“What’s wrong with you?” Jethro jerked me closer, peering into my eyes. The first sign of animation lurked in their golden depths. It wasn’t concern though, merely annoyance. “Are you ill?” Annoyance turned to carefully hidden anger.
I swallowed hard, hating my condition all over again. To him, I would come across as weak. He wouldn’t understand the strength it took to live a normal life while shackled to an improperly balanced form. If anything, it made me stronger.
“No, I’m not ill. Not that you’re worried for my health.” Twitching in his hold, I searched for a way free. But his touch only tightened. Blowing a blue-black strand from my eye, I added, “It’s not contagious. I suffer from vertigo. That’s all. Google it.”
That’s all. I scrape my knees if I get out of bed too fast and faint if I swivel my head too quick, but that’s all.
Jethro scowled. “Perhaps you shouldn’t wear such heavy clothing.” He plucked the dense material and delicate stitching on my waist. “It’s a hindrance and delaying my night’s activities.”
My eyes flared. Night’s activities?
Perhaps he had the same conclusion of where we’d end up? Captive in his strong hands, I stared up. I wasn’t short for a woman, but Jethro had at least half a foot on me. He didn’t move, only watched as if I were an interesting specimen he couldn’t decide to enjoy or throw away.
My breathing grew shallow the longer he held me. Dropping my gaze to his lips, it didn’t help my anxiety at having them so close. It’s now or never.
I knew nothing about him. He scared me. But he was a man. I was a woman. And once, just once, I wanted pleasure.
“I want something from you,” I murmured.
He stilled. “What exactly makes you think you’re in a position to ask something of me?”
I shook my head. “I’m not asking.”
A moment thickened between us. His nostrils twitched. “Go on…”
“Take me for a drink. I want to get to know you.”
Not quite what I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t be so bold.
He laughed once. “Believe me, Ms. Weaver, I’ll save you from a mundane conversation. The most you’ll ever know about me is my name. Everything else…let’s just say, ignorance is bliss.”
His aftershave of woods and leather came over me again. The chilliness in his gaze warned not to push, but I couldn’t help myself. Not after the way Kite treated me.
“Bliss…that’s a word I don’t understand.”
Jethro cocked his head, the trace of annoyance coming again. “What exactly are you trying to do?”
A rush of wobbliness hit me. I looked over my shoulder at the café across the street. “Have a nightcap with me. Over there.” I motioned with my head. I didn’t care in the least I wore a huge gown or that the coffee shop was empty. The couch in the window looked comfy, and I wasn’t ready to have this small freedom destroyed.
He looked to the small venue, a flicker of confusion filling his eyes. “You—” Cutting himself off, he straightened and let me go. “Fine. If that’s all you want, I see no reason why I can’t prolong our true agenda for thirty minutes.” Capturing my elbow, he half-dragged, half-marched me across the street.
My heart sank at the lack of romance and anticipation. I’d hoped he’d relax a little—knowing I was interested—and drop the chilly fa?ade.
What if it’s not a fa?ade? His demeanour was steadfast and engrained. I doubted he’d ever been carefree or impulsive.
The propulsion was fast, too fast for someone like me with the balance of a damn butterfly, but his hold was firm and granted a certain safety.
Striding over the curb, Jethro yanked open the glass door, scowling at the bell jingling above. A young Italian girl looked up, smiling in welcome.
The rich aroma of coffee and warmth instantly stole the stress from my blood from Kite, the show, and Jethro’s company.
“Sit.” Jethro let me go, pointing toward the faded yellow settee with purple and orange throw cushions. “And don’t move.”
I stood frozen. Jethro had no wish to be here, especially with me. What the hell was going on? First my father pushed me on him, then Jethro barely tolerated my company. Am I that repulsive to the opposite sex?
“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t you going to ask what I want?”
Jethro raised an eyebrow. “No. Want to know why?”
I did. But I didn’t want to play his ridiculous game. I was tired, had been dumped via text, and not wanted even when I practically threw myself at him. The night had turned from promising to disastrous, and I wanted it over.
When I didn’t reply, Jethro waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter what you prefer in beverages. You only get one request and you got it. I’m here against my plans; therefore, you’ll drink what I give you.”
My mouth parted, amazement stealing my ability to shout the incomprehensible phrases jumbled inside. Seriously? Who was this man?
Jethro strode away, leaving me gawking at his powerful back dressed in an immaculate, tailored suit. He completely ignored me while he ordered.
Not wanting to stand like a dismissed damsel, I moved to the couch and sat in a cloud of midnight-galaxy material. The underwire and other tricks to keep my dress buoyant argued against sitting, but my feet breathed a sigh of gratefulness.
Jethro returned with two cups of coffee. Espresso. Tiny cups, no biscotti, or anything to prolong something he obviously didn’t want to do. Placing the hot drink in front of me on the low table, he sipped his own, glaring at me over the rim.
I broke eye contact, collecting the cup of black liquid. Truth be told, I hated coffee. I’d only suggested the café to delay whatever he’d planned that was so urgent. Maybe he was a publicist, there to show the tabloids I was passionate about living as well as fashion. If that was the case, shouldn’t he be nicer? Kinder?