“Because I knew if he tried to take you to dinner, he’d go wherever it was free.”
“But Fenton, why?” I rise off the sofa and take a few steps away. I need some space to think, to breathe, to let my heart pound like a drum and not think he can hear it. “Why would you go to that much trouble?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically. “It matters. Your motivation behind it really matters to me.”
He loosens his tie further. He’s squirmy, so unlike him. “After everything you told me about him, I was concerned for your safety. I wanted you somewhere I could keep an eye on you, make sure you were safe.”
“After what I told you about him? What? That I had to pay for his shit?”
“That he was acting erratically. He had problems with money, he lied. That you suspect he has something to do with your brother,” he gulps. “Those aren’t positive attributes, rudo.”
“Obviously,” I snort. “But why do you care? You have no obligation to me.” I bite my tongue, holding myself back from saying more.
He laughs, a quiet chuckle that leaves me standing wordlessly. He leans back and looks at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
When he faces me again, his eyes are as clear as I’ve ever seen them. “I do have an obligation to you,” he says quietly.
My heart leaps to my throat and I take a staggering step backwards. “How do you figure?”
“There are many reasons why.”
“Such as . . .” I prompt him.
His gaze catches mine mid-air and holds it and doesn’t let go.
“You’ve really made me rethink a lot of things in my life. See things in a new light.” He grins a boyish smile, his head dipping just a touch. “You’ve made me smile, inside and out, for the first time in maybe forever. Certainly on this level.”
“You’ve made me smile too,” I whisper.
“The report on Grant isn’t good, Brynne. I saw enough to realize you shouldn’t be alone with this jackass. He’s bad news. Very bad news.”
“Are you just saying that?”
“Why would I just say that?”
I shrug, trying to process this information. “What did it say? Anything that would have impacted his time in Zimbabwe? I mean, is he on drugs? Could he have been so fucked up on something over there that maybe he is the reason Brady was in that neighborhood that day?”
My mind is spinning, round and round and round. The more I think, the faster it twirls.
Fenton shakes his head and looks around the room. “When I get the final report back, if I think it can help you, I’ll make sure you get it.”
“I’d really appreciate that. No one gives a shit about Brady. Grant, his employer, the government—they all just left him there to die. If you have anything, as small as you might think it is, please let us have it.”
“I will. You have my word.” His voice wobbles and he stands, wiping his hands down his pants again. “There was another reason I wanted you and him to come to Pano.”
“What’s that?”
“Because I needed to know . . .” he groans and sweeps his hand through his hair. “I needed to know if you wanted Grant back or not.”
“I told you I didn’t.”
“You told me you loved him.”
“That doesn’t mean I want him back.”
“If love is what you told me it was, then if you loved him, you might want him back.”
“Now you’re going to get all philosophical on me? You go from not saying hardly anything to being profound?”
“I’m not being profound. I just wanted to see how you looked at him.”
My chest tightens. I almost can’t say it. “Why?”
He just shrugs and grins a twisted grin that melts me. “I wanted to know if you looked at him like you look at me.” He stalks towards me, his eyes boring into mine. “I needed to see if that twinkle in your eyes, that one—right there,” he says, pressing his fingertip lightly on my eyelid, “if it was there when you looked at him.”
“Was it?” I breathe.
“No.”
Finally, his arms wrap around me and I make no resistance. I’ve been craving his touch for far too long. I melt into him as his lips find mine. They work together effortlessly, like they were created for this very thing. My hands go to his hair and I brush back the silky strands as I pull back.
“Have any more questions, Miss Calloway?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.
“I sure don’t, Mr. Abbott.”
“Does that mean what I think it means?” His fingers drag around my hip and across my pubic bone.
“That means, now, we fuck.”
“But we’re in the middle of my restaurant,” he says as blandly as he can manage, all the while fighting a smile.
“So we are.”
He takes my hand in his and pilots me to the door. A knock raps from the other side just before we get there and Fenton tells them to enter.
The server comes in and stops, a confused look on her face. “Is something wrong?”
“We’re leaving,” Fenton says. “Tell the chef it was fine, we just had a change in plans.”