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Luca’s father might be exactly as cold and dead inside as he is, but he does a much better job of hiding it. Maybe he has to. Unlike Luca, his father has a real business, a business that might rise and fall on the merit of his public image.
He might appear more pleasant than his son, but is he more fuckable? That’s the question I ponder as I watch him interact with his peers, all those rich self-satisfied fuckwads. Luca is fuckable, I suppose, in the way a robot might be fuckable. Like you know it’s wrong to want to fuck it, but you still want to do it.
His father, classic good looks, with the grey eyes and pale hair and toothy smile, is fuckable in the way any other man is fuckable; like you would do it only by default of him being a breathing human being with a dick.
But it doesn’t matter, does it? If I fucked Luca’s dad, it wouldn’t be for fun. If I fucked Luca’s dad, it would be just to fuck with Luca’s head. To fuck with his head and prove something to him.
Maybe even to prove something to myself.
To my surprise, it’s Sir Fletch who approaches me even before I’ve decided whether or not I should go through with the stupid bet I made in the limo. I take his hand with a shrug and follow him onto the dance floor, where the rich elite play pretend with fancy dancework.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Lynch?” Sir Fletch asks, grey eyes on mine. “Enjoying your little foray into our world?”
The implication in his words isn’t subtle. Luckily, Papa Fletch is far from the first person to remind me how unwelcome someone like me is in this particular world.
I exert enough self-control to give him a good-natured response. “I’m like Cinderella at the ball.”
“I must admit, Miss Lynch, both Henrietta and I expected you to work a little harder to avoid us tonight.”
“Why would I avoid you?”
“Because you cannot be so naive as to believe we approve for even one second of our son’s relationship with you.”
“I don’t believe either of you know even the first thing about our relationship,” I say, speaking still with that sweet intonation that men both despise and love at the same time.
“I don’t need to know the sordid details of my son’s proclivities,” Mr Fletcher-Lowe says, “to know you’re nothing but trouble.”
“Don’t you trust that your son can look after himself?” My voice drips with false concern like it’s syrup. Luca’s dad answers with an equally false smile.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want? You could save time. You could save yourself the burden of having to put up with my son’s… particularities. Whatever it is you’re after—you could just get it. I’d give it to you in exchange for nothing else but your disappearance from his life.”
We’ve drifted to the edges of the dance floor, our steps slowing until we’re standing face-to-face with our arms still around one another.
“It’s a tempting offer,” I tell Luca’s dad. “But I don’t need your money.”
“I’m not talking about money. You’re a pretty enough girl, the enterprising kind, willing to get as low as you need to get for what you want. I’m sure if money is what you were after, you’d be married to a millionaire or a duke by now.”
I tilt my head, looking into Sir Fletcher-Lowe’s face, the businesslike artificial warmth back in place in his features. Twice tonight, I’ve been offered something I want. Both times, it felt like a trap. But I’m not one to ignore an opportunity, even if it does seem too good to be true.
“Anything?” I give him a soft smile. “What if the thing I want isn’t within your power to give?”
“You’d be hard-pressed to name a single thing that’s not within my power to give.”
“Hm.” I tug on the hair at the nape of his neck, just enough to startle him with the sudden contact. “You’re a difficult man to resist, you know. Not at all like your son.”
He smiles. His smile looks genuine—he probably thinks he’s won this particular negotiation. People around us are turning, glancing—noticing. He doesn’t seem to care, and I certainly don’t.
“You don’t have to resist,” he says.
I bite into my bottom lip. “Your son likes it when I resist.”
Mr Fletcher-Lowe’s eyes narrow. For a moment, he’s completely silent, and then his hands tighten ever so slightly around my waist.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” he says eventually, that artificial warmth vanishing from his voice.
But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t put distance between us. I tug slowly at the flesh of my lip, dragging my teeth, and his eyes follow the movement.
“You’re a good father,” I whisper, poisonously sweet. “I wish I had such a nice father.”
