And I realize now that he is stubborn, too. He doesn’t touch any of the silverware at his place setting, nor glance at any of the mouth-watering food in front of him. With another nod toward the empty chair, he waits until I finally lower myself into it.
Evidently satisfied, he reaches for a braided silver basket containing half a dozen fresh, flaky croissants nestled on a bright white linen cloth. I can smell the butter and airy dough from across the table, and it’s all I can do to control the small growl of my stomach as he offers the fresh-baked goodness to me.
I shake my head.
“You’re sure? My chef trained in Paris. I’ve got friends who’d kill just for one of her croissants, never mind the rest of this feast.”
When I decline to take one, he shrugs and puts one on his plate next to the fluffy omelet that’s bursting with cheese, spinach and other vegetables, and chunks of smoky ham. I’m not sure if I interrupted his breakfast, or if he was waiting for me to arrive before he began.
I glance down at the formal place setting in front of me and can’t help wondering what kind of game he thinks he’s playing now. Did he actually expect me to sit across from him and share a meal with him as if any of this is normal?
Maybe it is normal for him.
Maybe he plays the part of the polite, albeit arrogant, Southern gentleman for all of his models before eviscerating them on his canvas. I watch him reach for the sharp knife next to his plate, then slice into his omelet with a surgeon’s precision. Those elegant, strong hands mesmerize me. The way they move with nuanced, utter control, no matter how mundane the task.
I don’t want to think about all the wicked things he does with those hands. I don’t want to think about all of the wicked things I’ve heard about his other appetites, but I can’t stop the flood of rumors that fill my mind.
As I sit in silence while he devours his breakfast with gusto and a total masculine lack of self-consciousness, I’m thinking of the rumors about wild sex parties and BDSM clubs. Rumors about his insatiable hunger for beautiful women and the seemingly revolving door that leads to his bedroom. I’ve seen some of the supporting evidence for that last rumor in the pictures I found online.
As for the other rumors, they wouldn’t surprise me, having gone to his new nightclub, Muse, two weeks ago with my friends Evelyn Beckham and Paige Johansson. Although Muse is billed as a dance club, part of its allure—and its phenomenal success—is the flashing, strobe-quick glimpses of people having sex behind one-way glass in the private VIP rooms that circle the multi-story dance floor. That night with my friends, I’d dismissed what I saw as an illusion, a gimmick designed to play on the club’s name, but now I have to wonder.
Now, I have to wonder about a lot when it comes to Jared Rush.
His plate emptied, he wipes his mouth on the starched white napkin, then pours another cup of strong black coffee from the French press on the table.
“How do you think you did on your exam yesterday?”
For a moment, I’m startled by the question—by the idea that he not only remembers about my test, but bothers to ask. It feels too personal, too intimate, that he should know anything about what I do with my private time. I swallow to recalibrate my nerves, but it’s not easy to project calm under the intensity of his gaze.
“I’m sure I did fine. I take my studies very seriously.”
He chuckles. “I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anger nettles me. I scowl at him across the table. “Are you mocking me because I’m trying to get a better education and improve myself?”
“No.” He sets down his cup without drinking. “I’m telling you what I see when I look at you, Ms. Laurent. I see a good girl, too good. The kind who protects the people she cares about, even if they don’t deserve it. Even to her own peril. The kind who gets perfect grades in all her classes and wears her Sunday best to an appointment with a man who’s only waiting for the chance to get her out of it.”
Heat surges into my face. I don’t know what upsets me more, the accuracy of what he sees in me, or his audacity to say it.
His words send another kind of heat through me, too, a darker one that blooms deep inside me no matter how hard I want to deny it. I discreetly cross my legs, but squeezing my thighs together only makes the heat twist tighter.
“First of all, Mr. Rush, I’m not a girl. I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman.”
He grunts. “I’ve got more than ten years on you, darlin’. A hell of a lot more than that, if we’re talking about anything other than age.”
“I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute,” I say, tossing his words back at him. “As for protecting the people I care about, yes, you’re right. That is important to me, regardless of what it might cost me in the end.”
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Rush utters tersely. “Deep down, I think you already know that.”
I can’t believe his gall. What can he possibly know about Daniel, or me, for that matter? “Daniel cares for me. And I care for him, too.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I didn’t hear you ask one.”
My flippant reply irks him. Well, good. He needs to be irked.
He needs to be put in his place—especially before he starts
