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“It’s just, you’re what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
She ground her teeth. She’d turned twenty-five a month ago. “So?”
“So, I presume you live with him by choice, perhaps because you think he needs you. Wouldn’t a part of you be excited to be freed from that responsibility? To be able to take some money and live your own life?”
“You just pointed out, it’s his money, not mine. And believe it or not, I don’t see living with my grandfather as anything other than a privilege.” She tilted her chin with angry defiance. “I love him and would do anything for him. I guess that’s a concept way above your paygrade though.”
And with that, she turned on her heel with the intention of fleeing Rocco Santoro for the second time that night.
He caught her at the door though, his long stride an easy match for hers. “Why do you think you can throw insults at me and then walk away?”
He stood blocking the door—and her escape route. “Oh, really? You’re going to hold me hostage?”
“That’s not a terrible idea,” he muttered. “Your freedom in exchange for the house. Do you think your grandfather would go for it?”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t joke about business.” He crossed his arms. “I have no interest in holding you hostage, except that, in my experience, negotiating a deal starts with dialogue. You’re talking at me. Throwing accusations at me, insulting me, rather than speaking to me about what you want.”
“I think I’ve made that clear; I want you to leave us alone.”
“And I’ve said, that’s not going to happen. The sooner you accept that, the better for all of us.”
She made a noise of frustration.
“You are in a commanding position, Maddison.”
She fought an urge to ask him to call her Maddie after all—way less threatening to her equilibrium.
“While I am prepared to continue with the development minus your grandfather’s house, it’s far from desirable—for any of us. Let’s take it as a foregone conclusion that at some point, you’ll accept my offer. Tell me what would make that worthwhile for you.”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“There’s nothing you have that I want.”
“I’m very wealthy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, gee. That’s just a wonderful conversation starter.”
Silence crackled between them. “What happened in your life to make you so caustic?”
Caustic? He spoke English with a heavy accent but could grasp a word like ‘caustic’? She thrust a hand onto her hip. “Oh, sure. It has to be that I’m caustic, not that you’re abrasive?”
“Perhaps it’s both.”
“Which sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.”
“It’s a recipe for something,” he muttered under his breath, and with a flick of his eyes, he glanced at her lips and her whole body reacted as if struck by lightning. She felt as if her feet were smoking. It was just a look. A fleeting glance! Yet there she stood, in virtual flames.
Was he right? Was this kind of animosity a recipe for something other than enmity?
“Whatever,” she replied, but her voice trembled a little. “You just…you need to stay out of my life, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Is that what you want?” He asked and damn it if he didn’t lift his hand and place it on the wall to her side, like some kind of power move, trapping her where she was in a way she knew she should hate. But really, really didn’t. Up close, he was just so hyper-masculine. So incredibly…attractive.
“I want?—,”
