The floor was polished wood, thick, silk rugs softening it, plus a rather alarming bearskin in front of the fireplace—the head was still attached, the mouth open in a soundless roar. What wall space there was left, was hung with yet more landscapes. For this room, there was a definite theme; forests, both evergreen and snowy, with the suggestion of animals, either as shadows or vague shapes in the undergrowth, or merely a pair of glowing eyes. There was something mythical about the scenes, like they were places from a fairytale or from old legends.
Resisting the urge to gaze at the paintings, Phoebe kept her attention on the man sitting in one of the armchairs, the floor lamp beside him casting a pool of light down onto the black silk of his hair.
He’d changed from the workout gear he’d been in this morning into a pair of dark charcoal suit pants and a plain white shirt. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms, and the top couple of buttons were open, exposing the bronze skin of his throat. There were a stack of papers in his lap and he was holding one, a frown of concentration on his fierce face. Incongruously, there were a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose, a sign of human vulnerability that should have made him seem more approachable, yet didn’t. If anything, the glasses made him seem even more stern.
The thing inside her that she didn’t want to acknowledge twisted at the sight of him. She’d never seen him appear almost . . . relaxed before. Though, “relaxed” wasn’t quite the word she’d use for him. Not when that animal energy crackled around him as if he was holding himself still in preparation for exploding into motion.
Nero didn’t glance at her, though he obviously knew she was there since he held up a warning hand to indicate he wasn’t to be interrupted. She forced away her irritation at being told to come now and then being made to wait, looking at the paintings on the walls, because they were easier to look at than he was.
Landscapes, always landscapes. Was that because he didn’t go out? Was he trying to bring the world to him? And why no people? He had a family and a very well-known one at that. The de Santis family had originated in Wyoming, the patriarch, Cesare de Santis, having made his name in the production of guns. Now the family owned DS Corp, the premier defense company in the States, and although it was well known that Nero was an illegitimate child, he was apparently treated as a full member of the family, having been given the management of DS Corp’s tech arm.
Perhaps he didn’t get on with the rest of the de Santis clan? Was that the reason there were no pictures of them? Certainly, she’d never heard him speak about them. Even when she’d gone to the meeting at DS Corp a day or so ago, he hadn’t mentioned that one of the people she’d be meeting with had been his half-brother, Rafael. The middle de Santis brother had been perfectly charming, not that she’d been able to pay much attention, since Nero had emphasized the importance on taking meticulous notes during the meeting.
“Come here.”
Nero’s rough voice was a small shock and she nearly jumped, only managing to mask her reaction at the last second. Pasting a calm smile on her face instead, she came over to his chair and when he held out his hand for the laptop, she gave it to him. He gave her one intense glance from over the top of his reading glasses as he took it, and she felt the impact of it like she’d been punched in the stomach, making her want to take a couple of steps back. Yet before she had a chance to move, he was looking down at the laptop screen where she had the escort agency websites open.
Silence descended on the room, thick and uncomfortable.
Nero’s attention was entirely on the screen, his finger moving unhurriedly on the laptop’s trackpad. Obviously, he was sorting through all those pictures of women, trying to find one he liked. The thought made her feel strange, though she didn’t know why.
Taking a couple of steps away from his chair to put some distance between them, she noticed his suit jacket had been flung carelessly onto the couch. Instinctively, she went over to the couch and picked the jacket up, beginning to fold it over her arm. The wool was heavy and very good quality, the tailoring exquisite, obviously custom made.
“Why did you hit me this morning in the gym?”
Phoebe, still in the process of folding his jacket, paused, the question catching her off-guard. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“I don’t want an apology,” he said. “I want to know why you did it.”
She turned around to look at him.
He was sitting in the armchair, ostensibly relaxed, his gaze on the laptop screen.
Surely, he must know why she’d hit him? Wasn’t it obvious?
“Because you were pulling me toward you and you didn’t let me go, even when I asked you to,” she said, dumbfounded she had to explain herself.
He glanced up from the laptop and even despite the glasses, his gaze was dark, piercing. “I wouldn’t have hurt you. I don’t hurt women.”
Was he serious? Did he really not understand why she’d slapped him? “That’s not quite the point.”
“Then what is?” There was the faintest crease between his brows, as if he was trying to read something that wasn’t clear to him, and it came to her suddenly that maybe what he was trying to read was her.
He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know.
Dear God.
Phoebe smoothed the jacket over her arm, the movement giving her a moment to think.
Except clearly she was taking too long, because he said in that sudden, abrupt way he had, “You wanted me. I know you did.”
She should have denied it instantly. Except, for some reason she hesitated.
He picked up on it immediately. “I knew it.” That black gaze of his burned through the lenses of his glasses. “You did want me.”
Flustered, Phoebe moved to put the jacket carefully over the arm of the couch, conscious that he was following her every move. Then she turned to face him, trying to do so calmly. “Whether I did or not isn’t the point either. When I told you to let me go, I wanted you to let me go. And you didn’t. I couldn’t think of any other way to stop you.”
“Did I frighten you?”
“No,” she answered honestly. Because he hadn’t. At least, not in the way he was thinking. “Why didn’t you let me go when I asked?”
“I wanted you. And I always get what I want.”
His bluntness momentarily left her breathless. No man, not even Charles, had ever just said straight out, ‘I want you.’ She didn’t know whether to be flattered or appalled.
Is that even a question? You’re flattered, you know you are.
Phoebe ignored the thought. “And if I didn’t want you to take me?”
His expression intensified. “Then I’ll make you change your mind.”
The sheer arrogance of the statement shocked her. Good God, was he really that self-centered?
“So my thoughts and feelings don’t matter?” she asked carefully, trying not to lose her grip on her temper, because she had a feeling that getting angry with him right now would not be helpful.
He didn’t answer, only studied her intently from over the top of his glasses. “You were worried about the hospital fees, weren’t you?”
She blinked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You don’t have to worry anymore. I paid the fees for your fiancé’s care for the next year.”
Phoebe stared at him, dumbfounded. “You what?”
He let out an impatient breath. “You know I don’t like having to repeat myself.”
“I’m sorry,” she said sharply, her heart beating way too fast all of a sudden. “I thought I heard you say you paid Charles’s hospital bills.”
“I did.”
Shock pulsed through her. The bills for Charles’s care were astronomical and how to pay them had been all she’d thought about for the past two years. And now Nero had just . . . what? Written a check?
“Why?” The question came out far too abrupt but for once she didn’t care. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you were worried about it.” His dark gaze held hers. “And because I want you to change your mind about sleeping with me.”
All the breath went out of her. Was he insane? Maybe he was. Maybe he’d been alone so long he no longer knew what acceptable human behavior was.
“I am not one of your escorts,” She tried to hide the shaky note in her voice. “You can’t pay me to sleep with you.”
He frowned, as if her response puzzled him. “I’m not paying you. I’m paying the hospital.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what? You want me, Phoebe. And you want your fiancé taken care of. So now you can have both. What’s the big deal?”
The gall of him astonished her, and for a moment, she just didn’t know what to say.
He studied her, his frown deepening, as if her astonishment had annoyed him. “The money hasn’t gone through yet. I can stop it if I want.”
“So what you’re saying,” she said carefully, still struggling to process it, “is that I have to sleep with you or else you’ll stop the payment.”
His gaze searched her face, his expression darkening. “I won’t hurt you, Phoebe. If that’s what you’re worried about.”