Her gaze drops to the tray and, on cue, her stomach growls.
‘Come, dragonfly,’ I say. ‘Let me bring this in.’
Still glaring, she lets out a long breath then finally steps away from the door, allowing me inside. My big four-poster bed is against one wall, opposite the windows, and I glance at it to see if the sheets are disturbed. They are, which is good. It means she slept in it and since my bed is extremely comfortable, she’ll have had a good sleep.
I move over to it and set the tray down on the bed. She has gone to stand by one of the windows that looks out over the cliff to the sea. Her back is rigid, her arms folded, every inch of her furious negation.
‘You can call your brother this morning,’ I tell her, searching for something that will mollify her enough to come over to the bed and eat.
‘Merry Christmas to you too,’ she says tartly.
I don’t need the reminder. I know exactly what day it is. I even have the tree downstairs, hung with the decorations my mother would take out of storage every year. I’d help her put them on the tree and then, afterwards, I’d sit beneath it reading, while she made me hot chocolate.
My mother has gone now and my father along with her, but I still decorate the tree every year with our family’s decorations, even if I no longer sit beneath it drinking hot chocolate.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I offer stiffly. ‘Come and eat.’
She turns slowly from the window and studies me, then glances at the tray again. ‘You can go now. I’d rather you didn’t stay to watch me eat.’
‘Too bad. I need to see you actually eat the food.’
Temper flashes in her eyes. ‘I’m not a child, Rafael.’
‘Then stop acting like one.’
Her mouth hardens, and no matter that her hair is all over the place, her dress is creased, and she’s scowling at me as if I’m the devil himself, she’s still the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
‘I’m not going to give in, you know,’ she says as she crosses over to the bed. ‘No matter how many omelettes you make me.’ She peers at the tray, then sits down on the edge of the bed and picks up the brioche. It’s fresh and still warm and I can see the flicker of pleasure cross her face as she daintily pulls it apart and puts a bit in her mouth.
So, she’s already guessed that I have ulterior motives in making her breakfast, and she’s not wrong about them. Idohave ulterior motives. But she’s wrong in that it isn’t food I’ve decided to use in order to get what I want from her.
Though maybe, given how much of a turn-on it is to watch her pull apart the brioche and put it between her red lips, I could combine the two. Sex and food would certainly be interesting. But I have to be careful how I do it. Patience is not my strong suit, but I can be patient when the situation calls for it.
I need to make her desperate for me, desperate enough to agree to anything I ask and not think of the consequences.
‘Agree to marry me and I’ll let you speak to your brother,’ I say, testing the ground a little as I come over to where she’s sitting.
She glances up at me, popping another piece of brioche into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. ‘Oh, you’llletme, will you? Hmmm.’ She pulls off another piece and eats it, still looking at me. ‘Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.’
A ripple of shock goes through me. Given how she held her ground last night, I wasn’t expecting her to give in so quickly or so easily. I eye her with some scepticism. ‘You’ll marry me, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes.’ She wipes her hands very ostentatiously down her dress then gestures imperiously at me. ‘Come on. Give me the phone.’
I’m doubtful that she meant what she said, but still, I promised her, so I pull my phone from my pocket, unlock it and hand it to her.
‘Not much of a kidnapper, are you?’ she says as she takes the phone from me and begins typing in her brother’s number. ‘I don’t have anything to wear. The least you could have done is get me a change of clothes.’
‘Give me some credit,’ I say coolly. ‘I’ve ordered you a whole wardrobe. It’ll arrive the day after tomorrow.’
I’m satisfied when I see surprise flicker across her face as she raises the phone to her ear, then she blinks. ‘Don’t get angry, Ulysses,’ she says, sounding calm. ‘There’s a few things I need to say to you.’
If I was a decent man, I’d give her some privacy, but I’m not a decent man. I want to be in the room when she tells him where she is and why.
It’s pleasing to me that he’s angry, because that’s what I’d hoped. I want him angry. I want him afraid. I want him desperate to have his sister back, and then to deny him.
