I trail behind him before entering the sumptuous chef’s kitchen and sit down on a leather stool as Tate pulls ingredients out of the pristine white cabinets and enormous fridge. I try not to watch the muscles in his back work as he reaches up, then down, then across the counter to slide me a glass of water. Putting a pot of broth on the stove, he cocks another dark eyebrow at me. “How familiar are you with pre-war movements?”
I smile. In fact, pre-war was my specialty. “Very.”
I wasn’t sure how I expected this conversation to go, but I definitely wasn’t expecting to delve into my knowledge of Impressionism today, especially since Tate thinks I’m a poverty-stricken waif. Still, as our conversation progresses, I find myself relaxing a little. The man is a good conversationalist, charming and easy to talk to. I haven’t had much practice carrying on conversations lately--mostly, I talk to my cat these days--but as I listen to myself speak, I decide that I’m holding my own. Somehow, I manage to sound a little cultured, a little funny, and even a little whimsical. Maybe it’s the secret knowledge that Tate is a friend of my brother’s, and probably a good person; maybe it’s the delicious smells of the cooking soup putting me at ease.
“So,” Tate says as he serves us the steaming bowls at his dining table. “Some zuppa toscana for the lady. I hope you like it.” He graciously allows me to take a sip before continuing to speak. I’m mostly full from the sandwich I ate, but my stomach rumbles in gratitude anyway. He’s right: this is absolutely delicious. You can’t go wrong with kale, sausage, and cheese, I suppose.
“Good?” he prompts with a devilish smile.
I nod. “Yes, very tasty. Thank you.”
“Excellent.” He leans back in his dining chair, crossing his arms across his broad chest. He’s put on a white T-shirt, and it highlights his powerful musculature and the firm biceps beneath his sleeves. I try my damndest to keep my eyes on my soup instead of him.
“So, it’s funny that I actually talked to you today in the park,” he begins in a light tone. “I’ve been wanting to get out of my comfort zone, and it’s always great to meet new people.”
I cock a brow. Meeting a homeless person isn’t exactly a top priority for most folks, but I suppose it fits into the category of “getting out of his comfort zone.”
“Um thanks,” I say awkwardly after another sip of my soup. “I think.”
He nods, and a devilish look comes into those piercing blue eyes.
“In fact,” he continues casually, like nothing’s wrong. “I’d love to discuss a deal with you, Laurie. I think it could be really beneficial for us both.”
I pause while eating.
“I don’t know that I’d have anything to offer,” comes my low voice. “I’m unsheltered, remember? I’m barely surviving as is. I don’t even have five dollars in my pocket.”
But Tate leans forward, those blue eyes intense.
“I know, honey, and that’s why I think that we could strike a very beneficial deal. You see, you do have something that I want. Something that’s all yours to give.”
I shake my head, confused. What could I possibly have in my possession?
“I’m absolutely not interested in drugs, and if you’re a pimp, then I’m out. I don’t do that either. I’ve survived on the streets this long without getting into that, and I can survive another day.”
At that, Tate throws his head back and laughs.
“No sweetheart, you’re reading this all wrong. I’m not looking to use you as a mule, nor am I seeking to pimp you out. Although, I am interested in your body,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
I stare at him, my cheeks going scarlet. OMG, this isn’t the dungeon full of sex toys that I imagined, but it’s not that far from it either.
“What do you mean?” I ask in a trembling voice.
Tate grins and it’s positively wolfish.
“Well, you have something that I want, and I have something that you need. You could stay here in the townhouse if you’re interested, so long as my needs are met in return as well.”
My eyes feel like they’re about to bug out of my head.
“Meaning?” I ask in a choked voice.
“Sex,” Tate answers immediately. “I want you to take care of my sexual needs. Your body, in my bed every night. Wanton and horny. In the mornings and afternoons too, if I need it.”
To my credit, I do not spit out my soup, but I come very close to it. After all, the feminist, the advocate, and the decent human being inside me is throwing a fit. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Does he think he can just take advantage of a homeless girl and bribe her into being his sex-doll-upon-command? Does this really happen in real life?