She swallowed. ‘This is a reputable place. Things like that don’t happen here.’
‘And what exactly do you base that statistic on? Are you a frequent visitor?’
She flushed. ‘No, of course not. And I’m not naïve. I just...I just think—’
‘That predators in Savile Row suits are less vicious than those in hoodies?’ His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I came here for a quiet drink.’ Her gaze dropped to the bold and garish-looking cocktail standing next to his dark-coloured spirit.
This was fast getting out of hand, and she needed to think about getting back. Or she would have more explaining to do.
He indicated the chair one more time. ‘You can still have it. And you needn’t worry about making conversation. We can sit here and not...talk.’
His words piqued her curiosity. Or maybe she just wanted a distraction from the pain and chaos that awaited her the moment she left this place.
She forced herself to look at him—really look past the surface hurt-your-eyes gorgeousness of the man—past the powerful shoulders underneath the impeccable suit and loosened silk tie. His hair was slightly ruffled, as if he’d shoved a hand through it once or twice.
The brackets around his mouth were deeply grooved and when she chanced another look into his eyes, what Perla glimpsed made her heart hammer.
In that instant she knew he wasn’t here to prey on unsuspecting or vulnerable women. That wasn’t to say women would be safe from the sensual aura and sheer charisma that oozed from him. Far from it.
But for tonight, in this very moment, whoever this man was, the emotions lurking in his eyes weren’t of a predatory nature. The pain she saw resonated with her on so deep a level, she found it hard to breathe through it.
His eyes narrowed, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts. He stiffened and his mouth firmed. For a moment she thought he was going to change his mind about his earlier invitation.
Abruptly he moved a step forward, touched the back of the chair. ‘Sit down. Please,’ he repeated.
Perla sat. In silence, he pushed her drink towards her.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
He inclined his head and raised his glass towards her. ‘To not talking.’
She touched her glass to his; a surreal feeling overtook her as she stared at him over the rim of her glass and took a sip of her cocktail. The potent alcohol hit the back of her throat, warming and cooling at the same time. The tartness of the pomegranate burst on her tongue, making her close her eyes in a single moment of pleasure before the strength of his scrutiny propelled her eyelids back open.
Once again, he seemed fascinated with her hair. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to fiddle with it. She sucked harder on her straw, partly to finish the drink quicker so she could leave and partly because it gave her something to do other than stare at this hauntingly beautiful man.
They sipped their drinks in silence.
With a very unsettling amount of regret, Perla set her empty glass down.
The stranger followed suit. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For controlling the urge to indulge in idle chit-chat.’
‘I told you, that’s not what I came here for. If it was, I’d have brought a friend. Or come earlier when I knew there would be more people here. I presume you chose this time for the same reason.’
A shaft of pain flitted over his features but was gone in the next instant. ‘You presume correct.’
She shrugged. ‘Then there’s no need to thank me.’
He stilled, the only movement his gaze as it flew once again to her hair. When it traced down to her mouth, Perla became very much aware of the scarlet lipstick. Before she could stop herself, she licked her tingling lower lip.
His low hiss was an alien sound that sent a fresh wave of goose bumps over her skin. She’d never elicited such a reaction in a man before. Perla wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or terrified.
‘Are you staying here, at Macdonald Hall?’ she asked, in the hope of deflecting the unsettling feeling his hiss had elicited.
The stranger’s hand tightened slowly into a fist on the table. ‘For tonight and the next few nights, yes.’
She looked from his hand to his face. ‘Why do I get the feeling that you don’t want to be here?’ she asked.
‘Because we don’t always get to decide our own fate. But I’m obliged to be here for the next few days. It doesn’t mean I’m pleased about it.’