Another unnerving stab of guilt hit him, adding to the turmoil of his gut. He swallowed, shoving the unwanted sensation aside. “Retaliation,” he answered, the word flat and sour on his tongue.
“Retaliation?” Lindsey’s finely arched eyebrows rose. “For?”
He shook his head, not ready to share his plans with her. “Just trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
Really?
Yes, he was. Vengeance for Clinton. It was as simple as that. If it wasn’t, Sienna Roberts had somehow gotten to him in the short time he’d spent in her company. Had somehow snared him with her raw sexuality and beguiling innocence.
And if that was the case, he was in trouble. Because destroying someone was easier if you didn’t give a fuck about them. So much easier.
And cleaner.
Chapter Four
Why on earth was she still awake?
Sighing in frustration, Sienna kicked at the tangled sheets and punched at her pillow.
Looking at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock beside her bed, she moaned. 4:17 a.m.
4:17 a.m. She’d been tossing and turning the whole night. God, why was she still awake?
She refused to admit to the answer.
Growling, she flung herself from the bed and stormed across to the kitchen. Stuff it. If she couldn’t sleep, she would at least use her time effectively. To hell with this lying-around-in-bed-worrying-about-some-rich-bastard idiocy.
She paused just before reaching the refrigerator. Rich bastard?
Damn it. So much for not admitting the cause of her insomnia.
James Dyson. The rich bastard himself.
Grinding her teeth, she opened the fridge and snatched out a bottle of water. As if her life wasn’t screwed up enough, now she had to deal with sleepless nights because one annoying, egotistical, arrogant bastard hadn’t turned up at her studio when he said he would.
She slammed the fridge door, plunging the kitchen back into a gloomy darkness that suited her mood perfectly.
A whole day on tenterhooks, dreading the appearance of the man, waiting for him to stride into her studio, had left her nerves frazzled. He’d told her he was coming back, had alluded they were going to have great sex when he did.
A snowball had a better chance in hell than Dyson did of having sex with her. And she was going to prove that to him when he showed up.
Every minute that had passed during the day, however, the gnawing fear she wouldn’t be able to resist him had grown, leaving her sick.
It hadn’t just been the fear that she wouldn’t resist him that had nauseated her so much. It was also the deep, undeniable knowledge that she wanted him to come back. That she wanted him to throw her on the futon in her studio and take her to a level of pleasure she’d never been before.
She rolled the cold bottle against her flushed forehead, the icy condensation sending a shiver through her. Thank God, she was alone in the kitchen. She didn’t think she could handle Zach seeing her like this.
Instead of James turning up, a bouquet of flowers had been delivered at four p.m., along with a note apologizing for not being able to make their first sitting.
His no-show had disappointed Sienna more than she wanted to admit.
Moving from the kitchen, she made her way through the dark warehouse, padding past Zach on silent feet where he slept on the folded-out futon. He’d spent the day sulking around the place, refusing to talk to her about the fight at The Point School, the violin, or enrolling at the local high school. He’d criticized the drawing she’d been working on, pointing out continually that Carrie was fatter than that before Sienna lost her temper and told him to bugger off. He’d ignored her for another two hours before eventually disappearing later in the afternoon.
When he’d returned—at eleven forty-five p.m.—he’d dropped onto the futon without a word, refusing to offer any explanation of his whereabouts.
Another sigh escaped Sienna’s lips. She had no answers for her Zach problems.
And I do for my other problems?
No. She didn’t.
Reaching her studio, she pulled aside the heavy curtain used to separate the living areas of her home from her work area. Living in a converted warehouse had been wonderfully bohemian when she’d been by herself. The open-plan arrangement had been ideal for her lifestyle—until Zach’s arrival. The presence of a fifteen-year-old boy meant she could only paint in her underwear—her preferred working attire—while he was at school, but the real difficulty had been separating the different areas of her home so they both had some privacy. Screens and blinds had been suspended around the place to achieve some semblance of rooms. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but they had adapted. Sort of.