"We're not strangers," he says with absolute certainty. "Not anymore."
Our fingers brush as he takes my barely-touched drink from my hand and sets it on the bar, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. For a fraction of a second, something flashes across his face, an intensity that borders on pain, and I wonder if he felt it too.
"Come with me," he says, and it's not a request.
I should refuse. I should thank him for his interest and walk away. I should remember every warning Jessie just whispered about this man. Instead, I hear myself asking, "Where?"
"Somewhere we can talk without an audience." He glances around at the people pretending not to watch us, hisexpression hardening. "I don't share what's mine, not even in conversation."
What's mine. The possessive statement should alarm me. We've exchanged perhaps fifty words, and already he's claiming ownership. But instead of outrage, I feel a dangerous flutter in my stomach, a heat that has nothing to do with the vodka I barely drank.
"I'm not yours," I say, because I need to establish that boundary, even if it feels like I'm lying.
Roman's smile is slight but knowing. "Yet."
Before I can process that single, confident word, he places his hand on the small of my back. The touch is light but proprietary, and heat radiates from the point of contact. I expect Jessie to protest, to remind me of all the reasons this is a bad idea, but when I look back, she's staring at us with wide eyes and a slight shake of her head—whether in warning or disbelief, I can't tell.
Roman guides me through the club with the easy confidence of someone who never doubts his welcome. We pass through a door I hadn't noticed before, down a hallway with even more subdued lighting, until we reach what appears to be a private lounge. The room is smaller but no less luxurious than the main club—leather furniture in deep burgundy, a private bar along one wall, and windows overlooking the city from what must be at least thirty floors up.
With a start, I realize we're completely alone.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks, moving toward the bar.
"I shouldn't," I say automatically.
He pauses, turning back to me with that assessing gaze. "You don't trust me."
It's not a question, so I don't treat it as one. "I don't know you."
"But you will." He says it with such certainty that I almost believe him. He pours two glasses of what looks like whiskey, hands me one, then gestures to the sofa. "Sit."
I remain standing, a small act of defiance. "I prefer to stand."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes darkens. "You'll learn quickly that I don't appreciate disobedience, Delilah."
"I'm not yours to command, Mr. Wolfe," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Roman," he corrects. "And as I said—yet."
He takes a seat himself, stretching one arm along the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed but somehow still commanding. He studies me over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip, and I feel myself being categorized, assessed.
"Tell me why you're here," he says.
"I told you, my friend?—"
"Not the surface reason. The real one." His gaze pins me in place. "What desperate circumstances drove an intelligent, educated woman to consider selling herself to strangers?"
The blunt assessment makes me flinch. "I'm not?—"
"Don't lie to me," he cuts in, his voice still quiet but edged with steel. "Not now, not ever. I detest dishonesty."
Something in his tone—not cruel but implacable—makes me reconsider my automatic denial. I take a sip of the whiskey, welcoming the burn, buying time to think.
"Money," I finally say, deciding on honesty. "I need money."
"Everyone needs money," he dismisses. "Be specific."
I bristle at his demanding tone, but what's the point in hiding it? "I'm about to be evicted from my apartment. I'm going to be administratively withdrawn from my graduate program because I can't pay tuition. My bank account is overdrawn, and I have no family to help me." Each admission feels like removing a brick from a wall I've carefully constructed. "Satisfied?"
