Page 40 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Apparently, lust transforms me into the queen of metaphors.
He continues to silently stand in the doorway, a hand palming each side of the frame, and his gaze trails over me. It requires the strength of Hercules not to fidget. Not to pat my hair as that inspection glances over my bun or tug my long cardigan sweater closed over my black tank top. When he returns to my face, every part of me tingles from the visual caress of his narrow-eyed study. Hell, even my knees, bared by the rips in my black jeans, prickle with sensitivity.
Whew, boy. Whatever this evening entails, it’s going to be long.
“So do I require a password to gain entrance to the house?”
He doesn’t reply to my snarky question, but if I’m not mistaken, the corner of his mouth twitches. I can’t confirm as he steps back inside the house, silently granting me permission to enter. Inhaling a deep breath, I move forward.
“Shit,” I breathe, pausing in the foyer next to a floating staircase and in front of a spacious living room that flows into a dining room with a masterpiece of a chandelier and continues on to what appears to be a minilibrary or reading nook, complete with a comfy chair and upholstered window seat.
At least ten-foot ceilings soar high above me, and church organs and pipes wouldn’t be out of place. Another stunning chandelier hangs above my head, and to my right on the far wall loom a stone fireplace and mantel.
It’s a combination of modern and classic styles. Elegance and comfort. Luxury and coziness.
It’s gorgeous.
Cyrus glances over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry.” I cough. “Nothing.”
He scans my face for a long moment, then finally turns back around. And I release my pent-up breath.
“I wouldn’t say my house is shit.Theshit, maybe.”
I scowl at his wide shoulders. Damn the man and his bat ears.
Seconds later, he leads me to what can only be described as a man cave. But with roid rage. Of course, the requisite theater-size mounted television, entertainment center, and huge sectional that stretches half the length of the room. But a fully stocked wet bar and a refrigerator claim one wall, actual eighties’ arcade games another. Gaming chairs, consoles, and another huge screen take up a corner in the back of the room.
Even Levi couldn’t find fault with this room. Shoot, he might hole up in here for life and bar anyone from entering.
“Your home is amazing,” I say, spinning in a half circle.
Curiosity still dogs me about why he needs all this house. The question leaps on my tongue like a kid in a bouncy castle. But I quell it. Asking him personal questions means opening the door for him to pose those same inquiries to me. And I can’t allow that to happen.
A sour swill curdles in my stomach, inching toward the back of my throat.
His terms had included complete honesty, no lies. I’d violated that stipulation even before I’d agreed to his deal. Not in words, no. But in my silence. In my complicit agreement to his assumptions. I can mitigate my dishonesty only by not lyingmore. It’s the only out he’s left me.
Because not agreeing to this arrangement wasn’t—and isn’t—an option. Not only because Cyrus nailed it—my own guilt wouldn’t allow me to walk away. And it’s silly, really; this is my job. But being behind the desk allows me distance. And there’s no point in denying to myself what I can’t—absolutely refuse—to admit to anyone else. None of my other clients stirred this ... connection, this draw that I have toward Cyrus.
Then there’s the other side of him ...
I don’t doubt for a moment that Cyrus, with his eyes that can go from summer sky to winter storm in seconds, could be ruthless if the situation called for it. I could easily attribute it to the nature of his career, but ... I don’t know. It seems deeper than that. As if the profession grants him the freedom to use what’s already inside him and excel in it. And though he didn’t confirm that he would tell Val that I had fucked up in breaking up with him, he hadn’t denied it either. I have to do whatever it takes to keep my name out of his mouth when it comes to Valerie Summers. Because if he discovers I’ve been lying to him about my job, about my very identity, I have zero doubts I will see that other side of him.
The thought of that ruthlessness sends a shimmer of anxiety rippling down my spine. But quick on its heels is a current of that excitement from earlier. I need my head examined. And apparently my vagina too. Is a pussy psychologist a thing? If not, it needs to be.
“Thank you.” He walks over to the couch, jerking his chin toward the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Thinking of the censorious looks and admonishments I left behind, I let “Anything with a hundred proof” slip out before I can trap it. And when his dark eyebrow shoots toward his hairline, I smother a groan.
“Water will be fine.” Because imbibing alcohol around him is not a winning idea.
He doesn’t say anything, but his lingering look is speaking a damn dissertation. Ignoring it, I head over to the couch and sink down on the far end of it. A football game plays out on the TV screen, and my father would probably sacrifice one of us to watch his beloved Broncos on this monster. Forget that ram-in-the-bush thing.
“Here you go.”
A cold bottle of water with condensation running down the sides and a napkin appear in front of my face, and I accept both.
