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malone
Once we’re back at the penthouse, I make her a drink and serve it up with some polite conversation. Scarlett’s silent as I mix the cocktail. Rum, a touch of ginger, lime, and brown sugar. I know she likes rum, even though I give her scotch, but as I strain the mixture into a glass, I can feel her eye daggers sliding in between my ribs, ready to lance.
And the thick suspicion that hangs in the air is both good and amusing.
She’s trying to work out why I’m making her a drink, why I’m being so nice and attentive all of a sudden.
This is just the fucking start of her tying herself in knots, trying to read me and my intentions. Because tonight, or what’s left of it, I’m going to leave her alone.
To some, it might be a reprieve, but I don’t think that’ll be the case with her.
For Scarlett, it’ll be sheer torture. She’s volcanic in the emotions that she keeps so tightly strapped inside, but deprive her of what she craves, and it all comes undone, spewing like lava. I saw that firsthand when I had her bound, blindfolded, and gagged.
So, I treat her carefully, delicately, with a sweetness that’s not at all my typical style. She eyes me like I’m about to grow fangs and tear her to shreds.
She’s not wrong. At all.
I hold the glass out to her, and she takes it like I’ve beaten her ass into submission… and it makes me think that I might have just read her wrong.
There’s an air to Scarlett, something sweet that strokes against me. But now I see it clearly. Behind that meekness is something else. Craftiness.
Like she’s trying to work out my angle so she can use it against me to take me down. Subservient and placating on the surface, enough to find the cracks.
I like that she’s distracted on that level. Let her try to analyze me. It’ll just make her head spin even more until she’s completely dizzy with every emotion I want her to experience.
She’ll never know the truth. Won’t even come close to finding it.
“Bishop was looking at you.” I pour myself some scotch but just hold the glass without bringing it to my lips.
Her eyes narrow and she sips her drink, never breaking her stare. “You dressed me like a three-dollar hooker. Everyone was looking.”
I laugh. “There are three-dollar hookers? Lead the way.”
She huffs. “Asshole.”
“He wasn’t looking at you like he wanted to fuck you,” I say. “He was looking at you like he was trying to pin you down in his memory.”
A frown stretches across her beautiful mouth. “But he didn’t actually see me that day.” She glances at her drink and then up at me once more. “I’m not sure why I’d even exist on his radar.”
Shit. Scarlett’s a little more observant than I thought. “He knows your family, so he’s seen you around. Scarlett, I need your help in getting to the records, the clients?—”
“If they have clients like that man, then I’m not doing anything that’ll harm my family. Find another way.”
I lift a brow and my lips lift into a mocking smile. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”
“An opportunist. One I don’t like.”
“But one you like to fuck.”
“Sex means nothing,” she says, taking a deep swallow of the drink.
She’s a trapped rat right now. I pick up one of the cupcakes I brought in from the kitchen. At first I thought the mess of buttercream was amateur hour—yeah, I’ve seen the shit New York’s coveted bakeries sell—but it’s a crafted mess, artisan homemade, the swirls that looked carelessly slapped together hold color and shading that must have taken her a while to perfect.
It's the kind of creation someone stupid and sweet would bring on a romantic picnic or serve a lover snuggled in bed after nice missionary-style sex.
Again, not what I expected, but it probably tastes like it’s right out of the box.
“Says the girl who was a virgin three fucking times removed when I met her.” I slide my finger through the buttercream and pop it into my mouth to sample it.
