The certainty in his voice makes my skin crawl. "But if I do?"
He considers the question, or pretends to. "There would be a buyout clause. Significant, but not unreasonable. I'm not trying to trap you, Ms. Rivers."
Liar.The word screams in my head, but I keep my expression neutral. "I'd want that in writing."
"Of course. My attorney will draft a formal contract. You're welcome to have your own lawyer review it."
I don't have a lawyer. I can barely afford groceries. But I nod as if this is a perfectly normal negotiation, as if I have any power here at all.
"What kind of events are we talking about?" I ask. "Specifically."
"Dinners, mostly. I entertain clients at the estate several times a month. Occasionally, larger gatherings—charity functions, holiday parties. And personal occasions." He pauses. "I have particular tastes, Ms. Rivers. Specific aesthetics I prefer. I'll want you to learn them."
"Learn them how?"
"By observation. By conversation." His eyes hold mine. "By spending time in my world."
There it is. The trap within the trap. He doesn't just want my flowers—he wants my presence. My proximity. My time.
He wantsme.
The waiter returns with our food, breaking the tension. I stare at the risotto in front of me, creamy and fragrant, and force myself to pick up my fork. To take a bite. To chew and swallow like a normal person having a normal meal.
It tastes like nothing.
"You seem nervous," Gabriel observes.
"I'm not nervous."
"You've barely touched your food. You've checked the door three times since you sat down. And your hand is shaking."He nods toward my fork, which is indeed trembling slightly in my grip. "I don't bite, Ms. Rivers. Not unless asked."
Something about the way he says it—the dark humor, the hint of something predatory beneath the charm—makes my stomach lurch. For a moment, I'm back in that doorway, looking at him across a body and a pool of blood.
He sees the change in my expression. Of course he does. He sees everything.
"Are you all right?" he asks, and there's something in his voice now that almost sounds like genuine concern. Almost.
"Fine," I manage. "Just... It's warm in here."
"Shall I have them adjust the temperature?"
"No. I'm fine."
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Or rather, he eats; I push food around my plate, trying to look like I'm participating in this grotesque parody of a business lunch.
"I have a question," I say finally.
"Ask."
"Why me?"
He sets down his fork, giving me his full attention. "I told you. Your work is extraordinary."
"There are other florists. Better connected, more established. People who would kill for this kind of contract." The wordkillcomes out before I can stop it, and I see his mouth twitch—amusement? Acknowledgment?
"Perhaps," he says. "But they're not you."
"What does that mean?"
