A shiver wracks my body at just the thought. But then something snags in the corner of my eye, and as I look up, Niko moves from the seat opposite to set a soft blanket over my knees.
“You’re shivering.” The supple leather barely murmurs as he sits back again. He lifts a manila folder from the empty chair next to him, placing it on his knee.
“Thanks,” I answer, not wanting to admit the direction of my thoughts, to put a voice to my fears. To admit that he and Sandy might have a point. His gaze dips, and I realize I’m rubbing the cuticles of my thumbs. I bury my fingers under the soft cashmere. It’s just one more thing to be annoyed about. Annoyed he’s noticed. Annoyed I can’t seem to curtail the childish habit.
“What did you mean when you said you didn’t mean to marry Tom?” His voice is quiet, almost like he was reluctant to voice the question at all.
“I didn’t realize you had an interest in ancient history.” Refusing to lift my gaze, I’m intent on rearranging the blanket to hide my reddening fingers.
“I’m interested in all kinds of things pertaining to you.” His hand moves restlessly over the thin cardboard.
“Except my marriage doesn’t.”
“Your former marriage,” he corrects. “Come on, Isla.”
I refrain from telling him where to stick his winning smile and carefree words. Mainly because he would. Stick them right there.
“This isn’t like you, Isla. You’re pragmatic, not dramatic.”
“Or maybe you don’t know me as well as you’d like to think.”
“I know you’re an expert at making the most of any situation. I know that you choose not to wallow in self-pity, even at times when it could be warranted.”
I glance up sharply. “You’ll have to excuse me but I’m not quite sure how to act. I’ve never been kidnapped before.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Blackmailed?” I offer with a blithe flick of my hand. My flippancy is over the top because the more I think about it, the less shocking the idea of marrying him becomes. And that scares me.
“You think this is blackmail?” he asks in the vein of do you think it’s going to rain?
“Given the choice between the devil and the deep blue sea, you mean?” I answer saccharine sweet.
“Which am I? Which is Alexander, which is Anatoli? You have choices.”
“Do I?”
“We all have choices,” he answers darkly.
“Why, Niko? Why would you choose to marry me?”
The way he watches me, the weight of his attention; it feels like soft, caressing fingertips. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you. And this is the only way I can think to protect you.”
“And my brother.”
“I’m not marrying your brother.”
“So it is chivalry.” I almost roll my eyes, not sure why I’m laboring this point, except I suddenly don’t want his eyes anywhere else than on me. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it any more than a flower can help seeking the sun. “Isn’t that what every woman wants to hear,” I add scathingly. “That she needs a man to save her.”
“Is the idea so bad? To need someone.”
I roll my eyes. “The stuff of hearts and flowers.”
“You’re not a hearts and flowers kind of woman.”
“How would you know?” I retort, unimpressed that he’s right.
“Because I pay attention.” His gaze holds mine, daring me to look away. Daring me to contradict what I know to be true. “You told me a long time ago that flowers should be left in gardens.”
“Did you buy me flowers?” I didn’t mean to voice to the question.
“Not that you ever saw them.” It’s like he can’t dial back his amusement as his fingers relax on the folder, his other hand settling on the arm of the leather chair.
Why are my cheeks heated? “Chivalry aside, that’s not much of an answer.”
“There are always the tax benefits.”
“But I thought you said—”
“Is it criminal to be wealthy? I have businesses,” he chides. “I pay taxes. I’m not a complete degenerate.”
“I expect you must have a very clever accountant.”
“Everyone who works for me is clever. Well, almost everyone,” he adds. “I think you know my clever lawyer.”
He’s talking about Griffin, my half brother. Sandy said he was working for Niko’s uncle, but if he’s retired, maybe he works for him now. His fingers twitch on the folder again. I wonder what its significance is.
“A marriage is a union. Emotional. Spiritual. Physical.”
A pleasurable shiver rolls through me, one I know to be wrong. Traitorous neurological pathways. “We’re to have a marriage in that sense?” I actually suffer heart palpitations as I wait for his answer.
He throws an incendiary glance my way, his words dark and velvety. “I want it all.”
“But Sandy—”
“I respect your brother, but it’s you I want. I want to be so deep inside you I can feel your heartbeat.”
I swallow thickly, trying so hard to ignore his words. What of love? I want to ask, but I won’t allow myself as I turn to the window again.