“I don’t believe you,” I said, my voice slicing through the crisp evening like the truth masquerading as a lie.
Even in the gloom, with only street lights for illumination, his eyes were bright and such a light brown they seemed otherworldly. His eyebrow rose, but no other interest showed on his face. “What don’t you believe?” He fanned his arm to the left, indicating for me to travel that way.
My feet behaved, tottering obediently in the black velvet heels, but my brain swam with a sudden gyroscope of vertigo. I focused hard on the diamond glinting on Jethro’s lapel. Find an anchor. Hold on tight. Do this and you’ll be alright. The stupid rhyme echoed in my brain. My brother had made it up when we were eight after I’d broken my arm falling off the bottom step of our porch.
“That you convinced my father that you’re dateable material.” I bunched the front of my skirt, wishing I could’ve changed before traipsing through Milan in a couture dress. “You either bribed him or threatened.”
Just like you’re threatening me with your silence and imposing attributes.
“Threatened….interesting word.” His voice positively purred. Placing his hands into his pockets, he added, “And if I did? What difference does it make? You’re still here—with me—alone. Dangerous, really.”
The footpath decided to roll beneath my suddenly unsure feet. Breathe. Get it together.
Heroines in books were portrayed as quaint and lovable if they were clumsy. I had more bruises and scrapes from falling and slamming into things than I would ever admit, and there was nothing quaint about it. I was a hazard. Especially if I had a pair of wickedly sharp dress scissors in my hands and stood up too fast. Anyone in a two metre radius was in danger if my brain decided to throw me helter-skelter into a wall.
It was also a huge inconvenience when faced with an overbearing stranger who just used the words alone and dangerous.
“Dangerous isn’t a good word,” I muttered, allowing a little physical distance to grow between us.
“Stupid isn’t a good word either, but it’s been echoing in my head.”
I slammed to a halt. “Stupid?”
Jethro glided to a stop, looking so cultured and sharp I had a terrible urge to rip his jacket or ruffle his hair. He was too perfect. Too collected. Too restrained. My heart stuttered. What exactly is he restraining?
“You say I threatened your father as there’s no other explanation as to why you’re standing here with me. I say if you feel that way, then you’re stupid for agreeing. It was you who took my hand, you who followed me from the crowd to empty streets.” Leaning down, his eyes narrowed. “Stupid, Ms. Weaver. Very stupid indeed.”
I should’ve been insulted. Beyond livid at being ridiculed and slandered, but I couldn’t deny the idiocy of my situation. I’d meant it as a joke, sort of, but how could I ignore the truth blazing bright in his dark words?
“I’m twenty-four, Mr. Hawk, and you were the first man my father agreed I could spend an evening alone with. If it makes me stupid to want something I’ve been denied all my life, then yes, I guess I’m incredibly stupid. But you’ve just proven that no matter how much I wanted freedom, I love my family more, and I didn’t say a proper goodbye.”
The sudden need to see V and my dad overwhelmed me. Something morbid inside taunted with the horrible thought I would never see them again. I knew it was ridiculous, but I couldn’t fight the drive to leave.
Glaring at Jethro and his imposing silence, I sucked in a breath. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
Gathering my train, I spun on my heels and stalked toward the huge portico and arched doorway. Blessedly my head remained clear and my feet suffered no stumbles or falls. The heaviness of my train billowed in the rush. My heart thudded with anxiety. I had no logical explanation why I suddenly needed to be around people again, but I couldn’t deny the strong pull toward family.
Jethro didn’t say a word. He stayed statuesque and proud in the evening darkness.
With every step I took, I expected him to call out or find some way to stop me. He didn’t seem like a man who accepted no for an answer. But only silence followed, pushing me faster toward the door.
The moment I stepped through the polished entry and into the hive of heat and voices, I plucked my phone from my cleavage. There was one person in particular I wanted to speak to. A stranger I’d never heard or seen. My father had allowed me one night of freedom. I didn’t want it with Jethro, but I did want it with someone else. I felt like Cinderella waiting for the clock to strike midnight.
Maybe Kite lived close by? His number prefix said he dwelled in the United Kingdom. Like me. It wasn’t a long flight to get back home.
I’d lived in London all my life, moving from the outskirts to downtown five years ago. The Weaver empire had always been based in London—right from conception. And probably always would be—if business continued to boom.
I opened a message to Kite007.
Needle&Thread: Sorry I didn’t reply before, I was busy cementing my career and ensuring I have a lifetime of servitude and sewing.
I sighed, staring at the words. They sounded whiny and ungrateful, which I wasn’t. Plus, the unsaid rule between us was no personal information. I didn’t know what he did for a living or his real name or favourite food. Sex messaging was a void with no depth.
Which shows how lonely you are.
I scowled, deleting what I’d typed. I wasn’t lonely. I had the best family and support in the world. I was just…tired. Maybe I should book a holiday somewhere hot? Somewhere where I can’t sew or design or get sucked back into work. It sounded great—but one problem. I didn’t want to be the loner around a pool on some tropical island. I didn’t want to eat on my own by candlelight on the beach.
Take Vaughn.