Beautifully Cruel (Beautifully Cruel #1)(62)

“My freedom of choice, for one thing.”

He looks at me for a beat, then releases my wrist. He relaxes back into his chair and folds his hands in his lap. “Why don’t you go to the ladies’ room. It’s right around that corner.”

Mystified, I look in the direction he’s pointing. When I look back at him, he’s gazing calmly at me, as if his suggestion made sense.

“I don’t need to use the restroom.”

“Don’t you?”

What. The. Hell. “No, Liam, I don’t.”

“I think you do.”

His eyes glitter. There’s something behind them I don’t understand, but I do know that he’s got a reason for wanting me to go to the restroom.

I debate with myself for a moment, then push back my chair.

I cross the courtyard and turn in the direction he pointed. As soon as I’m out of his sight, I pause for a moment, resting my hand on the rough brick wall to give my heart a chance to recover. When it slows to a more normal beat, I continue down the walkway, passing the men’s room. There’s an arrow on the wall indicating the women’s toilet is around another corner to the right.

I turn the corner and stop dead, staring.

The ladies’ room door is there, as the sign said it would be. But ten feet beyond it is a break in the building where there’s no wall or doorway, just an open arch leading to the street outside.

My heart starts to pound.

I could walk right out that arch and be gone. Which, obviously, he knows.

He’s giving me a choice.

I stand there thinking for what seems like a long time, but might only be seconds.

Then I exhale the pent-up breath I’ve been holding, push open the ladies’ room door, and go inside.





22





Tru





When I return to the table, new food has appeared and the old plates have been cleared. Liam is finishing his glass of wine.

I sit. We eat in silence only interrupted by the reappearance of the waiter to clear plates and bring new dishes. I drink two glasses of wine in quick succession, not bothering to try to figure out what it means that I didn’t run away.

I don’t need to wonder. I already know.

This is an absolute disaster in the making.

When all the dinner plates have been cleared and we’re sipping cappuccinos, Liam says, “You left your handbag in the car last night. I asked Declan to bring it into the library.”

The handbag with my phone in it, he means. The phone I’m not going to use to make an emergency call to the police, or anyone else, to come and rescue me.

“Why are you shaking your head?”

“Because I keep surprising myself.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

I lift my gaze from the creamy foam of the cappuccino cup in my hand and look at him. “You always seem to know exactly what I’m going to do.”

His enigmatic smile makes a reappearance. “Do I?”

When I don’t return the smile, it fades. Looking frustrated, he leans closer. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I can’t believe you don’t know.”

“I’d like to hear you say it.”

“So you do know what I’m thinking.”

“You look disturbed by that.”

“Can you blame me?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’d never use it against you.”

I set down the cup and rub my forehead, sighing.

“Am I giving you a headache?”

“No. I’m just…this is very…”

His voice turns husky. “It’s not complicated at all, Tru.”

I say drily, “It would be helpful if you’d stop reading my mind.”

“I can’t help it. You’re an open book.”

“Could you at least pretend?”

“I told you I’d never lie to you just to make you feel better.”

“Wait—I thought you said I was unpredictable?”

“No, I said I kept underestimating you.”

I think for a minute. “I’m not sure I get the difference.”

Eyes burning, he growls, “Have I told you how beautiful you are when you come?”

I laugh. “Whoa! Give me a minute to recover. Where’s a neck brace when you need one?”

“Because you are. My dick gets hard if I think about it.”

Exasperated, I stare at him. “You said you wouldn’t pressure me.”

He considers me with heated eyes, then apparently decides he’s pushed me too far, because he sits back in his chair and casually crosses one leg over the other. “Fair enough. Would you like anything else to eat?”

My god, this man could test the patience of Mother Teresa. “No,” I say coolly. “Thank you for dinner. It was lovely.”

“You’re welcome.”

I get the sense he’s trying hard not to show any of the amusement he feels. That only makes me angrier. “Liam?”

“Aye, lass?”

“You’re bad for my blood pressure.”

His dark eyes dance with mirth. He stands, drops his napkin on the tabletop, and holds out a hand to me. “Come on. You can throw more shoes at me when we get home.”