Owning Violet (The Fowler Sisters #1)(30)

But Violet? I can’t get a solid read on her and I don’t get why.

Chapter Nine

Violet

Throughout dinner Ryder was a perfect gentleman. He made polite conversation, keeping any overtly sexual undertones out of it. Oh, he flirted. He flashed the occasional smile that made me a little dizzy. He plied me with plenty of wine, too, and I wondered if that was because he saw how I reacted at the party last night. Fueled by my anger, fueled by the alcohol, ready to do battle with Zachary.

I still can’t believe I behaved that way. If Father had seen me like that, he would have been mortified. Rose was still upset that she hadn’t been able to witness me raging at my jerk of an ex.

Typical.

I couldn’t help but think as the dinner went on and Ryder was so polite, so subtly charming, that he was like some sort of predatory animal lying in wait. Calculating his next move, soothing me, tricking me into believing all was well. And then he’d strike. Capture me completely and take me as his willing victim.

And I feel willing, as wrong as I know it is. I want him. It’s wrong, but I do.

“The inspiration file.” He pulls it from out of nowhere, though I knew he’d brought his briefcase in with him. I take the file, our fingertips brushing, the jolt his touch elicits every single time surging through me. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”

His tone is casual but beneath it I hear the edge, though I can’t quite decipher it. Is he nervous? Prepared for me to challenge his team’s choices? Afraid I might hate everything I see?

My fingers shake as I slowly open the file, my breath catching in my throat when I see the first image. It’s of a woman with long, dark hair, her head thrown back, her eyes not quite closed, deep red lips parted. Her hand rests at her neck, her arm between her bared breasts. The photo is sensual, not sleazy, but the woman definitely appears as if she’s in the throes of passion.

I flip it over, refusing to look at Ryder, to let him know that I’m already off center and I’ve only looked at one image.

The next photo is of a stack of French macarons, each one a distinct, vibrant color. The image, each delicate cookie, is beautiful in its simplicity.

I scan over each photo carefully, surprised at how different they all are yet still somehow work together. One is a photo of a sky and a woman’s hands rising toward it, a delicate, bright orange butterfly resting on the tips of her fingers. A bouquet of colorful wildflowers is in one image; a stark green field with a single sunflower growing in the center, rising toward the sun, in another.

It’s the last photo that gets me. A couple wrapped around each other, staring at each other. The woman is heartbreakingly beautiful, her dark brown eyes sad, her bold pink lips parted. The man has his hands on her, one gripping her face, the other holding her backside, his gaze intense on her face, their foreheads pressed together. They’re completely focused on each other and I can feel the connection between them.

I stare at the image for so long, the silence between us grows heavy. Unspoken words and thoughts float in the air and as time ticks on, I’m afraid to look up and meet Ryder’s gaze.

The photo speaks to me and I can’t explain why. The man … it’s as though he owns that woman. That she’s everything to him and he doesn’t want to let her go. She looks as if she’s fighting a war within herself. Or maybe a war with the man and the passion that he feels for her. She wants it, needs what he can give her, but she’s also fearful of him, of what he represents. All while he looks like he just wants to possess her in any way he can.

“She reminded me of you,” Ryder says, his deep, rumbling voice startling me. I glance up to find him watching me, his eyes fiery, his expression somber.

“How?” I ask in a whisper.

“She looks like you. The dark hair, the dark eyes, and her sad expression. She looks frightened.”

“He looks like he wants to own her.”

“Doesn’t every man want to own a beautiful woman? Or at the very least, take care of her?” He doesn’t smile, doesn’t so much as blink, and I return his gaze, feeling ensnared.

Trapped.

“You make her sound like a possession.” And I sound like a breathless fool.

A wolfish smile appears and I know I should be frightened. His entire demeanor has changed. The polite business associate is gone. “Is there anything wrong with a man wanting to possess a woman?”

“Yes, if he’s controlling.”

“But what if she likes it? What if she wants to be possessed?”

He’s trying to push me and I’m not sure why. “I would never want any man to possess me.”

The smile fades and his eyes darken. “Then you haven’t met the right man yet.”

I have no answer for him. Instead I slap the folder closed and push it across the table toward him. “I like the photos.”

He lifts a brow. “Really?”

Why does he sound surprised? And why does that irritate me? “They’re very colorful and sophisticated and … sexy.”

“That’s the idea we were hoping to go with. Not just for packaging, but with advertising as well. I know that’s not our portion of the campaign,” he says quickly, cutting me off before I can correct him. “But it all comes together, you know? It needs to fit cohesively. And I keep thinking about what Rose said in our first meeting. Glossy perfection.”