‘I have an appreciation for my possessions. That doesn’t make me a freak.’
‘You have more than that,’ I reply. ‘You have obsessive-compulsive disorder.’
Miller’s mouth drops open a little. ‘Because I like things a certain way, I have a disorder?’
I exhale a wary breath and stop my elbows from hitting the table just in time. He won’t acknowledge his freakish obsessiveness, and it’s clear I’m getting nothing on the claustrophobia front, either. But these are trivial issues in the grand scheme of things. There are more important things to address. ‘The newspaper. Why was the title changed?’
‘I realise how that looks, but it was for your benefit.’
‘How?’
His lips fix in a straight line. ‘To protect you. Trust me.’
‘Trust you?’ I fight off the urge to laugh in his face. ‘I trusted you with everything! How long have you been London’s most notorious male escort?’ The words feel like acid burning my tongue as I spit them from my mouth.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some wine?’ He lifts the bottle from the table and looks at me hopefully. It’s a pathetic attempt to avoid my question.
‘No, thank you. An answer would be nice, though.’
‘How about some appetisers?’ He stands and strides over to the fridge, without waiting for my answer. I can’t eat with my stomach in such knots and my brain a fuzz of unanswered questions, and I doubt my appetite will appear once I finally squeeze the answers from him.
He opens the huge mirrored fridge and pulls out a platter of something. Then he shuts the door but doesn’t return to the table, instead messing with whatever’s on the tray, poking and shifting things around. He’s trying to buy time, and when he glances cautiously up to the mirror, he catches me watching him in the reflection. He knows I know his game.
‘You said you’re ready to answer my questions,’ I remind him, keeping my determined stare on him in the mirror.
His eyes drop to the tray briefly, and then he slowly turns on a deep breath and makes his way back to the table, pushing that dark lock of hair off his forehead en route. I nearly choke when the platter is placed with utter accuracy, revealing a pile of oysters.
‘Help yourself.’ He gestures to the silver dish, then sits.
I ignore his offer, annoyed by his choice for starters, and ask my question once again. ‘How long?’
Lifting his plate, he takes three oysters and sets them neatly down. ‘I’ve been an escort for ten years,’ he says, choosing not to look at me as he delivers his answer.
I want to gasp in shock, but I resist, instead taking my water to moisten my suddenly parched mouth. ‘Why notorious?’
‘Because I’m unforgiving.’
Now I do gasp, and I hate myself for it. This shouldn’t be news to me. I’ve experienced him being unforgiving.
He sees me struggling but continues. ‘Because in the bedroom, I’m wicked, unloving, unfeeling, and unbothered by it. The women can’t get enough of me and the men can’t work out why that is.’
‘They pay for you—’
‘To be the best f**k of their life,’ he finishes for me. ‘And they pay obscene amounts for the privilege.’
‘I don’t get it.’ I shake my head, my eyes darting all over his flawless table. ‘You don’t let them kiss you or touch you.’
‘When I’m naked, no. When we’re intimate, no. I’m a perfect gentleman on dates, Olivia. They can feel me over my clothes, work themselves up and enjoy my attention. But that’s as far as their control goes. I’m the perfect mix of man for them. Arrogant . . . attentive . . . talented.’
I inwardly wince. ‘Do you get anything from it?’
‘Yes,’ he admits. ‘I’m in full control in the bedroom and I come every time.’
I flinch at his earnest words, looking away, feeling sick and wounded. ‘Right.’
‘Show me that face,’ he demands harshly, and my head lifts automatically, finding soft eyes replacing the hard ice. ‘But nothing will ever come close to the pleasure I gain from worshipping you.’
‘I’m struggling to see that man now,’ I say, making the softness of his expression drift into misery. ‘I so wish you’d never made me one of them.’
‘Never more than me,’ he whispers, slumping back in his chair. ‘Tell me there’s hope.’
All I can see is Miller in that hotel room. My desire and need for him are still there, but our short conversation has brought the harsh reality of his life crashing down around me. I’m not equipped with enough strength to deal with him. If I let him in again, then I’m facing a lifetime of torture and possibly regret. Nothing will make me forget the unforgiving lover. All I’ll see when he takes me is a red mist of misery. My life has been difficult enough as it is. I can’t make it harder.
‘I asked you a question,’ he says quietly. The tone of his voice tells me he’s slipping into that clipped, arrogant mode, probably because he can see my sudden despondency, and with a flick of my eyes to his, I see that arrogance, too. He won’t go down easily.