Claimed by the Sicilian Tycoon(30)
“Let’s get this over with, then.”
Introductions were made, and Andros stiffened when the eyes of Reginald and Barclay fell upon Lyra. Both men’s eyes widened, both swept over her, and both were practically panting to take her fucking hand.
He did not allow it.
Instead, Andros pulled out her chair and settled Lyra into it, that possessive anger hitting again at the thought of either man’s pallid skin touching hers.
“Are you joining us?” Reginald asked, waving at the food in front of them.
Originally, Andros had meant to, but Barclay had his eyes fixed firmly on Lyra’s cleavage. He decided there and then not to stay any longer than was necessary. He would make the meeting as short as possible, and then he could sprint Lyra away, they could eat somewhere with a bit more space, before heading back to her apartment where, he decided, he would eat her until she begged him to stop.
“We have reservations elsewhere.”
“Of course, old chap…”
They launched into their closure discussion. Lyra sat patiently by his side, hands in her lap, a slight smile on her face. Every time one of the men moved to speak to her, she fluttered her eyelashes, and turned to Andros as though she didn’t have a thought in her head.
Her actions amused him, because it was so far from the reality of her personality, and yet at the same time he wanted to reach across the table and cuff both men around the head. By the time the meeting was through Andros was just about ready to do just that. Perhaps Lyra sensed it, because, just as he opened his mouth to say something that would likely leave his deal dead in the dust, she turned to him and frowned.
“I’m not feeling well, Andros. Take me home?”
Her brow scrunched, she lifted a hand to fan herself gently, and really, it was a perfect show. Except he could see the twinkle in her eyes, the laughter brimming in their depths.
“Of course, Rossa.” He turned to the brothers. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us?”
They made a rapid escape, Andros doing his best to ignore the gawking looks from the other men in the room, choosing instead to keep Lyra practically welded to him.
“I’m losing feeling in my arm,” she whispered as they got outside and his driver pulled up.
“My apologies.” He relaxed his grip, before asking, “How did you know?”
“That you were bored shitless?”
He grinned. “That’s not quite what I meant.”
“I knew it was time to blow the joint, put it that way,” she said fluttering her wrap around her shoulders. “Plus I’m starving.”
“Then we’ll eat.”
“Andros…”
“What?”
“Nothing…it doesn’t matter.”
He sighed and opened the door of the Bentley for her. “Come, tell me.”
“I just wondered where we were going to get food from.”
He waved a hand around, taking in the streets around them. Numerous lights were twinkling, discreet signs advertising this restaurant or that. The choices were endless. “Wherever you would like.”
“Truly? Wherever?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then can we get some fried chicken?”
Chapter Thirteen
She took him to one of her favorite places—well, one of the sisters’ favorite places actually. They rarely got to go very often because the prices, to them at least, were a little steep. To Andros they would amount to very little.
Located by Kings Cross, Benny’s Fried Chicken was tucked away in a rundown little side alley. One blinking red light advertised its presence, and Lyra’s stomach clenched the moment they pulled up on the main street and she spotted it. When the car door opened the smells assaulted her, and her stomach practically ate itself.
“Oh, God, can you smell that?” she moaned. “I’m starving.”
Andros frowned. “If you were hungry why did you not say so earlier?”
“I was waiting, and it’s fine. I often don’t eat much during the day.”
“But you had lunch?” he asked.
Lyra shrugged as she slithered out of Andros’ car. The driver, was, as always, perfectly silent, simply giving his employer a nod. Perhaps they communicated through gestures and grunts, Lyra thought, because the man seemed to be permanently on hand, materializing out of nowhere.
“Lyra?” Andros prompted, as he held out a hand.
She took it, steadying herself on her impossibly high heels. “The apartment doesn’t have any food in.”
“But…there is a shop on the bottom floor.”
“I know.”
“Why did you not purchase yourself something?” he demanded. “Or order something from the personal shopper. That is their job. To get you whatever you need.”