Page 71 of Captive Ruin

“I doubt that, somehow.” But that’s the third time he’s asked, tonight alone. “So what do you enjoy?”

“What?”

“Leisure activities.” I lean forward. “Movies, perhaps? Reading? I know, you must like to work out.” With a body like that, it’s a safe bet.

He stares at me blankly, saying nothing.

Okay, then. Playing hard to get. “Something must relax you.” I give it a thought. “I know! Burning orphanages? Shooting up barrels of puppies?”

“Pinning raven-haired beauties over terrace tables,” he replies, completely deadpan.

The impact of his words lands a heartbeat later, making my stomach clench, my thighs press together. Now it’s me that’s uncomfortable.

I cover it with a little laugh. “I didn’t see you smile then. And it was dark.”

“I’ll smile if you come on a date tomorrow.”

Is he serious? A frigging date like this is a relationship?

“Gallery,” I remind him, grateful for the out. “The exhibition.”

“Thursday, then. When it’s all done.”

He sounds so genuine I’m almost tempted to say yes. What’s the matter with me? This man isn’t dating material.

“I think you’d be bored,” I reply, as offhand as I can deliver it. “No kittens to torment.”

“I expect I’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “There’s a little stray I intend to keep.”

I swallow, my mouth dry. I know I’m aroused. It’s not just that comment, it’s all of them. The teasing between us, the charged atmosphere. I’m suddenly even more conscious of the thinness of my silk robe, the way it clings to me. Partly because I pulled the damn thing snugly around me, out of modesty.

Fuck, my nipples are hard and tight; they must be pushing against it. He can’t help but have noticed, even though his gaze hasn’t strayed from my face.

It’s taken too long to find my voice, and I cover my consternation with vehemence. “I’m not a whore for you to—”

He cuts across me. “I never said you were. I’ve never for a moment thought of you like that.”

The way he’s treated me, and he doesn’t see me as one? How does that make any sense?

Yet he’s not lying; there’s no doubting the certainty in his tone. He believes what he’s saying.

“So how do you see me?” The question slips out.

“Stunning,” he murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it. Then he speaks again, louder. “I’ve told you: you’re mine. You won’t escape.” He sets down his wine glass. “Are you done eating?”

His plate has been empty for a while. I’ve barely eaten half of mine. “I suppose.”

His gaze flicks to my lips, drops to my robe, then climbs back up to my eyes. “I’m ready for dessert.”

Not going there.

“I’m full, thanks, but be my guest,” I say flippantly. “Half a tub of chocolate ice cream in the freezer.”

He goes still, watching me with his face blank of expression, and it’s impossible to tell whether he’s calm within or about to grab me by my hair and put me on my knees.

“Yeah, all right,” he says at last, and I subtly let out the breath I was holding. Prematurely, as it turns out, for what he follows it with. “Go into the bedroom. Take off that robe. Lie down on the bed. Wait for me.”

I glare at him. How dare he order me around like this?