Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(10)
Thank God. She was afraid for a moment she wouldn’t find her voice until he walked out of the door.
He blinked, a subtle look of surprise on his features. Probably not used to hearing the word no. Especially from women, she thought with an irritated flick of her eyes over his solid chest. Once upon a time she’d been one of his women. She knew what it was like to be under his powerful gaze, to be stroked by his powerful hands. She knew how much better it felt to say yes and be rewarded by his attention than to say no and endure his apathy.
Too bad for him, she no longer wanted his attention. And she didn’t care if he ignored her. In fact, she preferred he ignored her. They were light years away from who they were seven years ago—at least she was. He didn’t seem to have changed much.
His lids narrowed over pale eyes. “Pardon?”
“I’m having the dinner in the mansion.” Forcing her chin up, she kept her head angled, looking into his eyes as she spoke, making sure he didn’t miss her strength and persistence. “I’ve been planning this dinner for almost twelve months. It’s in the final stages,” she lied.
According to the Event Planning Bible sitting on one of the shelves on the back wall, she was about three months behind. Moving the venue, or changing the date, would be a huge setback. A setback she didn’t have time to deal with. And there was no changing the date. June eighth was the day of the organization’s twentieth anniversary. Oh crap, had she written the eighth or the eighteenth on the invites she just ordered?
Donovan’s hands tightened around her upper arms, pulling her out of her brewing panic. “You’re not hearing me.”
Oh, she heard him. She’d heard everything he’d ever said.
I don’t do virgins.
She felt her face go red at the memory. “Let go of me.”
He did, shocking her so much by obeying she didn’t immediately back away from him. The thought of him in her shop again come morning sent a river of worry flooding her system.
With less conviction than she’d wanted, she managed, “This conversation is over.”
“None of this is over, Scampi.”
“Wrong, Donny,” she snapped. “This was over seven years ago.”
A muscle in his cheek ticked. His light eyes flickered down her body and back up, making her tingle everywhere as if his fingers followed their path. Once upon a time she believed he was her one. The One. Once upon a time when she’d handed over her precious first time to a man who couldn’t care less about her.
I don’t do virgins.
Now was her chance to make up for the moment when she’d had no response. After her tears had dried, after she was home and far away from him, she’d come up with the perfect zinger, only it was too late to deliver the blow.
Well. She’d just say it now in the name of catharsis.
Folding her arms over her breasts, she said, “I don’t do *s.”
He didn’t miss a beat.
“You used to.”
Her mouth froze open, but no words tumbled out. Again, she had no comeback.
Damn this man.
He turned on one booted heel and left her shop—the same black, scuffed-with-age boots he’d worn years ago, she guessed. The wind kicked his long hair as he strolled under a streetlamp and toward the curb. She stepped closer to the window, watching as he climbed into a Jeep. Then she realized it wasn’t a Jeep. It was the Jeep.
No longer black, but putty-gray, it was the same Jeep host to her “Ride of Shame” back to the Wharf.
A girl never forgot her first one-night stand, she supposed. Her only one-night stand. As he pulled away, brake lights reflecting red on the dark road, she clicked the lock on her door to keep out any more unwanted visitors.
“I used to,” she agreed belatedly in the silence. “But not anymore.”
CHAPTER TWO
Pate Mansion sat on twenty acres of manicured land, every inch worth a hundred times more than when Donovan’s family purchased it a century ago. At the rear of the property, shrouded by thick trees and unable to be seen from the main house, sat a cottage with a private drive. It was where Caroline had lived before she left Gertrude to work for Alessandre D’Paolo, but that was not where Donovan was headed.
The drive leading up to the mansion was long, flanked by naked trees on either side of the narrow lane. In the darkness, the claustrophobic tangle of branches threatened to squeeze the courage from his chest. He gripped the steering wheel, understanding the fear was displaced, leftover from when he was a kid. It was there nonetheless, causing his heart to pound a staccato.
He set his jaw and reminded himself he’d outgrown fear years ago. By age twelve, he’d resolved to be strong. No matter what punishment awaited him behind the mansion walls, he would take it. He had, too. Taken the slaps that graduated to closed-fist punches, taken the shoves down the stairs, taken the burns, taken the cuts.
Back then he refused to cower in the wake of his belligerent father. Refused to give the old man an ounce of satisfaction. And now? There was no way in hell he’d let Robert Pate haunt him from beyond the grave.
He parked off to the side of the cobblestone, not bothering with the six-car garage to his left. The idea of shutting Trixie in there bugged him.
Through her windshield, he peered up at the structure more resembling a castle than a house. Built from massive square blocks, he could admit from a mason’s perspective, the stonework was impressive. The behemoth boasted a pair of pointed turrets as well, their gold tips scratching the bleak sky.