Breck takes a wisp of my hair, sliding it between his fingers before releasing it, swearing loudly and backing away. “Yes! Yes it’s a bad thing! It’s a very bad thing, especially when I’m trying like hell not to like you!”
My cheeks flush. Anger joins the toxic mix of emotions, and it’s me who steps towards him this time, yelling, “I never asked you to like me!” Turning on my heel, I start to walk away, but stop. The wind continues to blow bitterly as I stand motionless, a war raging inside as my conscious is telling me to keep moving, to just forget about the man who can only leave me in heartache, but it’s my foolish heart that compels me to turn back around. With an angry sigh of frustration, I stare straight into his steely, dark, brooding gaze fixated heatedly on me, “Why? Why do you not want to like me?”
“Because you’re a pastor’s daughter.” His eyes burn through me with his elucidated statement.
“You dislike me because of my father’s chosen profession?” I ask, outraged and stunned by the absurdity.
“No. I want to dislike you because of your chosen decision to blindly follow his doctrine.” He leans towards me, tense, challenging. “Have you ever had a mind of your own, or have you always followed his commands like some little puppy?”
“You don’t know me or my father!” I snap, hurt and angry, but mostly hurt.
“I know enough about you to see that you are completely lost here. Jess told me that you moved to Boston because of your paintings, but I think you left because of your boyfriend. From what I’ve seen, you want to make things happen, but you are too timid to do anything about it. You lived behind your father’s beliefs for so long, you have no clue how to live or feel now that you’re out on your own. I’ll give you credit, you made the first step towards your own life, but if you never take the next, moving here will mean nothing. You’ve locked yourself in your apartment after work, scared to go out. The first night at the bar, you couldn’t even finish dancing with that man.”
“Jess told you that?” I ask, angry at him, at her, and at me for knowing he’s partially right.
“Only some of it, the rest was easy to figure out on my own.”
“I didn’t come here to be ridiculed by you,” I state firmly. “The only reason I’m here is because of the presentation tomorrow night. I won’t put up with your discordance of the preconceived ideas of who you think I am. I think it’s best you present the design.”
I turn to go, but Breck’s next words hold me in place, “You want me and that scares the hell out of you.”
“Right now, I want to be as far away from you as possible,” I seethe, spinning around.
I stand in front of him, not running like hell when everything inside of me is screaming at me to. He makes no move to leave, either. It’s like there’s some twisted game of chicken going on between us and both of us are too childish to lose.
The attendant parks a sleek black Alfa Romeo at the curb. “Your car, Mr. Steele,” he states, holding the keys out to him.
A snide smile spreads across my lips as Breck is once again forced to end the standoff first.
“You’re such a brat,” he whispers, all anger vanished as he takes the keys, thanking the attendant and opening the passenger door.
His whiplash of emotions leaves me feeling disconcerted.
“Are you just going to stand there, Ms. Jones?” Breck asks, an imposing smile daring me to go with him.
“Is this the professional Breck I’m talking with right now, because I don’t know anymore, and I refuse get in the car with the narcissistic, holier-than-thou Breck?” I counter.
The attendant’s gaze falls, but not before I see his ghost of a smile.
“Interesting choice of words, Ms. Jones,” Breck replies coolly, amusement dancing in his eyes, “but I do believe we have a presentation to discuss as mutually agreed upon, unless you no longer want to hand over ownership of the design.”
I shouldn’t get in the car, which is exactly the reason that I do.
“What happened to your Hummer?” I ask after a few minutes of awkward silence.
“This is the company car, a perk of the position,” Breck explains, his words void of the excitement and pride that I would expect out of a man being able to drive such a gorgeous vehicle. Running my fingers across the cream leather seat, I glance at the dashboard, not recognizing the function of most of the buttons.
“Enjoying the luxuries of life?” Breck asks, his gaze unable to decipher as he waits on my response.
“It’s beautiful, but not my style. I would be afraid to get it dirty or scratch it,” I answer honestly.
“I prefer my Hummer,” he replies simply, staring out the window when we’re stopped at a red light.
The sky is painted with vibrant hues of pink, orange, and fire red. My gaze shifts to Breck, watching how the fading sun glimmers against his features. In that moment, witnessing the light dance against his chin, shimmering on the faint stubble left after an early morning shave, his blue eyes ablaze, and the tint of his full lips, dark, forbidden, making me want to feel them against my skin, he is the most breathtaking man I’ve ever seen, and that does scare the hell out of me.
He’s doing nothing to purposely intimidate me while he drives, but I’m stricken by his commanding presence. The way his strong hand rests on the gear shift, how his blazer falls against the seat, leaving a premium view of his chiseled torso, and the masculine girth of his shoulders, arouses me into a fevered candescence. Heat pulses through my veins, scorching every pore, burning lower, turning into liquid flames. Shifting in my seat, a small gasp escapes before I can squelch it.
His eyes lock on mine, igniting the flame into a wildfire. “Emma?” he questions in that deep, smooth voice of his.
I need out of this car, away from him. The concern in his eyes is too much, and I turn my gaze towards my window, knowing that what I need is him. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t matter; I just do. The need to feel him touch me, kiss me, make love to me, burns wildly, and nothing I do seems to be able to quench that need. This is insanity. I’ve known him for six days. Six days! I am going insane; there’s no other explanation for the intensity of desire imprisoning me when he’s around. I’ve heard of sexual frustration making people do crazy things but how can I be frustrated from something I’ve never experienced?
“Emma?” he asks again, his voice sharper this time.
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I’m fine, just hungry.” My cheeks flame at my words.
“We’re almost there.”
Thank goodness.
Less than five minutes later, Breck pulls to the curb and a valet opens my door, helping me out as Breck walks around, placing his hand against the small of my back. Thanking the valet, I try not to imagine how Breck’s hand would feel pressed against the naked skin of my lower back instead of over my blouse. We are taken directly to the back of the restaurant to a table covered in fine linen. I take a moment to glance around the room, admiring the sophisticated atmosphere as Breck orders a bottle of wine in perfect French, piquing my curiosity.
Pulling out my chair, his hand never leaves my back until I’m lowered onto my seat.
“Prayton said you are a genius with palatable dishes, are you the head chef at Kylianna’s?”
“No,” he replies, a faint smile curving his lips.
“What do you do there?”
“A little of everything,” he answers vaguely, his eyes arresting mine. Running his finger across his bottom lip, he leans back in his chair. “You are beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes darkening with something I can’t quite identify, but it resembles sorrow.
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks and my gaze falls as I mumble, unconvinced, “Thank you.”
“Has no one ever told you that?” he asks, surprise lacing his voice.
I gently shake my head.
“Why?”
His question catches me off guard.
Leaning his arms against the table, he grabs my hand, pulling it closer, �
��You don’t know that you’re beautiful, do you?”
I don’t feel beautiful. Pretty, maybe, but not beautiful.
His thumb caresses the sensitive skin between my forefinger and thumb, and I almost singe the chair. Pulling my hand away, I drop both hands into my lap. “Thank you for the compliment,” I say, my words coming out rushed and barely above a whisper, “but I think we should discuss the design.”
Breck’s gaze stays fixated on mine as leans back, like he’s pondering my suggestion before relenting, “Have you ever tried to present your work before?”
“Not yet,” I admit.
“That’s what I gathered. The most important thing to remember is to act confidently. If you don’t appear confident, they will eat you alive.”
Apparently, Breck can feel how my heart beat increases two fold with those words because he lets out a little chuckle, “Don’t worry, I’ll be there with you during the presentation. The board members will treat you respectfully because they respect my grandfather. It’s not them you need to worry about.”
“Who is it that should I worry about?”
“The partners. They have no say in the design, but they will be there tomorrow and they despise me, so, they will, in turn, despise you.”
I run my tongue across my lips that have suddenly gone dry.
“Don’t do that, it shows nervousness, which happens to be the opposite of confidence. It also makes me want to find a private room and have my way with you.”
My jaw drops slightly as I fidget with the wine glass, completely unsure of how to respond or if I should even respond, dignifying his utter inappropriateness.
“Stop!” he demands, his tone forceful.
Dropping my hands back into my lap, I glare at him.
“Confidence, Emma,” he reminds me.
I’m about to tell him what he can do with his confidence when the waiter returns with the wine, pouring a generous amount into both glasses. Setting the bottle on the table, he glances discreetly at Breck, who smiles politely and shakes his head.
“Very well. Take your time,” the waiter states pleasantly.
Grabbing the menu, I take advantage of the opportunity to collect myself. Staring down at the choices, I can’t pronounce half of them. When I return the menu, Breck gives the waiter a slight nod, and he immediately returns, turning towards me.
“I will have a salad, please,” I smile politely as I place the menu in the waiter’s hand.
Flashing that infuriatingly cocky smile, Breck shakes his head before French rolls off his tongue like it’s his native language. The waiter replies in French before topping off the wine glasses and leaving to place the orders.
“I did not invite you to Menton just for you to order a salad. I know your appetite is larger than that, so I took the liberty of ordering for you. You will love the food here.”
“Do you make it a habit to cancel out other people’s thoughts and orders?”
“You didn’t want the salad; you were just being polite. I don’t do polite.”
“Really, I never noticed,” I snap. What if I decide I’ve had enough of you not being polite and decide to leave?”
“Are you going to?”
“Maybe?”
“We can talk hypothetically all day if you wish. I can come up with several tantalizing hypothetical scenarios.” He leans forward, brushing his fingertips against mine while his eyes gleam wickedly.
“You are insufferable.”
“I was thinking the same about you,” Breck laughs, taking a sip of his wine.
Intent on salvaging the evening, I swallow my pride, “Where did you learn French?”
“My grandmother was French, which is why my grandfather chose the name Dur Acier. Dur means hard and Acier means Steel. I studied with a chef who insisted that I learn the language before he would teach me French cuisine. I knew the basics from college, but the chef taught me the rest, refusing to speak English when I was with him. I still speak French when we get together.”
“I took Spanish in High School. I’m decent at it, but would love to be fluent.”
“I can teach you,” Breck offers, taking another sip of his wine.
“You speak Spanish as well?” I ask, arching my brow.
“Dammit, Emma, stop doing that!”
“Stop doing what?”
“Cocking your brow above your left eye like that,” he growls.
“Does that show a lack of confidence as well?” I ask, being sure to add a dose of petulance, hoping to show he doesn’t intimidate me when every movement he makes does just that.
“No.”
“What does it do then?”
“You don’t want to know,” he answers with a coy grin.
I take a sip of my wine, tired of trying to figure him out.
“Where did you study art?” Breck asks, taking control of the conversation.
“Furman University. I’ve always loved to paint, though. I was smearing colors on everything by the time I could walk,” I smile, remembering how my mom would bring me rolls of paper for my creations.
“I would love to see your work.”
Snapping my head up, I’m surprised at his interest. “Um, sure.”
The appetizers arrive and Breck tells me what each one is.
“Did you study Culinary Arts in college?”
“That, and business.”
“Was it in high school that you learned Spanish?” I ask, trying to pry more information out of him.
“Partly.”
His partial answers are beginning to piss me off, “You’re not very forthcoming are you?”
“Maybe you are just too inquisitive,” he banters.
“I’m just curious about what you were like before you turned into,” I pause, whimsically moving my hand in the air the length of him, “this.”
Letting out a soft laugh, he holds his hands up, “Fine. What would you like to know about what I was like in high school?”
“What clique were you in?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone was in a certain group in high school, what was yours?”
“I didn’t have a clique. I wasn’t exactly what you call a team player, Emma.” Breck runs two fingers across his brow, his eyes becoming guarded again.
“So, not football or baseball then,” I tease, trying to read him.
“Not unless you count kicking the football player’s asses.”
Purposely arching my brow to piss him off, I ask, “You were one of those guys, then?”
“One of those guys?” he elicits my elaboration.
“Someone who started fights and caused trouble.”
“I didn’t go looking for trouble. It found me well enough on its own.” His eyes turn dark, bitter, as I see his body becoming rigid.
“I was pretty shy in school,” I blurt out, trying to prevent another personality shift.
“Why?” Breck’s eyes soften, but only a fraction, as they penetrate me with that damning, enticing glare.
“I don’t know,” I stammer, “just was.”
“You didn’t date much before Justin did you?”
I don’t know how he reads me like he does but I hate it. “I didn’t date anyone before Justin.”
“You’re seriously a virgin?” Breck asks quietly, his voice raw with a touch of anger.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Now, who’s not being forthcoming,” he replies playfully.
“I can’t tell when you’re being serious or only teasing,” I proclaim, irritated with the rapidly changing moods.
“I think I’ll keep you guessing for now,” he taunts, the left side of his mouth curving slightly.
His smooth voice lures me, the tantalizing soft fullness of his potent lips summons every sensual desire inside of me. Pushing my chair back, I stand, needing some distance. Now. “Excuse me.”
Breck stands while I walk to the ladies room, leaving me questioning his idea of manners. Obvio
usly, he’s cultured, but he’s also rugged, rough around the edges, and used to being in control. I get the impression he’s perfectly aware of how he is supposed to act, but he’ll follow social etiquette only when he chooses to do so.
The soft lighting in the restroom matches the dining area, giving an illusion of intimacy; exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Staring at my reflection, his words pop into my head. Beautiful? I don’t see what he claims to see. I’m not one of those girls who tears themselves down with unhealthy self-esteem, but I’m not anywhere near conceited. I’ve always considered myself an average medium. Not a rose, but not a weed, either, more like a wildflower somewhere in between. I’ve been comfortable in my own skin, until I met Breck. He knocks my entire equilibrium off kilter, leaving me feeling vulnerable. What he thinks of me is important, despite my not wanting it to be.
When I return to the table, the main course has arrived and I notice that Breck has waited until I returned before beginning his meal. His silence is welcome as I begin to eat. Decadent flavors fill my senses as I eat my dinner. I feel him watching me, but I keep my attention focused on the delicious plate in front of me.
After a few moments, he breaks the silence, “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I don’t care if you show up in your holey jeans and paint splattered shirt, but there will be plenty of pretentious people at the party, and it is black tie. The women are the worst. A number of rich bitches love to circle fresh prey like vultures at gatherings like this. If you don’t have an appropriate party dress, I can have one delivered to you tomorrow.”
“Does it have to be designer?” I ask, embarrassed with the idea of him having to buy me a dress. I have some nice dresses, but they are certainly not designer material.
Covering my hand with his, his words are earnest, “You look beautiful in everything I’ve seen you in. I just know how these women are, and you’ll be nervous enough without having to worry about shallow, catty comments. I meant what I said about your design, and I want you to be the one to show it, so this is a business investment that Dur Acier should pay for, including the dress.”
Ash to Steele Page 9