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I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” He adjusts the collar of his pristine white shirt. “Dinner will be served in twenty minutes.”
“Pass. I’ll eat in here like I always do.”
“I figured you’d appreciate some company.”
“If the company includes you, I’d rather not.”
If he hears me, he shows no sign of it. “As comfortable as those sweatpants undoubtedly are, you might want to wear something a little more presentable for the meal.”
“I might, if I were coming to dinner. Which I’m not.”
A vein in his forehead pulses, the only sign that this robot monster has anything resembling human emotions. “Suit yourself. Unfortunately, the kitchen will be occupied, so you’ll have to go without food for the evening if that’s your choice.”
Right on cue, my stomach rumbles and my nose kicks into overdrive. His scent radiates toward me, much as I’d like it not to.
“Why do you always smell like vanilla?” I ask abruptly.
He sighs and picks at a piece of lint on his cuff. “I dab a little on my cheeks every morning as aftershave. Keeps the skin fresh and youthful.”
I gawk at him for a few seconds before I realize that he is in fact joking. “I thought you didn’t kid.”
He shrugs. “I have my moments.”
“Are you going to answer the question?”
“Are you going to join me for dinner?”
“No.”
“Very well then. Goodnight, June.”
He’s halfway to leaving before I come to my senses and yell out his name. He pauses at the threshold, one hand on the door, and looks back at me over his shoulder, eyebrow arched, asking the question without having to ask it.
“Starving a pregnant woman is cruel and unusual,” I spit.
“At the rate you’ve been eating, I’d say missing one meal won’t hurt you.”
Bastard!Much as I want to spit in his smug fucking face, though, my stomach chooses that moment to growl again, accompanied this time by a wave of nausea and hunger pains.
Looks like dinner is in order.
“I’ll be down in ten minutes,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
He nods like this all went exactly as he foresaw. Then, without another word, he steps through the door and pulls it closed behind him.
I’m muttering all kinds of obscene curses under my breath as I march to the walk-in closet to search for something suitable to wear. I have no idea how I’m supposed to be dressing, but I decide it doesn’t matter anyway. What does it matter if I impress him? What does it matter if I embarrass him?
He’s my captor, not my host. All the luxury in the world isn’t going to convince me otherwise.
I riffle through the dresses hanging from one of the racks on the left hand side of my closet. I’m not really paying attention until I catch a glimpse of a dark burgundy fabric and I tune back in.
I wore a similar dress, not too long ago. Well, notthatlong ago, strictly speaking, but it feels like centuries since I was on stage in that wine-colored gown, in those tense, breathless moments before the curtains open and the music starts.
Come to think of it, that’s how this feels. These last few minutes before I venture downstairs and see what Kolya has planned for me next.
Like I’m about to begin the performance of a lifetime.
