Wishing Well(13)

“I can manage,” I answered, hating the squeak in my voice as my fingers tightened over the plastic handle. Shaking myself of the nervousness I felt in Vincent’s presence, I rolled my shoulders back (as much as I could while still guarding my breasts) and remembered that I wasn’t the type to be intimidated. Maybe he had enough energy to last the night, but I was exhausted. That had to be why I felt so small. After a good night of deep sleep, I’d be back in prime form, ready and willing to cut this man off at the knees if it was necessary.

Without arguing, Vincent moved to the door, opened it and paused in the hall to hold it for me. I approached and was about to walk through when he let it slip from his fingers to close in my face. My nose almost collided against its surface.

Slamming my palm down on the handle, I wrenched the door from its frame and glared at the gorgeous man on the other side.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I’d forgotten that you didn’t want a man’s assistance.” His expression was a blank page upon which I could scrawl any emotion or meaning. I could have allowed his taunt to anger me, could have stalked off to the elevator, left the building and returned to the rainy streets, but I wanted the food I knew he would give me. I was desperate for a soft bed and warm sheets. If the job he offered wasn’t something I could stomach, I’d at least take his kindness for tonight and leave in the morning.

“It’s fine,” I answered, turning right to head toward the elevator and leave him standing behind me.

Reaching the doors, I noticed the lack of footsteps at my back and glanced over my shoulder to see Vincent’s eyes planted firmly on my butt. With a snappish tone, I asked, “See something you like?”

His responsive grin was deviant. “Oui. J’ai envie de te croquer, ma belle .”

Annoyed by his use of French, I resisted asking him what he’d said. I was sure it didn’t matter...or that I didn’t want to know.

If I did accept his job offer, I was positive that working for a man like Vincent would be a lesson in patience.





CHAPTER SEVEN


(Faiville Prison, 11:15 a.m.)



Vincent locked his eyes on Meadow, his stare unwavering, his lips crooked at the corners as if he harbored some secret he would never tell. “Why would you do that, Meadow? And just as we were beginning this dance?”

Humor edged his voice, silk and fur a caress against Meadows skin in the indolent pace of his tone. Unsurprised at how this man used every tool at his disposal to lure her in, she resisted the natural temptation, brushed aside the desire she couldn’t help but feel.

Vincent was a gold medalist in attraction, temptation personified, a weapon of cruel seduction that had been honed until wickedly sharp. It was through desire that he distracted and addled the mind, unrepentant for the cheap use of human instinct.

“Why would I do what?” She finally managed to utter.

“Give away a portion of the story I hadn’t yet told,” he answered, his brows rising ever so slightly in challenge. “I assumed you came here to learn what I believed happened, to dissect the details you didn’t discover in your sister’s private thoughts.”

Letting out a breath over barely parted lips, Meadow noted how his gaze traced the line of her mouth. Two could play at seduction, the truth of Vincent’s longings recorded within the hastily written diary. Penny had become his obsession as much as he had become hers.

Purposely rolling back her shoulders, Meadow allowed her eyes to become heavy, enjoyed they way he couldn’t resist studying the hint of her breasts where they peeked above the neckline of her shirt. “I didn’t think the part I told was of much importance. You picked her up from her room, challenged her independence by showing her how a man could choose to be gracious or rude.”

His eyes never left her chest, the tip of his tongue peeking out ever so slightly from between his full lips. How long had it been since he’d sat in the same room as a woman? Meadow would use that to her advantage.

Distracted, he asked, “She remembered what I said to her in the hall?” His gaze lifted. “Enough to write it down? She never did learn to speak my language.” A bark of soft laughter shook his shoulders. “Well, at least that particular language of mine. She was a better student in others later on.”

“So I read,” Meadow answered as she leaned forward, her voice soft, her shoulders dropping forward, intentionally allowing the material of her shirt to fall lower and give Vincent a better view. “Penny wrote all about that particular language in her diary.”

Masculine pride flashed behind his eyes. “Did she?”

Rounding her lips, pulling her arms tighter together to force her cleavage higher, she answered, “Oh, yeah. In exquisite detail.”

Tense seconds passed, his eyes sweeping down to accept the visual offer Meadow had made him. By the time he met her stare again, he was practically laughing. “Nice try, Meadow, but you’ll have to be far more convincing than that.”

She straightened her posture. “Fine. It was worth a shot. And no, in answer to your question, Penny never did learn French while living at Wishing Well. Anything she recorded in her diary, she spelled out phonetically. I was able to interpret what the words meant after pouring over the pages in the past few months. It wasn’t easy.”

“I’d assume not,” he agreed, his response uncommitted, his thoughts elsewhere. “It amuses me that Penelope fought so hard at first. No,” he said, reconsidering, “Perhaps fought is the wrong word. Penelope didn’t fight, she dodged. She hopped around, making so much racket that it disguised what she was feeling. In one second she’d accuse me of being a pervert - a word she used liberally, I might add - and within the next, she’d smile, almost to the point where I suspected she genuinely appreciated and believed the offer I’d made to her. By the time I’d picked her up from the hotel room, I’d assumed she’d forgotten about the catch , assumed that I could lead her down whatever path I chose without her being suspicious. Penelope was good at hiding her thoughts, at first at least. But she wasn’t a dumb girl, was she? From what you just told me, she knew what type of man I was from the beginning, the degree of danger she’d been in since the moment I’d approached her in the rain.”