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“Thank you,” I reply grudgingly.
His lips quirk. “You’re welcome.”
With that genuine almost-smile on his face, he’s even more handsome. His features are hard and uncompromising, but so virile. My body heats in response, my stomach fluttering with an echo of this morning’s orgasms when I think of what we’ve done. The arousal is untimely, the attraction uncontrollable. But recollections of sex with him isn’t what warms my chest. It’s that fact that he’s giving that semblance of a smile to me and no one else.
The exclusivity makes me feel special. It’s the same feeling I get when he takes me to bed and showers me with twisted lust and intense passion. When he fucks, he pours everything into the act, as if the woman on the receiving end is his beginning and end. I desperately want to believe it. I want to believe I’m the only one. That’s why knowing he fucked the waitress hurts so much. Because I want to be more than just another woman he fucked. I want to be someone special to somebody before it all ends.
No, not just somebody. I want to mean something to him.
At the revelation, I give an internal start. Since when does what he thinks matter to me? This is dangerous ground. Something about this man is getting through my shields, penetrating the comforting numbness that has encased me since my parents’ deaths. I better be careful. It will be so damn stupid to fall for him. I don’t want to die with a broken heart after it’s been frozen for so long. It’s bad enough I’ll be his prisoner until I blow out my last breath.
The waitress arrives with our food. She serves two plates of squid ink risotto with grilled prawns.
“White wine?” she asks Yan.
He looks at me.
“Not for me, thank you.” I’m already buzzing from the glass of champagne I’ve downed.
“Just mineral water, please,” he says, barely paying the woman attention.
She scoffs at his aloofness and leaves.
“I hope you like seafood.” He picks up his fork and gestures for me to do the same. “I should’ve asked.”
“I’m not a fussy eater.” I’ve survived on bugs and worms on some of the more difficult missions.
He loads his fork, brings it to his mouth, and watches me expectantly. He wants me to like the food. Why, I can’t fathom. What does he care? I’m hungry, however, and I know from experience a good appetite isn’t something I should take for granted. It’ll become worse as the days go by. Eating will become difficult.
Making the most of the favor my body is granting me, I take a bite. The savory flavors explode in my mouth. The risotto is al-dente and the sauce creamy. The shellfish tastes of garlic butter. I can’t help but close my eyes as I hum my approval. When I open them again, Yan is regarding me with a pleased expression.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says.
A waiter arrives with our water and pours two glasses. I suppose Yan’s non-interest offended the waitress. I’m relieved that I get to enjoy my meal without the hurtful reminder of her presence.
I finish every morsel on my plate and even the freshly baked bread roll. When Yan asks if I’d like dessert, I ask for coffee, too.
“You’re feeling better,” he observes.
There’s no way to explain my ups and downs, so I simply shrug.
He lifts the bottle from the ice bucket. “More champagne?”
“No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”
He pours himself another glass as the waiter reappears with strawberry pavlova and our coffee. My mouth waters at the sight of the delicate meringue crust filled with fresh berries drenched in a red fruit reduction.
It tastes every bit as good as it looks. I’m halfway through devouring my portion when I feel Yan’s stare on me. Lifting my eyes, I find him studying me with a disconcerting look, his pavlova almost untouched.
I swallow the bite I took and dab my mouth with the napkin. “What’s wrong?”
His gaze follows my action. “The cut won’t leave a scar.”
“Excuse me?”
“The cut on your lip. It’s healed. In a few days, the mark will be gone.”
“I suppose.”
He studies my eyes. “Bruises too. They’ve all but faded.”
“Um, yes.” Suddenly feeling self-conscious about my appearance, I touch my hair. I showered, but I haven’t made an effort to look presentable. Certainly nothing like the well-groomed waitress with her perfectly styled hair and carefully applied makeup.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he says.
“What?”
“The mercenaries. They weren’t supposed to beat you.”
My craving for the sweet treat vanishes. I put down my desert fork. “I fought them.”
His smile is flat but not unkind. “Of course, you did.”
He didn’t want me to get beaten up? What am I supposed to make of that? “What are you trying to say? Are you offering me an apology?”
“Yes.” The word is firm, a strong affirmation that surprises me. His next words are spoken harshly, and are even more surprising. “I’m dealing with them.”
