They were so very different, and yet she could see reflections of herself in his dark eyes. It made no sense. It made even less sense than her fascination with him. It should be fear. She could not deny that her feelings were certainly tinged with it, but that wasn’t all of it.
Yes, it was the curiosity that disturbed her the most. If she had even a few more answers to her questions, perhaps it would not be. If she had been with a man before, or at least been kissed by one, then perhaps she wouldn’t be so fascinated by the shape of his mouth. Perhaps she wouldn’t have so many questions about whether or not it would be as hot, firm, certain, as it looked.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. And he stopped. Froze, right there in the middle of the room, staring at her as though she were a foreign entity.
“You’ve cut your hair,” he said.
She reached up, touching the silken length. “Well, I didn’t.”
“The stylist did.”
“Yes.” She flicked the dark curl over her shoulder. “Am I not tame?”
He tilted his head to the side. “I’m not sure. Why don’t you come closer and I’ll try to assess for myself?”
She found herself obeying, moving toward him warily, not quite sure why.
Perhaps it was all to do with lulling him into a false sense of security. Getting him to trust her. Yes, that was likely the reason. It had nothing to do with the tightness in her stomach, the pressure on her lungs, the dry feeling in her throat. Had nothing to do with the deadly beauty he possessed. Like a rugged landscape that beckoned you to explore, while waiting to swallow you whole.
None of that mattered. It meant nothing. It was only that fighting the entire way wouldn’t help her cause, so there was no purpose in it. She had to wait and strike when it counted. So she would obey. But only for now.
It was his turn to touch her hair. He reached out slowly, and she could do nothing more than watch as he reached for her as he rubbed his thumb over the dark, silken locks. He said nothing; he only stared.
She wanted to ask if he liked it, but she realized that she shouldn’t care whether he liked it or not. She didn’t need him to find her beautiful; she needed him to find her sympathetic. It would probably work to her advantage if he didn’t find her beautiful.
No matter how compelling he was, no matter how handsome, it didn’t change what he was. He had told her in no uncertain terms. He had betrayed his brother. Not out of any real need, or great affection and love for the woman in question. Just because he could. Just because he lived to please himself. That, more than anything, should repel her. Should make his opinion on her appearance moot.
When she thought of her mother and father, of what they’d done with their positions, the changes they had died for...it should make him repellent. That he had such power and did nothing with it.
It didn’t.
How disappointing to discover that she was as vulnerable to this kind of thing as any other woman.
Suddenly, he changed their positions, wrapping his arm around her waist and taking hold of her hand with his. “We’re here to dance,” he said. “Do you know how?”
She knew that he had asked a question, and that the question required a response, but she couldn’t seem to cobble one together. He was strong. She had known that. He had plucked her out of the bathtub and carried her across the room as though she weighed nothing. Still, she had forgotten somehow. Or she hadn’t fully realized. Or perhaps the memory simply couldn’t do it justice.
He was strong, yes, but the true test of that was the way he held her without crushing her. Firm, but gentle. She could feel the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his suit, had a sense for the hard muscle beneath. So much only hinted at. Another piece of evidence to support her theory that he was hiding his real self beneath a mask.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said.
She obeyed again, because that was easier than trying to form words and actually figure out how to speak them. She felt every inch the creature he had accused her of being on multiple occasions. Completely ill-equipped to handle interaction with a man. As though she really had been raised by wolves and not just by a family who had a simpler lifestyle.