Page 26 of Brutal
It’s not a command. He’s not demanding that I taste it. So why do I feel compelled to obey him?
I pick up the goblet, swirl the wine in the glass, and take a sip.
Wow. It bursts across my tongue. It tastes like red wine, for sure, but it’s smoother, more complex. I’m actually thinking about it as I swallow.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“I’m not sure how to describe it,” I say. “I guess the word that comes to mind is ‘lush.’”
He clears his throat. “Lush is a good word.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. I’m doing a lot of saying nothing on this date. This date that may not even be a date.
Samson Vexley doesn’t talk a lot. That’s not surprising, given what I know about him, which is precious little except that he’s the brawn of the Vexley family. Brawn doesn’t talk a lot by nature.
Why did he invite me here? And why did I come?
I know the answer to my own question. I’m looking for answers.
But I don’t seem to be getting any. Probably because I’m not sure of which questions to ask this man. And even if I was sure, he wouldn’t answer them anyway.
The dinner passes without any conversation of note. Everything is delicious, from the spinach and strawberry salad with pecan vinaigrette, the filet mignon with baby bella mushrooms and petits haricots verts—which turn out to be thin green beans—and the cinnamon crème brûlée for dessert.
I have to give Samson Vexley credit. He ordered a perfect meal, from the tuna tartare and the wine all the way to the espresso we enjoyed at the end.
“Thank you,” I say, finally laying my napkin across my empty dessert plate. “Everything was delicious.”
He doesn’t reply. Simply looks at me, those amber eyes smoldering.
God…what is he after?
“I… I suppose it’s getting late,” I say.
“Of course.” He rises, pulls out my chair, and offers me his hand.
When I take it, a tingle rushes through me. I’m not surprised. He’s ridiculously attractive in that rugged “I’m going to get what I want no matter what” sort of way.
Outside, the night air is cooler. The city moves around us, yet I almost feel like we’re the only two people here.
I look at him.
And for a moment, I hope he’ll close the distance between us, kiss me with those full and glistening lips.
“I’ll have the car take you home,” he says.
I shake my head. “I can manage.”
His eyes burn into me. “It’s already waiting.”
I tilt my head, try to read his gaze.
He’s unreadable.
What the hell was this night for him? I know why I went. I want answers. Not that I got any. But what was he looking for?
The driver arrives and opens the door.
I get in, declining help from Samson. I look at him, trying to find something—anything—in his expression that will tell me what this evening was about.
