Lovegame(80)

God, I can’t even begin to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t stopped me. If I’d somehow managed to actually get free and make it to the main road? I’m worried about people thinking I’m crazy now. If someone had actually gotten a picture of me hyperventilating in nothing but my underwear, the whole world would know in a matter of hours that Veronica Romero had gone completely around the bend.

It’s just more proof that Ian isn’t responsible for what’s happening to me. Why go to all the trouble of driving me crazy only to bring me back down before he could reap any of the rewards? Plus, he was almost as shaken as I was. He could have been faking that, but in my considerable experience, no one is that good of an actor.

If I were him, I’d be out that door like a shot, trying to put as much distance between the two of us as possible. It’s definitely the smart thing to do, especially after what I just put him through.

But here’s the thing. He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even look like he thinks about leaving. Instead, he closes the door he’d just opened and turns around to stare at me, his eyes dark and probing and inescapable. I squirm a little under the scrutiny—I hate being on display unless I choose to put myself there—but even I’m self-aware enough to know that I need to give this guy a f*cking break. God knows, he’s already given me one. Otherwise, the men in the little white coats would already be here to take me away.

When the silence continues to stretch on—so much tenser and more threatening than the quiet that was between us earlier—I turn and start down the hall toward the kitchen. “I need a drink if I’m going to talk about this.”

He gives a short sigh even as he follows me. “I can only imagine. You can pour me one, too, if you don’t mind.”

I shoot him a look that tells him not to be an idiot right before I enter the bar area between my kitchen and dining room. “What are you having?” I ask as I open up the main liquor cabinet and stare inside at the array of fancy bottles. To be honest, I’m at a loss as to what to pour—I’m too tired and too numb to figure out what the situation calls for. Especially since I wasn’t joking earlier when I said champagne is pretty much always my drink of choice.

Ian watches me for several long seconds, his hands shoved into his back pockets and a look of concern on his too pretty face that he doesn’t even try to hide. I want to tell him that it’s okay, that I’m fine now, but I’m standing here still in my underwear with trembling hands and watery eyes. I’m pretty sure he won’t believe me.

“Take out the brandy,” he says after it becomes apparent that I’m more likely to stare at these bottles all night rather than choose. “Pour two glasses and let’s go sit down somewhere we can talk about what’s going on.”

I nod, thankful for the direction when normally I’d take a swipe at him for it. But right now my brain is so crowded that this is one decision too many.

After I do as he says, he guides me toward the family room where I spend most of my time when I’m home. I curl up in a corner of the couch, and he snags the quilt off a nearby chair to cover me before settling down on the opposite side of the sofa. And then he just waits.

I know I need to start this conversation, but for the first time in forever, I don’t have a clue what to say. I don’t know what to do to make what just happened here any better. I’m lost, confused, more afraid than I’ve been since I was a child. All the media training in the world can’t make this better. Which is why I spend the next few minutes picking at a stray thread on the quilt, taking quiet sips of my brandy, and looking anywhere and everywhere but at the man whose focus is so unwaveringly fixed on me.

But at some point it gets ridiculous to just sit here with a giant elephant in the room, no matter how exposed—how vulnerable—I feel. So I bite the bullet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. I certainly shouldn’t have lost it on you like that when you had no idea what was going on. I shouldn’t have—I’m just sorry, just really, very, very sorry.”

Out of the corner of my eye—since I’m still not looking at him—I watch Ian lean over and put his brandy on the end table. Then he reaches for me, pulling me close, quilt and all. “Is that what you think I’m looking for here? An apology?”

“Whether you’re looking for one or not, I still owe it to you.” He’s got me settled on his lap now, facing him with my knees straddling his thighs. And still I refuse to look at him, choosing to stare at a spot over his shoulder instead.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he tells me. Then his fingers are on my chin and he’s turning my head so that I have no choice but to look at him. “I want to know what happened because I’m worried about you and I want to make sure you’re okay. But you don’t owe me anything—not an apology or an explanation. You can tell me to get out right now and I will. You’re in control of this situation, Veronica, not me. You decide what happens here.”

My stomach sinks a little at that, at the weight and the responsibility of what he said. It’s a strange feeling, considering I’ve always wanted to be the one in control. Always wanted to be the one who made the decisions because I couldn’t trust anyone else to make them for me. And now, with him, I’m just not sure if that’s true anymore. “What if I don’t know what I want?” I finally ask. “What if I don’t know where I’m supposed to start?”