Page 67 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
He might be speaking of the wine, but he was looking at Merida.
“We’ll have that.” Benedict handed the steward the list and waved him away. Putting his elbows on the table, he studied Merida. “You’re lying.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “About what?”
“You prefer this table.”
In the smooth, smiling lines of her face, he observed a shift. He had called her a liar; she had tensed. He had told her why he thought she was a liar; she had relaxed. Relaxed because a disagreement about the table was relatively minor.
Very good. He had learned two things: Merida was a very good actress, and if he wanted to delve into the mystery of her past and personality, he would have to watch carefully. Her outburst the night before had been atypical; she scrupulously guarded her emotions. He said, “You like this table because it’s private, your back is to the room and no one can easily stare while you sign.”
His insight surprised her, and that reaction she did not bother to hide. “Acute,” she spelled.
“Now that we’re here, I prefer this table, also.”
She gestured in question.
“You’re so beautiful. The sommelier and the maître d’ are enthralled.” In fact, so was Benedict. Enthralled… and wary. “Having everyone stare at you would make you self-conscious, and I prefer you to be comfortable.”
“And concentrate on you?”
Now he nodded.
Her smile became less gracious, more real. “I’m glad to do that.” She glanced around and moved her shoulders uncomfortably. “I don’t like being the center of attention.”
“That’s why you changed your looks.”
“Partly. But also to feel as if my youth had not totally passed me by.” Abruptly, she put her hands in her lap, as if she’d said too much.
She’d been married to a rich man who showed her off like a trophy and demanded she maintain the beauty standards of his long-departed youth. Now she was free and she reveled in that freedom to dress, groom and behave as she wished.
“I wonder why you married Nauplius Brassard.”
Her smile disappeared. Her eyes narrowed on him. “My boyfriend forced me.”
He never foresaw that answer, or the hostility with which she signed. “Forced you… how?”
“He made it impossible for me to do anything but marry Nauplius. It was a matter of life or death. I chose life. I made an agreement, and I kept it.”
Their waiter and Harold approached with the salads, and in unison they placed them on the table.
She thanked them with the flat of her hand to her mouth, and they departed looking dazed.
Benedict picked up his fork. “You’re a wealthy woman. Have you revenged yourself on this boyfriend?”
Her smile was back, that gracious, blank, indecipherable smile. “I am in the process.”
“I suppose I should feel sorry for the bastard. But he deserves it.”
“Yes.” She ate a bite of her salad, put down her fork, pulled out her tablet and typed, then handed it to him. “This is excellent. The Stilton is perfect with these greens and the citrus dressing provides a lovely backdrop for the flavors.”
“Yeah, mine’s good, too.” She had stepped away from the intimacy of sign language and returned to the mechanical form of communication. Subtly, she was placing him into a category with everyone else.
He couldn’t figure her out. Why she had suddenly approached him when before she had so clearly resisted? Maybe she was on the hunt for another wealthy husband and she was playing him? Or maybe everything about her reeked of deception. Maybe… oh, the possibilities were endless.
The closer he got to her, the more determined he was to comprehend her. It almost seemed knowing her was more important than having sex with her. If he’d had a lick of sense, that realization would alarm him.
Yes, like every other man in Virtue Falls, he was enthralled.
