No name? No explanation? No questions? Considering I came here uninvited, I’m not sure I’ve a right to demand information, but I’m also completely aware that I am at this man’s mercy.
“Fun fact about me,” I say, leaning forward, my elbows coming to my knees. “Today was my wedding day.”
My mysterious host lifts his head, his gaze swinging to me as he stares me up and down. “Interesting choice of wardrobe.”
Heat fills my cheeks. “I suppose it is customary for runaway brides to be in a wedding dress.”
“Yes.”
My teeth grind together. Nothing? Not a single question about why I ran or who I was marrying? “You married?”
“No.”
“Ever thought about it?” I ask cocking my head as I watch him.
I swear I catch the faintest flicker of emotion before he answers. “Yes.”
I inspect my nails for a moment, the ring flashing up at me from my finger. “Fondly or with deep dread?”
“Katarina,” he rumbles in response. “I have work to do.”
He’s not going to answer. My feathers ruffle, as I consider how to get even the smallest shred of information out of him. “I was perfectly comfortable in the other room. It was you who insisted that I come out here with you.”
His brows lift a fraction of an inch. “And I was perfectly comfortable being on this flight alone.”
“Andrew’s not a person?”
He glowers back. “Andrew understands he needs to remain quiet.”
I snort. Andrew is a snitch. But I stop asking questions, content instead to study the man who is an enigma.
An annoying and rather grumpy enigma.
He begins typing, his hands looking massive hovered over the keyboard. I lean back on the couch, attempting to puzzle out what I know.
Ryker secured this flight for me. A way to escape that wouldn’t be traceable. Andrew hid me. And this man doesn’t seem at all surprised to have an extra passenger.
“Did Ryker tell you I was on this flight?”
“Tell me?” He lifts his head. “No. He didn’t tell me.”
My brow furrows. He didn’t ask me who Ryker was, so clearly, he knows. “Were you aware that he is the man I was supposed to marry.”
“Yes.”
What the actual hell? “Who are you?”
He leans back in his chair, swiveling to face me. His languid pose does little to hide the intensity in his stare. He doesn’t answer.
Despite the fact that I’ve done most of the talking, he is in complete control of this conversation. More than that. He’s in command of the entire situation.
My hands start to shake, but I clasp them to hide the tremor. I draw in a deep gulp of air, and realize my lips are trembling too.
I don’t do this. I don’t let my fear take control. I force my mouth closed, clenching my jaw as I stare back.
“I am…” he drawls low and deep, “the Duke of Grandmont.”
My eyes go wide. Because everything about this is wrong.
