That didn’t make sense. Besides, he’d told her she didn’t have to go back to the streets, that he wouldn’t let her. She’d believed him then and she believed him now. But something had changed his mind. Something had caused him to pull away.
It had to do with the sex, with him hurting her.
She glanced toward the doorway.
Should she go after him? Demand to know what it was? It wasn’t something she’d done, she didn’t think, but what else could it be?
Do you really want to know?
Mia swallowed. Yes. Yes, she did want to know. And not just because she wanted more of him, but because she hadn’t liked that look in his eyes as he gazed at the marks he’d left on her. As if he’d done her some real damage. He hadn’t. She knew what real damage looked like and it wasn’t a few bruises and some soreness between her legs.
But . . . maybe now wasn’t the time to approach him. Maybe she should let him have his distance. It would give her a chance to think about how she was going to deal with this, because she wasn’t quite sure. Setting out to comfort someone or talk to them about what was wrong wasn’t exactly familiar to her. Caring about what they might say wasn’t familiar either, and yet she felt it all the same like an ache in her chest.
She didn’t know what was going on with him, but one thing was clear—she had to find out.
* * *
Five days later, Xavier swept into the vast, marbled foyer of the De Santis Corp tower in Lower Manhattan, a massive flashy spear of a building, all steel and glass with the kind of arrogance only billions could buy.
He’d always liked the building—it appealed to the showman in him—but as he made his way to the private elevator that went straight up to his father’s office, the De Santis tower was the last thing on his mind.
What he should have been thinking about was the meeting his father had sprung on him that morning about the ranch, but actually, he was too busy planning the special picnic he was going to organize for Mia that evening.
She’d told him she’d never been on a picnic, and so naturally he had to make sure she’d have one. They couldn’t go out of course—not when it was so cold—so he’d decided they would have one on the living room floor, with all of her favorite foods, plus a few new things to tempt her palate with.
Over the past few days, he’d become quite adept at sneaking in new foods for her to try and slowly she’d come around to things like olives and smoked salmon, though caviar and pâté made her screw up her nose in distaste.
But it wasn’t only new food he’d gotten her to try. He showed her how to operate the controls of the TV too, and stereo and all the other gadgets throughout the house. Then, when it became clear that her computer skills were lacking, he sat down and showed her how to operate his laptop. Then he gave her a cooking lesson—how to boil an egg, since that was the only cooking he knew. And, of course, he showed her how to make coffee.
She was a quick learner, taking in everything like a sponge, and it was only a day before she was uncovering new functions on the gadgets that even he hadn’t explored fully. And she certainly made better coffee than he ever could.
He talked to her, got rhapsodic about Wyoming and the ranch. She told him stories from the streets. Life for her sounded so dark, so grim. He couldn’t imagine where she’d gotten her strength from.
And then there were the nights, where he discovered what a sensual little thing she was and how hungry she made him. She was a quick learner there too, her growing confidence pushing his restraint to the very limit. But he’d been good, keeping hold of his control and making sure he didn’t lose it the way he had that afternoon on the couch.
He was proud of himself for that. Proud of himself that she was losing her wariness and her fear around him, that she was starting to trust.
It made him less of a careless, insensitive asshole who broke stuff, and more like a guy who could actually take care of another person without hurting them.
The elevator pinged then, and the doors opened onto the hundredth floor, where his father’s office was situated. His shoes made no sound as he stepped out onto the thick, luxurious black carpet of the waiting area, but the blonde at the massive black desk to the left of the elevator doors raised her head all the same.
“Go right in, Mr. De Santis,” she said cheerfully. “He’s expecting you.”
“Thanks, Gen,” he said as he strode toward the huge double doors.
Jesus, he shouldn’t be thinking of Mia now. Not when his father was at last going to be formally handing over of the ranch to him, the culmination of years of hard work.