Page 22 of Brutal
From the driver. She got into the limo without comment.
I smile.
I chose an upscale restaurant that isn’t trendy. I don’t need the paparazzi trying to snap photos of Samson Vexley with his new flavor of the week. That’s not what this night is about.
My table is ready. It’s in a back corner with a clear view of the room. I like to be aware of my surroundings without actually being among them.
I sit, keeping my attention to the entryway where the host leads patrons to their tables.
And at eight o’clock on the nose…
In walks Delaney Cross.
Not early. Not late. On time. I respect that. Most women like to be what they call “fashionably late.” In my vernacular, that simply means “late,” which means they don’t respect me or my schedule enough to be prompt.
She pauses behind the host. It’s slight. Most people wouldn’t notice it. A fraction of a second where she doesn’t move forward.
She looks around the room, taking in the other diners, the tables, until her gaze lands on me.
A slow heat builds low in my body. Did she know I’d be watching her? Did she know I’d notice that she looked at everyone and everything else before she looked at me?
I stand as she crosses the room.
“Here you are, Ms. Cross,” the host says.
He begins to pull out her chair, but I shake my head. He bows and leaves while I help Delaney into her seat.
Nothing about her is designed to stand out. Brown hair, loose around her shoulders. No elaborate style to catch attention. It falls where it wants, which is what makes it perfect. It’s the kind of hair most people wouldn’t remember after the fact.
I will.
Her eyes are more silver-gray than blue. Easy to miss if you’re not looking closely.
I am.
Her body follows the same pattern. Tall. Lean. Clean lines. No exaggeration anywhere. The dress skims her frame instead of clinging. It follows the length of her legs, the narrow line of her waist, the soft curve of her chest.
Nothing about her demands attention, not even the silver scales pendant she touches from time to time as if she expects it to disappear.
And still?—
I can’t stop looking at her.
It isn’t any one thing. It’s the way everything fits. The way she moves like she belongs exactly where she is, even in a room that isn’t hers. Every subtle thing about her combines in a way to make her strikingly beautiful.
“Thank you, Mr. Vexley,” she says after I push her chair closer to the table, letting my hand linger on her shoulder a little longer than necessary.
Her voice is even, though there’s the faintest shift underneath it if you’re listening for it.
I am.
“Samson, please,” I say.
“All right. You may call me Delaney, then.”
“I was going to.” I take my seat across from her, watching as she settles.
No fidgeting. No unnecessary movement. She places her hands lightly on the table. She tries to look relaxed even though I know she isn’t.
