“I’m sorry, Gran,” she said. “I’m just . . . mad about this.”
“I know.” The expression on Aurora’s face softened. “My advice is to have dinner with him. At least see what he wants. And who knows? Maybe you’ll able to use his interest to your advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it, sweetheart. He wants something from you—something you’re not necessarily going to give him—and so he had to threaten you. Which means he must want it very badly.”
Yet another thought that made her anxious, since the thing he wanted badly appeared to be her.
Forcing away her anxiety, Ella lifted the cloak and put it on, drawing the soft fabric around her. And something inside her settled, like it always did whenever she put on a costume. When she was ready to perform, to dance, everything seemed easier, not to mention a hell of a lot simpler.
She wasn’t poor little Ella Hart, who’d lost two parents tragically within weeks of each other. Who had an ill grandmother to take care of as well as herself. Who was anxious about everything and who was tired of having to fight it all the goddamn time.
No, when she danced, she was Ella Hart, ballerina. Who wasn’t scared anymore, but brave. Who lost herself in the joy of the music, in the sheer physical challenge of the dance. Who could be Cinderella or Juliet or the Black Swan or any person she damn well wanted to be.
Today it would be Little Red Riding Hood. Who ending up killing the big bad wolf.
Ella fastened the cloak at her throat.
Maybe Gran was right. Maybe she should go to dinner. It would only be a couple of hours after all, and that did seem a small price to pay to be able to get to Paris. Anyway, apart from anything else, admitting she couldn’t go to dinner with Rafael de Santis because she was afraid of him was giving him far too much power, and there was no way she was doing that. She was afraid of a great many things, but he would not be one of them.
And who knew? Perhaps she could use whatever interest he had in her to her advantage. She wasn’t quite sure how yet, but it was certainly something to think about.
“This is true,” she said aloud. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
Aurora gave a short nod. “Good girl. Now, come closer and let me see you.”
Ella moved up beside the bed, then held her arms out to strike a pose. “Well? What do you think?”
Aurora smiled. “I think Red Riding Hood has the potential to give this particular wolf a run for his money.”
Chapter 3
Twenty floors above Manhattan, Rafael clasped his hands behind his back and contemplated the view through the plate-glass windows of his favorite restaurant. Skyscrapers soared into the sky, luminous glass stalagmites thrusting into the night, neon glittering like jeweled bracelets around the base of each one.
There was no one else in the restaurant. He’d booked the whole place so he and Ella wouldn’t be disturbed. One of the perks of being one of New York’s most powerful men, not to mention one of the richest.
He was still slightly annoyed that she hadn’t called him like he’d asked, merely sending him a prim little text telling him that she would meet him for dinner, but to bear in mind that her schedule was severely curtained due to rehearsals for a production that her dance company was performing.
As if that would be a barrier. Silly girl.
He knew her rehearsal schedule better than she knew it herself—he’d had an employee of his figure it out for him—and there were plenty of opportunities for her to have dinner with him. He’d chosen the earliest available night and sent her the date, expecting her to argue, make up some lie about how she couldn’t just to mess with him. But she’d agreed without even a cursory protest.
He was disappointed about that, yes, he was. He wanted her to protest. He wanted her to put up at least some semblance of a fight. Ah well, there would be other occasions for her to give him the fight he wanted. He would make sure of it.
A prickle of awareness lifted the hairs at the back of his neck.
He smiled. She was here.
Slowly, he swung round.
Ella stood in the doorway to the restaurant, glancing around, an uncertain look on her lovely face. She hadn’t seen him yet since the lighting in front of the windows was deliberately dim so as to highlight the view beyond the glass. It allowed him a couple of moments to stare at her unnoticed, which he did. Shamelessly.
It was obvious she hadn’t dressed up for him in the slightest, wearing a pair of faded skinny jeans and a loose pale gray sweater, her black trench coat thrown over the top. Her wealth of blonde hair was caught up in a messy bun on her head, and she hadn’t spent any time at all on her makeup.
Not that he cared about that particularly, but it would have been nice if she’d at least made an effort for him. After all, he’d made an effort for her. His dark charcoal custom-made suit was one of his favorites, and he’d chosen a tie the same kind of blue as his eyes. He knew he looked good—and he wanted to, for her. This was a courtship after all.
Maybe he could make that a rule for the next date. He’d choose something beautiful for her to wear and ensure that she wore it.
Rafe watched silently as she took a few hesitating steps into the empty, silent restaurant. The deep, soft blue carpet absorbed the sound of her footfalls from the heavy black boots she wore, making the silence somehow more dense.
She stopped, her nervousness obvious in the way she clutched the battered black purse that hung over one shoulder. Her fingers were white, and the wide-eyed way she looked around made all his predator’s instincts sit up and pay attention.
It wouldn’t take much to cross the space between them and pull her down onto the floor. Her hair would look beautiful spread out on the blue carpet, as would her naked body and the silence rent by her screams of pleasure . . .
His heartbeat accelerated, thumping loudly in his head, hunger burning in his blood, making him want to snarl.
Christ, he’d waited so long for her already. Did he really have to wait even longer?
Patience.
Rafe adjusted the clasp of his hands behind his back, pinching the skin between his thumb and forefinger hard, the sharp bolt of pain a reminder. Yes, patience. That was the key, as his grandfather kept reminding him. Impulsive behavior, acting on his emotions, was a recipe for disaster—he’d learned that the hard way.
Only patience would get him what he wanted.
Forcing away the hunger and the restless driving need, he got himself back under control, using the pain to focus.
He wouldn’t move, wouldn’t announce himself. He’d wait to see if his Little Red, his bunny girl, would sense him.
Sure enough, her gaze came to his all of a sudden and she went still, shock and fear rippling over her small, precise features. Then it was gone and her chin jutted, a defiant expression taking its place.
He loved that, the quicksilver change. The vulnerability and then the armor that came down over the top of it, hiding it., protecting it.
“Being creepy again, I see,” she said. “Here’s a tip for you, Rafael. Standing around silently watching me isn’t going to work as a seduction technique.”
He smiled, liking her defiance. “And what would you know of seduction techniques, little virgin? Had many of them tried on you?”
Color washed over her skin. “I’m not a virgin. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“And a liar too. I can see this dinner is going to be interesting.”
She blushed even harder, which meant she’d definitely lied about not being a virgin. How satisfying. Being her first appealed to the primitive, territorial male in him, because in a great many ways, he’d considered her his from the first moment he’d seen her.
He moved finally, going to the table he’d had set up, the one in front of the biggest window with the best view. It was spread with a white tablecloth, solid-silver cutlery gleaming in the light, a spray of delicate white orchids in a glass vase in the middle. Simpl
e and minimalist, yet luxurious. Perfect for her.
“Speaking of dinner”—he pulled out one of the chairs and waited behind it—“won’t you sit down?”
Another flash of uncertainty crossed her face, but it was gone again just as quickly. She came over to the table, pausing beside the chair yet not sitting, giving him a pointed look. It was clear she did not want him at her back.
He pretended to misunderstand. “Would you like me to take your coat?”
“No.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of said coat. “I don’t need you to push my chair in for me.”
“I’m being a gentleman here. Indulge me.”
She frowned, her gaze moving past his to the window. Her eyes widened, as if she’d only just noticed the magnificent view, and to his surprise, she took a couple of steps away, looking around the room as if searching for something. “I don’t want to sit there,” she muttered. “What about over by the wall?”
Rafe stared at her, trying to figure out what was wrong. Because something was. It didn’t look like she was being difficult, not this time. There was something about this table that she didn’t like. Was it the view? Perhaps she was afraid of heights?
“Scared, Little Red?” He kept his voice soft, watching her face.
Her gaze came back to his, a spark glittering in it. “No, of course not. I don’t want to be near a window in case . . . anyone sees us.”
“No one’s going to see us. Not this high up. And why would you care about anyone seeing us anyway?”
Her delicate jaw hardened, her hand moving restlessly on the strap of her purse. She looked at the window again then back to the table near the wall, obviously uncomfortable. Obviously not wanting to sit at this particular table.
Rafe studied her, intrigued by how on edge she was, mainly because it was in such contrast to how she was on stage. When she danced there was no hesitation, no holding back, and definitely none of this restless tension. What was going on? She’d been nervous in the limo, it was true, but not quite like this.
It’s you. You’re making her nervous.
Well, yes, he already knew that. And what’s more, he was bad enough that he liked that he did. Especially when it made her angry and she showed her claws. He just didn’t want that stiff politeness and distance, because anything was better than that.
“We could move,” he suggested. “Especially if you’re too scared to sit next to the window.”
She stared back and he could see the sharp glitter of anger in her eyes; clearly having her fear pointed out to her was not something she appreciated.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said in a tight voice. “I’m not scared. In fact, I’m quite happy to sit by the window.”
Brave girl. He approved. Though really, he shouldn’t have expected anything less. Since he’d watched her dance, he’d done a lot of research into ballet and had discovered that it was brutally hard work. Dancers were not as fragile as they looked, and that definitely included Ella.
He smiled, letting her see his approval whether that mattered to her or not. Then he inclined his head toward the chair. “By all means, sit.”
She shifted again, and again it was clear she did not want him standing there helping her with her seat.
Too bad. If she could talk back to him, she could definitely handle him pushing her seat in.
Rafe stayed right where he was, waiting politely. He played power games like this every day since taking over as CEO of DS Corp, and he was very, very good at them. One small dancer was not going to out-dominant him.
Eventually, she let out a sharp breath and sat herself down in the chair, straight-backed and precise, doing her best to pretend he wasn’t there. Smoothly, he pushed the chair in then allowed himself a moment to enjoy being near her. His hands gripping the chair back were close to her arms, his fingertips almost brushing the wool of her sweater, and he could smell the sweet rain-drenched-rose scent of her. The top of her head was level with his chest, and all he’d have to do was bend down to bury his face in the golden softness of her hair.
Patience, remember?
Oh yes, he remembered.
He moved away, going around the table to sit down opposite her. Then he made a discreet gesture, signaling to the restaurant staff that he was ready.
Ella fussed around with hanging her purse over the back of the chair then dealing with her coat, making a big production of hooking that over the back of the chair as well. It was clear to Rafe that sitting here made her very nervous and that she was using the movements to cover it.
He leaned back, watching as she fussed, amused.
A waiter appeared with menus and the champagne Rafe had ordered earlier, popping the cork and pouring two glasses before withdrawing as swiftly as he’d come.
Ella had picked up the menu, studying it intently, and Rafe noted that there was the slightest shake to it, as if her fingers were trembling.
He sighed and reached out, taking the menu from her and flipping it around, holding it for her so she could read it.
She scowled. “What did you do that for?”
“Because your hands are shaking. Making it quite difficult to read, I should imagine. Especially when you’re trying very hard not to show how terrified you are sitting here.”
“I am not ‘terrified.’”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
“Because it’s cold.”
“It’s not. It’s seventy degrees in here.”
She glanced out over the empty restaurant. “Why are we the only ones here?”
“I hired the place out so we wouldn’t be disturbed, and don’t change the subject.”
Ella put her hands in her lap, probably to hide them from him, and sat back in her chair, studiously not looking at the menu he was holding out.
So, she was going to be a brat, was she? “Is that really how you’re going to handle this?” he inquired mildly. “You’re going to sit there looking sulky and pretending you’re not nervous?”
Her gaze flicked to his then away again. “I’m not sulky.”
“But you are nervous.”
She said nothing, looking down at her lap.
“It’s heights, isn’t it?” he persisted, because he wasn’t going to let her get away with sitting in silence. “You’re afraid of heights.”
“It might not be.” She shot him a dark look from underneath long gilded lashes. “It might be you.”
He smiled. “Is it me?”
“No, of course not.” Her gaze flickered yet again and she reached to pick up her napkin, shaking it out and smoothing it out over lap. “I don’t like you, it’s true. But I’m not scared of you.”
Little liar.
“Funny,” he murmured. “You never used to dislike me. Not when you were small.”
She kept fussing with the napkin, as if getting it all smooth and square was the most important thing in the universe. “I don’t remember that,” she said after a moment’s silence. “I don’t remember you at all.”
Something slid under his skin, something sharp, but he refused to examine the sensation. Who cared if she didn’t remember him? The past didn’t matter, only the present did. He would create new memories for her anyway.
Casually, he reached out and picked up his champagne glass. “I propose a toast.”
Ella eyed him warily. “To what?”
“What do you think? To us, Little Red. To getting to know each other again.”
She frowned. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? Aren’t you Red Riding Hood?”
“Not if that makes you the big bad wolf.”
Oh, she was absolutely delicious. If she kept being this sharp, he was going to have way more fun with her than he’d initially thought.
He gave her the usual charming Rafael de Santis smile, the one that always laid waste to people and put them on his team. Permanently. “You want to know what I think?”
“Not really.”
“I think,” he
went on, ignoring her, “that you love the idea of me being the big bad wolf. I think that you love the idea of me hunting you, and that you can’t wait to run because you’re desperate for me to chase you. You’re hoping I’ll bring you down.” He held her wary gray gaze with his. “But don’t worry, Little Red. That’ll happen.” He let some of the predator into his smile. “You just have to be patient.”
* * *
Ella couldn’t look away from him. Her heart was racing and there was something about his smooth, dark voice that was absolutely hypnotic. There was something in his smile too, and in those uncanny silver blue eyes. Something that made her mouth go dry and made her very aware that she was all alone in a deserted restaurant. With him.
He was right. She was scared of him and no amount of telling herself otherwise was going to change the fact. Every threat sense she had was going haywire, telling her that he wasn’t to be trusted. That he was bad. That he would hurt her in ways she couldn’t possibly imagine and that the best thing for her to do was to get up and leave. Now. While she could.
Yet, way down deep inside, that part of her that had always felt drawn to him found all of this absolutely thrilling. Found him thrilling. As if it liked being scared, which was crazy when her anxiety issues had caused her all sorts of problems.
Of course she didn’t like being scared. She hated it, even. Hated how it had taken her at least a couple of hours to get up the courage to get a taxi to the address of the restaurant he’d given her, then another ten minutes to force herself into the elevator. She hated elevators. And tall buildings. Heights of any kind made her mouth go dry with fear, let alone great expanses of plate glass that gave uninterrupted views of said heights.
She’d been weak-kneed with relief when she’d gotten out of the elevator, only to feel the anxiety gather again as she’d taken a few steps into the empty restaurant, the silence and the way the thick carpet seemed to absorb any and all sound somewhat eerie.
Then she’d seen him standing by the windows, tall and powerful and so, so still. The lights of the city had been behind him, his face in shadow, and she had the oddest sense that by coming here, by giving into his wishes, she’d taken a step she couldn’t come back from. That there would be no escaping this man, no matter how hard she tried to run.
The Big, Bad Billionaire Page 4