I glance down at the formal place setting in front of me and can’t help wondering what kind of game he thinks he’s playing now. Did he actually expect me to sit across from him and share a meal with him as if any of this is normal?
Maybe it is normal for him.
Maybe he plays the part of the polite, albeit arrogant, Southern gentleman for all of his models before eviscerating them on his canvas. I watch him reach for the sharp knife next to his plate, then slice into his omelet with a surgeon’s precision. Those elegant, strong hands mesmerize me. The way they move with nuanced, utter control, no matter how mundane the task.
I don’t want to think about all the wicked things he does with those hands. I don’t want to think about all of the wicked things I’ve heard about his other appetites, but I can’t stop the flood of rumors that fill my mind.
As I sit in silence while he devours his breakfast with gusto and a total masculine lack of self-consciousness, I’m thinking of the rumors about wild sex parties and BDSM clubs. Rumors about his insatiable hunger for beautiful women and the seemingly revolving door that leads to his bedroom. I’ve seen some of the supporting evidence for that last rumor in the pictures I found online.
As for the other rumors, they wouldn’t surprise me, having gone to his new nightclub, Muse, two weeks ago with my friends Evelyn Beckham and Paige Johansson. Although Muse is billed as a dance club, part of its allure—and its phenomenal success—is the flashing, strobe-quick glimpses of people having sex behind one-way glass in the private VIP rooms that circle the multi-story dance floor. That night with my friends, I’d dismissed what I saw as an illusion, a gimmick designed to play on the club’s name, but now I have to wonder.
Now, I have to wonder about a lot when it comes to Jared Rush.
His plate emptied, he wipes his mouth on the starched white napkin, then pours another cup of strong black coffee from the French press on the table.
“How do you think you did on your exam yesterday?”
For a moment, I’m startled by the question—by the idea that he not only remembers about my test, but bothers to ask. It feels too personal, too intimate, that he should know anything about what I do with my private time. I swallow to recalibrate my nerves, but it’s not easy to project calm under the intensity of his gaze.
“I’m sure I did fine. I take my studies very seriously.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anger nettles me. I scowl at him across the table. “Are you mocking me because I’m trying to get a better education and improve myself?”
“No.” He sets down his cup without drinking. “I’m telling you what I see when I look at you, Ms. Laurent. I see a good girl, too good. The kind who protects the people she cares about, even if they don’t deserve it. Even to her own peril. The kind who gets perfect grades in all her classes and wears her Sunday best to an appointment with a man who’s only waiting for the chance to get her out of it.”
Heat surges into my face. I don’t know what upsets me more, the accuracy of what he sees in me, or his audacity to say it.
His words send another kind of heat through me, too, a darker one that blooms deep inside me no matter how hard I want to deny it. I discreetly cross my legs, but squeezing my thighs together only makes the heat twist tighter.
“First of all, Mr. Rush, I’m not a girl. I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman.”
He grunts. “I’ve got more than ten years on you, darlin’. A hell of a lot more than that, if we’re talking about anything other than age.”
“I wouldn’t doubtthatfor a minute,” I say, tossing his words back at him. “As for protecting the people I care about, yes, you’re right. That is important to me, regardless of what it might cost me in the end.”
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Rush utters tersely. “Deep down, I think you already know that.”
I can’t believe his gall. What can he possibly know about Daniel, or me, for that matter? “Daniel cares for me. And I care for him, too.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I didn’t hear you ask one.”
My flippant reply irks him. Well, good. He needs to be irked.
He needs to be put in his place—especially before he starts thinking he’s going to deconstruct me the way he does everyone else. I’m not letting him in, no matter how hard he pushes. If this chat over his breakfast table is supposed to get us familiar with each other before our arrangement officially begins, then I want him to understand I’m drawing a hard line between us, here and now.
“All right, Ms. Laurent. Then I’ll ask the question plainly.” His stare penetrates deeper as he leans forward on his elbows—as if he’s two seconds away from leaping at me from across the table. Maybe he is. “If you and Mr. Hathaway have such a strong, loving bond, why didn’t you know he has a gambling problem?”
“Just because he made a couple of mistakes doesn’t mean he’s got a problem—”
“One hundred and sixty-five thousand mistakes,” Rush interjects grimly. “And you had no idea. In fact, you were blindsided by it.”
I can’t deny anything he’s saying. If I try to, Rush will only see through me, anyway.
He slowly shakes his head, studying me. “He’s keeping secrets from you. Think about that next time you hear him say he loves you. Think about that the next time you let him fuck you.”
