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She watched him head toward the little kitchen, from where he fetched some bowls, utensils, and napkins.
He ordered her to sit. It seemed petty to refuse. She did still have her handbag with her, which contained the gun. It made her feel just a little safer, as long as she continued to lie to herself.
Except it wasn’t so much her life she was worried about.
It was her body.
Margo had told her their chef, Maureen, made the heartiest classic stew this side of Colorado. Maureen sent it to them in an insulated dish, and it was still steamy hot.
She went from sampling just a little because her hunger had been snacking on her nerves the whole time, but she ended up finishing what Declan had served her and pairing it with a chunk of home-baked bread.
Declan said nothing, but his gaze, unbothered by the fact that she caught him staring at her brazenly, unnerved her.
Why her? And was she ready to know the answer?
“Why me?”
“Because you’re fucking beautiful,” he said matter-of-factly as if that answered her question completely.
She glared at him, knowing he was playing games with her, but she wasn’t going to fall for them. She was smarter.
She hoped.
In all her life, if someone had told her she would find herself in this position, she would have called them insane.
Yet here she was.
Sitting opposite an unprecedented assassin, eating stew and bread while her body continued to go around in circles, trying to explain his effect on her.
She needed to take charge of the situation. Besides, she still needed that minute away from him. Standing from the table, she retrieved the gun and handcuffs from her handbag and directed him to the table she had picked out for him before they were interrupted by the arrival of their dinner.
Lucky for him, there was a high-back velvet chair near the table so Mr. Foster could get comfortable. He was going to be tied up for a long time anyway.
“Is this still necessary?” He drawled, although he did her bidding, took the seat, and then offered her his hand.
“Yes,” she murmured. As clinically as she could, she cuffed the wrist of one of his hands.
“How did you know about this place?” she asked. The question slipped from her mouth before she could stop herself.
“Dom intuition. It takes a Dom to know one,” he said softly, leaning close to her.
She tilted her head up, then swallowed so hard it hurt her throat. She felt her pulse beat maniacally on the sides of her neck. Her hands started to quiver as an image of Declan yielding a crop to a woman tied up for his mercy blitzed through her mind.
She blinked too fast when that woman turned out to be her. She didn’t even know why she was having these reactions to him in the first place.
They had files and files of information on Declan Foster, but they really knew nothing about him. Yet the thought of him with another woman turned her nerves upside down, and that convinced her he was messing with her, pretending to be a Dom. Although… no. She wasn’t going there.
Her intention had been to cuff his wrist to the leg of the table, but she turned bright red when Declan offered her a metal ring from the underside of the table, specifically meant for restraining someone, but obviously in a kinky way. She tried to be nonchalant, but she was so out of her depth.
But sadly, even restrained, he still took up way too much of her personal space and continued to mess with her head and her body.
“And the chandelier, of course,” he grinned.
Peyton did the stupid thing of blushing. She knew there was something… odd about the magnificent chandelier in the main lounge of the hotel. She convinced herself that she was imagining things when she saw the chandelier, thinking it resembled butt plugs.
“You look tired. You should get some rest.”
“Let’s get this straight. You’remyprisoner, so my welfare is none of your concern.”
