Bound By My Scandalous Pregnancy / Redemption Of The Untamed Italian. Clare Connelly
I watched, slack jawed, as he deftly uncorked the bottle and set it aside to breathe.
Catching my expression, he narrowed his eyes. ‘Something wrong?’
I swallowed. ‘Nothing that doesn’t involve my wondering if you normally share expensive bottles of wine with criminals before sending them to their doom.’
His gaze hooded, he shrugged. ‘Satisfying your curiosity isn’t on my agenda, so you’ll just have to keep wondering. Eat.’
I toyed with refusing the order. But I was starving. And, really, he didn’t have to feed me. With one quick call he could have Wendell tossing me out. Staying might grant me the opportunity to make another plea for mercy.
I placed two beautifully wrapped vine leaves onto my plate, then added a couple of spoonfuls of Greek salad. About to lift my fork, I paused when his eyes narrowed again, this time on my plate.
‘You haven’t eaten all day and that’s all you’re having?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded at one of the many platters. ‘The kopanisti won’t keep. Don’t let it go to waste.’ He picked up serving tongs and caught up a dish of salad, roast peppers and an orange paste laid in between two crisp flatbreads. ‘Try it,’ he said.
Tentatively, I picked up the large morsel and bit into it. Sensations exploded in my mouth as the orange paste, which turned out to be the most incredible aged feta, combined with everything else immediately became the best thing I’d ever tasted—which in turn triggered a groan of appreciation before I could stop myself.
Perhaps my vivid imagination was playing tricks on me, but I could have sworn Neo swallowed hard at that moment, and I felt his tension ramping up.
Abruptly, he spooned several more items onto my plate, then reached for the wine bottle. ‘Would you like some wine?’
The chance to try the jaw-droppingly expensive vintage, especially considering that my fate hung in the balance, was too much to resist. ‘Just a little, please.’
After pouring two glasses, he chose steamed white cod and a spoonful of salad himself, which he polished off with a military efficiency that spoke of fuel intake rather than enjoyment. Then he simply sat, slowly twirling the stem of his wine glass, lifting it occasionally to his lips as he watched me eat.
Self-conscious, and reluctant to broach the ultrasensitive subject of my crime, I stilled my tongue in favour of enjoying the most exquisite meal I’d had in a long time, all the while painfully aware that his gaze hadn’t shifted from me.
‘Which university?’
I started. ‘What?’
‘Your marketing degree,’ he expounded.
I named it, and again caught the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes as he slotted the information away, his long fingers still twirling his glass.
‘Do you like aeroplanes?’ he asked abruptly, after another stretch of silence.
‘Who doesn’t?’
His lips tightened and his gaze dropped to my empty plate, then shifted to the platters of lamb cutlets, grilled meatballs, roasted vegetables and bread.
Sensing he was about to push more food on me, I sat back. ‘That was delicious. Thank you.’
He frowned, then lifted the lid off a dish set apart from the main courses. The scent of spun sugar and warm pastry washed over me, almost eliciting another groan. I’d been cursed with a sweet tooth—one that needed constant attention.
‘Dessert?’ he offered gruffly, pushing the baklava directly in front of me.
The sight of the perfect little squares of delight was too much to resist. At my helpless nod, he placed four pieces on a fresh plate and slid it in front of me, again seemingly content to simply sit back and watch me eat.
Perhaps this was Neo Xenakis’s method of torture. To feed me until I burst.
At that mildly hysterical thought, I let my gaze flick up to meet his. Again that spark flared in his eyes, and the charge seized me, causing tingles from my palms to my toes.
‘If it wasn’t for this wholly unfortunate situation, I’d think you didn’t want me to leave,’ I mused. Then immediately cursed my runaway tongue.
He froze, his grey eyes turning as turbulent as a lightning storm. His hand tightened around his glass, his fingers turning white.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he interrupted, his voice low, rough and raw, as if scrabbled from a pit of utter despair. ‘Maybe I don’t want you to leave. Maybe I need you sitting there in front of me as a reminder of what has happened. Of the fact that the nightmare you brought to my doorstep isn’t one I can wake up from.’
The utter bleakness in his tone launched a lump into my throat. My fingers tightened in my lap as the need to reach out, to lay my hand on his or cup that rigid jaw, powered through me. I did neither, sensing it wouldn’t be welcome.
‘Is it really that hopeless? Is there no chance that things can be salvaged?’ My question was a desperate one. But the thought that things could really be so dire for a man so incredibly masculine and virile looking seemed unthinkable to me.
‘Excuse me?’ he rasped icily, his eyes turning almost black with the strength of his emotions.
I pushed my plate away and forced myself to answer before I lost my nerve. ‘I… Surely it doesn’t surprise you that I’d wonder why a man who looks like you—’
‘Looks like me?’ he grated.
I wetted suddenly dry lips, suspecting I’d strayed into dangerous territory but unable to locate the road map to take me out of peril.
‘You’re not blind. You look like the poster-perfect image of virility. Is it beyond the realms of probability that I’d wonder why you’d need to use a facility like the Phoenix Clinic?’
His eyes slowly rose. ‘Did you not admonish me for judging you based on your outward appearance?’
Even as my face heated, something inside me reacted sharply to the notion that I might have ended this man’s line with my mistake. Something that utterly rejected that thought.
‘Please answer the question, Mr Xenakis,’ I urged, aware of my escalating desperation.
‘Why? Are you distressed by the thought that a man who “looks like me” might be impotent or infertile?’ he drawled.
He was goading me, pure and simple. I should’ve looked away. Backed down.
‘Are you?’
He rose and stepped away from the island. ‘Come with me,’ he grated.
Something raw and intense pulsed in his tone, warning me that whatever he had in mind would decimate me emotionally.
‘And if I refuse? Is this where you threaten—’
He slashed one powerful hand across my argument, his lips flattening into a displeased line. ‘A word to the wise, Sadie. If you have any desire for self-preservation left in that body, be wise and stop defying me at every turn. I’m a man who faces adversity head-on. Right now, I’m this close to tossing you out the door and letting the authorities deal with your crimes. But, again, the choice is yours. Leave and face the consequences or indulge the man you’ve so gravely wronged. Which is it to be?’ he asked, his eyes pinning me in place.
‘I… Fine. I’ll do what you want. For now,’ I tagged on, simply because that self-preservation he’d mentioned was kicking in wildly, doubling my thundering heartbeat. ‘I reserve the right to leave any time I want.’
He left the kitchen without responding.