She sips her drink, avoiding my gaze. “I’m not working right now.”
“Like hell you’re not. You’re looking for dirt on me in every corner of the city.”
She snorts. “You are a textbook case of narcissistic personality disorder.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“If I was researching you, I’d be the one asking the questions.” She moves over to the piano, sliding her hand over the white keys. “For the record, I am not just working when I leave your house. I’ve also walked through some parks.”
“I’m going to deduce that it’s one park and it’s the one across from your daughter’s school.”
She frowns. “Yes, mostly that one.”
“Have you seen her yet?”
“No,” she says. “Do you think they stopped letting her out after seeing me?”
“Maybe. It wasn’t your most brilliant plan.”
“Right,” she says. “Because luring your enemy’s daughter to the park was a foolproof plan, too, right? Nothing unpredictable has happened since then.”
I take another drink. “Some bad, some worse. An occasional spike in pleasure.”
“Does this unimpressed act ever get you anywhere other than a place of self-pity?” she asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not pitying myself.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t take you out of self-pity. I took you for revenge.”
She walks over to me before kneeling down near the armchair. “If it was revenge, you’d go straight after my father. This is about taking what you want.”
I glance down at her naked thighs. “If that was my goal, I’d already have you spread out on this floor.”
She smiles thinly at me. “But you wouldn’t be able to lie to yourself about your intentions.”
I smirk back at her. “I’ll have to get your father to ask me what my intentions with you are—I’ll be certain to tell him in explicit detail.”
With her down on her knees, it’s easy to forget the conversation and just imagine her mouth on me again. At the same time, this conversation could almost be considered fun. Most women simply agree with everything I say, desperate for my approval. Cassandra doesn’t give a fuck about my approval. She will go where I want her to go; that much is certain. But she clearly intends to fight me every step of the way.
Down the hallway, I hear one of the grandfather clocks chiming. Eight o’clock. I haven’t eaten since this morning and the alcohol is starting to make me hazy. I take out my phone.
“What are you doing?” Cassandra asks.
“Calling my chef. His pastrami sandwiches are better than anybody else’s in the city.”
She snatches my phone out of my hand, tapping on the screen to end the call. “Are you kidding me? It’s not exactly working hours.”
“I pay him well.”
“I don’t give a shit. Let him sleep.” She sets her glass down on the piano bench. “Do you have bread and cheese?” she asks.
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Butter?”
“I’m sure.”
“Good. I’m going to make my infamous grilled cheese.”
“Infamous? Because it kills people?” I ask.
She gestures to the blood on my shirt. “Not any worse than you do. Come on. Prepare to be blown away.” I wince at her choice of words, but she doesn’t notice.
She walks out the south entrance of the library. I watch her until her ass disappears. I keep sitting, waiting for her to reappear, to fall into subjugation. I finish my drink. I wait. I look around the room, remembering every movement she made within its walls.
I set my glass beside hers, then leave the library. Walking down the hallway, I follow the sound of clashing pots and pans. She doesn’t understand. Most of the foster homes I lived in only took in kids to get a paycheck and play the part of the martyr in front of other people. They’d whine about having to deal with these bratty kids and how much the spoiled children cost to take care of. I lived on scraps—cans of olives, stale cereal, ketchup on bread. Butter or dried fruit was considered a good day. My childhood was filled with rearranging ingredients to make something palatable. Once I was wealthy enough to get a chef, I found one of the best ones in the city that would be willing to overlook any questionable activity and ever since I’ve never had to face looking into a pantry with that childhood dread swooping in.
By the time I get to the kitchen, there’s a pan on the stove. She’s buttering two pieces of bread, the blade of the knife moving with a flickering glint in the light overhead.
“Did your father teach you how to make this?” I ask.
“Would that change your opinion of it?” she asks. “No. I learned in college. YouTube and desperation are the best teachers. The key is low heat under the pan.”
“I see.”
“You wait until the butter is melted on the top bread.” She raises the buttered bread. “You also have some good ingredients here. Gourmet cheddar cheese with some sourdough bread. We’ll see. I’ve never used gourmet cheddar.”
She carefully drops the first piece of bread on the pan. It sizzles. She layers the cheese and second piece of bread on top of it, gnawing on her lip in concentration. Her hips sway slightly as she checks the flames under the pan. It’s hard to resist. I walk swiftly toward her. She stiffens slightly before I reach her. My hands are on her hips, barely brushing over her ass. Her back arches, her shoulders tapping against my chest.
“How did I know you’d be the type to like women the most when they’re in the kitchen?” she teases. It’s easy to forget everything creating distance between us when she’s this close to me.
“I like my women anywhere,” I say. “I like them better when they’re not wearing pants.”
“That’s not what you were saying before.”
“The alcohol has made me smarter. And less interested in clothes.”
She picks up a spatula off the counter. “I need to
