Page 24 of The Count
I sipped my coffee and ignored him and the way my body lit up like a fucking sparkler the second I caught sight of him.
I turned away and pretended to focus on an abstract piece of art. It was just sex you stupid woman. A payment for a debt, a transaction, and nothing more. That thought doused some of the heat flowing through me. A transaction to save Taylor’s life. I closed my eyes, shoved the rest of the toast in my mouth, and washed it down with the rest of the coffee.
Then I turned back to face him again. “The cook said you gone. Anything I need to know? Anything on the agenda for the day?”
He took a step forward, and I matched it with a step backward.
His eyes narrowed. “What’s different?”
I held his gaze and shrugged. “Nothing.”
“You aren’t throwing things at me, making demands, yelling.”
“You complain when I do, you complain when I don’t. Tell me what you want and that’s what I’ll be.”
He scanned my face and I held my ground this time.
“So all I had to do to make you more amenable was bend you over my desk.”
Anger sparked deep in my belly. I wished I was the kind of woman who would throw a coffee mug at a man’s head. Twenty years ago, I had been.
Instead of replying, I spun and stalked back to my room. I cut him off with the slam of my door.
Fucking bastard. I couldn’t win with him.
I went into the bathroom, gorgeous in white marble and antique fixtures. Something about the stark white and lack of decor calmed me. I pressed my chilled hands to my warm cheeks and started the shower. If he kept provoking me then I was going to be well armored against his barbs and his charms.
I showered, letting the hot water wash away my anger. Then I carefully put on my makeup and styled my hair in a straight fall down my back. I slid into a pair of black slacks tailored to my small stature, and an equally expertly cut cream blouse. Once I felt covered up, safe behind my silk and wool I sat on my bed and waited. I had no doubt he had plans for me, or for us, by the way he walked in earlier. I resolved to focus on my goal. Finish out this sentence and get the hell out of here.
I stared at the wall for ten minutes before I heard him pause outside my door. He knocked and I said, “come in.”
He would have anyway, so my permission seemed idiotic. He entered slowly, one hand on the knob as he hovered in the doorway. “Look, I apologize for what I said.”
His apology made me more uncomfortable than his dickishness.
“Fine. What do you want?”
He released the door and idled closer. “We have a place to be. But it’s important for you to know I have a purpose for us being there. I’m not just trying to fuck with your head.”
That sounded ominous. “Why are you explaining yourself to me? I’m a prisoner of war, and a piece of ass. We go where you say.”
He shoved out a heavy sigh and a tiny part of me regretted my venom. I couldn’t take it back now though.
He said, “be ready in five minutes,” and walked out.
Defeat, acceptance, anger, rage. I didn’t know what I felt anymore. I just wanted this situation done. So I stood, straightened my blouse, slid on my favorite pair of heels, and met him by the elevator.
We made it to the car without a word to each other. A mumbled apology when I brushed against him broke it.
“For fuck’s sake, Mercedes.”
I flushed at my name from his lips. His voice, the hard edge dredged memories from the last night back to me.
He continued, “I said I’m sorry. What else do you want from me? There are very few people who even get that much.”
“It’s not about the apology. It’s about me forgetting what this whole thing,” I gestured between us. “Is for a second. I’m not upset with you. I just want to get it all of this done so I can go home.”
He stiffened and stared out the window. I peaked at him. He scratched his thumb over his bottom lip in a rhythmic pattern. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who forgot. Perhaps he lashed out at me in his own defense mechanism? Understanding didn’t mean I was any less over being someone’s property.
