Wishing Well(62)

It didn’t matter enough to ask.

“Fine,” I relented, shoving my hands in the pockets of my slacks, “I won’t pass you around. I’ve decided I want you all to myself. What you’ve done already is enough. You gave Maurice a taste, and as I just informed him, he won’t get another. You’re mine, Penelope.”

Narrowing her eyes, she glared at me as a pink film of hatred colored her skin.

Grinning to see the color, I said, “Let’s face it, Maurice is just a pathetic mess that has no hope of a future. The man can barely communicate, much less control his emotions. I’ve been telling him that for years, but the idiot won’t listen. I apologize for using you to prove my point to him, but you did it quite well. I bet the man thinks he’s in love. How ridiculous is that? He’ll spend the rest of his life in that cage while I enjoy all that life has to offer.”

The pink transitioned to a brilliant red. Hatred was woven into that color. Pain, anger, and a loathing so deep, I would have felt the sting of it if it could reach out and slap me. Daggers were her eyes, her mouth pulled in such a tight line that holding the expression must have been painful for her.

“Why do you treat him so badly?” she hissed, her voice barely controlled. “Sure, Maurice doesn’t know how to communicate very well, and yes, he has no clue how to behave around other people, but keeping him down in that fucking basement doesn’t help him! What you’re doing to him is evil and it’s your fault he is the way he is!”

Shrugging my shoulders as if her words hadn’t cut deep, I ignored the confirmation – the perfect reflection - of a fear I’d held for many years. My feelings, my thoughts, were not for her to know.

Shoulders rigid, she tipped her chin. “Are you telling me my new job is over? What’s the next one you plan to assign to me? Making me strut around in one of those bullshit costumes in the lounge?”

Although, the idea of watching her strut around in costume aroused me, I glanced out over the garden, silently telling her that the anger she felt had no effect on me. It wasn’t even worth looking her in the eye, wasn’t worth acknowledgment. “No. I still want you to take Maurice his meals. But I expect you to treat him as all the other professionals I hire for him do. Keep your distance. Give him nothing. And make it clear that he’ll never be good enough for a woman’s love. That’s what I want. That’s what I intended. And if you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.” My eyes finally met hers. “It’s that simple.”

I worried she’d break apart if she didn’t let the anger out. But somehow, she remained in place, she managed to keep from exploding. A decision filtered behind her gaze. I could only hope it was the right one.

Smiling, I inclined my head. “Have a good day, Penelope. I expect to see you in my suite at ten tonight. Because, regardless of what I’ve led you to believe, you don’t have a choice as to whether you are Maurice’s lover or mine.”

It took everything I had to stroll off calmly without looking back, and I could only hope that by pushing the buttons that were so plainly obvious in her, I’d shoved her in the direction I wanted her to go.





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


Faiville Prison, 1:37 pm



“Stop.”

Vincent’s gaze shifted to brush Meadow’s, not giving her his full attention, just a tease that he was concerned with what she would have to say. Arrogance lined his face, the knowledge that he knew something she did not, that in his games, he’d led her to believe she could hurt him.

“Is it something I said?” he asked, humor having returned to his voice, victory infecting his tone. “And here I thought you would continue this discussion as we’d agreed. I gave you my portion of the story, now you owe me Penelope’s.”

Meadow was mere inches away from scraping her fingernails down his handsome face. If what he’d just told her was true...

“You intentionally shoved her to Maurice. You know goddamned well that what you said to her, that making her hate you and then stripping her of a choice, would make her rebel against you by choosing Maurice. Why would you do that?”

Tilting his head this way and that, he considered her question. “You have it half right.” Pausing, he splayed his hands over the surface of the table, his mouth puckering with thought, his eyes directed at anything but her.

Meadow knew he was intentional in the direction of his gaze. There was nothing of interest in the room, only plain white walls and two tables. He was making it clear that, she too, carried little interest.

Finally locking his eyes on hers, he commented, “People are so easy, aren’t they? It takes practice and control to be able to see through one’s anger, patience that not many people possess. So muddied by their own emotions, most people don’t stop to think - to plot - before they react. They’re like a bull charging the red cape of a matador, their hoof scraping the ground before they lunge. But it’s the matador who has the advantage, the weapons hidden that will stop the bull in its tracks.”

He blinked slowly, smiled a lazy grin. “If Penelope had taken the time to think about what I was doing, she might have seen how easily she was being led. But she was too angry, wasn’t she? And with that streak of rebellion she carried inside, it was too easy to guess what her next move would be.”