Fuck no.
In the seconds after his pronouncement, I run the gamut of emotions as I frantically try to figure out how to get out of this. Normally I’d flirt a little, distract him that way. But that’s not an option right now, not when he’s looking at me like that’s exactly what he expects me to do. And now when I’m feeling so unsteady. So…vulnerable.
I shudder at the word, at the lack of protection it implies. And at the knowledge that the feeling will only get worse if I tell him what he wants to know.
Because there’s only one thing in this room that matters to me, only one thing I give a damn about, and I would destroy it myself before I let him—before I let anyone—know about it.
Chapter 5
“Veronica?” I feel like a parrot as I say her name for the third time in as many minutes. But something’s going on here and I can’t quite figure out what it is.
I’ve been attracted to her since pretty much the minute she slid into the booth across from me at the café yesterday—pretty hard not to be when she looks the way she looks and is the way she is. And while there have been a few times through the last two days that I thought she might return the sentiment, she’s pretty hard to read and even harder to pin down.
Until right now.
Or, more specifically, until a couple minutes ago. Because at this moment she’s looking at me with a combination of horror and calculation that is as fascinating as it is concerning. I just wish I knew why.
When she’d worked so hard to break the sexual tension that stretched between us like a circus high wire, I’d gone along with it. Had even lobbed an easy question at her so that she could get her balance back. So we both could.
That isn’t what’s happening here, though. Instead, she’s freaking out.
Oh, she’s doing her best to hide it, and maybe—if I hadn’t just spent the last eight hours studying her every movement, her every expression and inflection—I wouldn’t notice. But I didn’t take my eyes off of her during the photo shoot today and if I know nothing else right now, I know that what I just asked shut her down completely.
My only question is Why?
Her phone rings before I can ask it though, and she grabs for it like a drowning woman grabs for an inner tube—with a kind of terrified disbelief and desperate joy that the ordeal is almost over.
Veronica glances at the caller ID on her phone and her face smooths out, her expression becoming totally unreadable. “I’m sorry. I need to take this.”
“Of course. I’ll head downstairs for that coffee you keep offering me.”
“Great.” She nods, already distracted by whomever is on the other line. “I’ll meet you down there in a couple minutes.”
“Take your time.”
I head out of the suite and she pulls the doors closed after me with a sharp crack that echoes through the empty halls. I’m curious, really curious, so for a moment I think about hanging around, just to watch her body language through the glass doors. But that feels like cheating, especially since I’m certain that whoever she’s talking to has absolutely nothing to do with Vargas or my research.
So instead of lingering in the hallway, I head down one more flight to the huge, state-of-the-art kitchen that boasts nearly every gadget known to man. The coordinator of the photo shoot had made this room the base of operations today, but as I walk into it now the only evidence that they had been here at all is the basket of snacks still resting on the counter and the full carafe of coffee in the coffeemaker.
There are still a few go-cups on the counter next to the machine, so I grab one. I fill it up, then reach for the non-dairy creamer sitting next to the sugar. The container is empty, though, and I’ve never been one who can drink his coffee black, no matter how much shit my father and brother have given me for it through the years.
I glance at the stairs, think about waiting until Veronica comes down to ask, but then figure, what the hell. She’s a lot of things but stingy doesn’t seem to be one of them. She won’t mind if I borrow a little milk or half-and-half to put in my coffee.
But when I pull open the fridge, there is no half-and-half or milk. In fact, there’s absolutely nothing in it at all. No food, no drinks, no half-used bottles of salad dressing or jars of jam. Nothing. She doesn’t even have a bottle of ketchup.
I know some people eat out every night and so they don’t keep many groceries, but this…this is something else entirely. Even the most die-hard restaurant goers have something in the fridge. A carton of eggs, some yogurt, leftovers from last week’s takeout, an apple. Something. Veronica has nothing.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Knowing I’m invading her privacy, but too intrigued to care at this point, I head over to the large walk-in pantry and pull the door open. It’s empty, too. There’s not even a forgotten box of cereal.