“Do you?”
She frowned. “No. I don’t despise all of your kind.”
He grunted. “I see. Only me, then.”
A twinge of guilt pricked her to hear her own words tossed back at her, but she shut it down just as swiftly.
No, no, no. She was not going to let him make her feel that her dislike toward him was misplaced. After five months and a dozen denied requests for him to show one tiny ounce of sympathy for the wishes of a dying old woman, Sorin Ebarron had earned every bit of her resentment.
After his profane wager that had landed her in his hands for the duration of the night—God help her, in his bed—Ashayla had even more cause to despise him.
She shook her head. “Why wouldn’t you just give the pendant back?”
“The piece belongs to Ebarron now. That’s why. We acquired it honestly and fairly, the same way we’ve acquired every other piece of jewelry, art and arcana in the Ebarron treasury.”
Indignation flickered inside her as she watched him calmly reach for the champagne and pour some into her glass as if the discussion was over. “That pendant is my grandmother’s. It never should have been sold at all. Haven’t you amassed a large enough hoard without this one item? How deep is Ebarron’s greed that you won’t part with a single trivial piece?”
“Value is a relative thing. And if we forfeited every bit of treasure each time someone expressed regret over losing it to us, the House vaults would be empty.” He offered her the filled crystal flute, but instead of letting go when she reached for it, Sorin’s fingers closed over hers. His grasp was light, but firm. Startlingly possessive. “Why would I let go of something I won fair and square?”
Rattled by the contact as much as her body’s reaction to it, Ashayla pulled out of his hold and exhaled a short, frustrated sigh. “We’re not talking about priceless treasure. We’re talking about a simple, polished stone on a silver chain. It’s hardly worth anything beyond sentimental value and you know it.”
“I know no such thing. I know only what you’ve told me. That it’s a family heirloom supposedly sold by mistake a long time ago, and now a dying old Nephilim is suddenly desperate to have it back before she pushes out her last breath. Maybe the person I should be asking about all of this is her.”
“Don’t,” Ashayla murmured, wounded by his cold tone. “Don’t speak of my grandmother so dismissively. You don’t know anything about her. She raised me. She’s all the family I have in this world. You have no right to talk about her as if her life and the things that matter to her are not important.”
He’d gone silent as she berated him, solemn. When he finally spoke, his deep voice was quiet with sincerity. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize—”
“No, you wouldn’t have. But now you do, so leave her out of this.” Her tone was still bitter, her heart still stung and defensive.
She took a drink of her champagne, missing Gran like crazy now. Hoping she was okay back home without Ashayla to look after her.
Sorin moved his chair out and stood without speaking. As Ashayla took a larger sip from her glass, she felt, rather than saw, him come around to the other side of her.
As formally as the most meticulously trained server, he unfolded the crisp white linen napkin and gently placed it on her lap. Then he lifted the dome from her dinner plate, revealing a gourmet meal of roasted chicken, perfectly steamed vegetables and aromatic sauce.
“Please,” he said softly. “Relax and enjoy your meal, Asha.”
He returned to the head of the table, resuming his place without another word. They ate in a strangely companionable silence, and she found it difficult to keep from stealing glances at him as he carved his meat and drank his champagne.
She couldn’t deny her attraction to him on a physical level. With his glorious golden hair, arresting topaz eyes and that wickedly sensual mouth, to say the Incubus was handsome was an understatement. And his body…even in his conservative dark suit and white shirt, it was more than obvious that Sorin Ebarron was six-plus feet of lean, muscled perfection.
Worst of all, he knew it.
Looking at him at the table beside her, dining with him as though they weren’t engaged in an impossible standoff, Ashayla would have preferred his infuriating arrogance and demonic swagger.
This thoughtful, civilized man in the room with her now was more dangerous by far.
Finally given some peace, Ashayla realized she was hungry after all, and her dinner, as she suspected, was amazing. She finished most of it a few moments after Sorin had cleaned his plate completely.
They drank the rest of the champagne, then he rose and walked over to help pull out her chair. “Shall we?”
“Shall we, what?”
“Come with me, Asha.”
Oh, God.
Left with little choice, she stood up and faced him, uncertain. Nervous to find out what was to come next.
CHAPTER SIX