He watches me over the rim of the china cup that looks like a doll’s toy in his big, elegant hands. “Eight o’clock sharp. You’re prompt.”
“Isn’t that what you told me to be?”
Amusement plays at the edge of his sculpted lips as he sets the delicate cup back onto its saucer. “Prompt, and you follow instructions. We’re already off to a promising start, Ms. Laurent.”
That brief smirk and the refined hint of the South in his rumbling voice almost disguises the danger in him.
Almost, but not quite.
He may be trying to project an air of casual disregard, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I arrived.
“Join me.”
Another command, this time disguised with a smile and a dip of his beard-shadowed chin to indicate the breakfast feast of eggs, meats, breads, and fruit laid out before him on the elegant round table that’s been set for two. My mouth waters at the mingled aromas, but even if I were starving, I’ll be damned if I’ll accept so much as a crumb from Jared Rush’s table.
“I’ve already eaten,” I murmur, trying to ignore the way the stale plain bagel and bitter cup of coffee from the shop down the street is currently rolling in my stomach.
He shrugs. “I hope you don’t mind if I finish my breakfast in front of you, then.”
“Feel free.” Anything to delay the purpose of my being here today.
I can’t help but notice there is no easel or art apparatus of any kind in this room. He doesn’t paint in here. A degree of relief washes over me at that realization.
When my gaze comes back to Rush, I find him studying me. “If you’re wondering where my studio is, it’s not in the city. It’s in Sagaponack. I have a house on the beach there where I work.”
“The Hamptons,” I acknowledge. Sagaponack being one of the most expensive enclaves in that playground for the rich, which is roughly two hours away from Manhattan. Thank God.
“I thought it would be best if we start here today,” he says. “Take some time to get comfortable with each other first.”
“Nothing about this—or you—makes me comfortable.” I practically wince as the words leap off my tongue. Why would I admit that to him? Why give a man like him any inkling he’s got the upper hand over me?
But it’s too late to take it back.
I’ve allowed the slightest crack in my armor and I can’t expect this man to let it go unchallenged.
He leans forward, placing his elbows on the edge of the table. “I’d be disappointed if you were comfortable with our arrangement, Ms. Laurent. Or with me.”
Is he saying that because he understands how out of my depth I am in his world, or because he wants me to be on edge? Maybe this is how he begins deconstructing everyone he exposes on his canvases. Or is he taking some kind of personal, extra enjoyment out of seeing me squirm?
I don’t have the nerve to ask, especially not when his dark stare makes me feel as though he can already see through my cool replies and through the breezy cotton of my dress. All the way down to everything I’m desperate to keep hidden from him for as long as our arrangement lasts.
He indicates the lone chair across the table from him. “Please, have a seat.”
“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.”
“The whole time?” He leans back in his chair, one of his tawny brown brows arching. “I should warn you, I haven’t even gotten started.”
I want to assume he’s talking about his breakfast, but I’d have to be either blind or stupid to believe that. As much as I want to indulge my stubborn side and stand for the duration of his meal and anything else he has in store for me this morning, all I’ve done is make myself the focus of his full attention.
And I realize now that he is stubborn, too. He doesn’t touch any of the silverware at his place setting, nor glance at any of the mouth-watering food in front of him. With another nod toward the empty chair, he waits until I finally lower myself into it.
Evidently satisfied, he reaches for a braided silver basket containing half a dozen fresh, flaky croissants nestled on a bright white linen cloth. I can smell the butter and airy dough from across the table, and it’s all I can do to control the small growl of my stomach as he offers the fresh-baked goodness to me.
I shake my head.
“You’re sure? My chef trained in Paris. I’ve got friends who’d kill just for one of her croissants, never mind the rest of this feast.”
When I decline to take one, he shrugs and puts one on his plate next to the fluffy omelet that’s bursting with cheese, spinach and other vegetables, and chunks of smoky ham. I’m not sure if I interrupted his breakfast, or if he was waiting for me to arrive before he began.
