me to stay close to home. She thought I should marry someone from her church and have children of my own. When I didn’t come back after my father died, she saw it as a betrayal. She needed me; and I wasn’t there. But my sister was.”
“So she got all the points.”
That line formed between her eyebrows again. He thought she was going to snap at him; she looked like she was thinking about it. She sighed instead. “Yeah, I guess. My sister always was the favorite. She looks the most like my mother. And I . . . don’t.” Her eyes flicked to his and then away. “When I told her what happened with Johnathan, she wasn’t as sympathetic as she could have been. She told me that I’d have to choose between the career I’d chosen for myself, or seeking out justice. I’ve never been able to decide which was worse: that she said it to me in front of my kid sister, or that she ended up being right.”
Jesus. “And you called my mother unfeeling.”
