Taming the Beast

“What do you mean, a woman such as myself? Loose? A bimbo? Is that what you think I am?”

He wouldn’t have cared if she was, but he didn’t think that at all. He likely would have heard already if she were. Men in Fallon tended to be the sorts who’d kiss and tell. Andreas had never heard anything about Mary Nissen. She must have been very pious indeed.

He drew in another breath, nearer the side of her face. He wanted to look at her from all angles—to examine the woman’s components to see what smaller things made her up—what things he could take apart to undo her completely.

“A paralegal,” he said, finally. “A paralegal should appreciate absolute truth.”

“I do.”

“So give me your truths, then. Tell me if you’re meant to be eaten.”

She scoffed, and even that sound was decadently melodious. She couldn’t possibly have known how she affected men.

Or maybe she does. Hmm.

Once more, the cruel woman passed her tongue over her lips. “Some truths are none of your concern.”

He sighed. “Just like car accidents I wasn’t involved in?”

She cringed.

He drew back a few inches so he could see her clear blue eyes. They really were the windows to the soul. She might argue with him, but her eyes wouldn’t lie.

“Give me a taste,” he purred.

She shook her head hard. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Many reasons, but the primary ones are that you drugged me, and now you’re holding me against my will!”

He turned his hands over in concession. “I won’t argue that.”

He believed he’d had good reason to drug her, and he had to keep her from leaving before she understood why he’d had to do it.

“You’d like to leave?” he asked, already knowing her answer.

“Yes. And I’d like you to give me my phone back. And where’s my tote?”

“Both are in a safe place.”

“So get them.”

“I thought you wanted to ask me questions.”

“You already said you weren’t going to answer them. You asked me to leave you alone, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

A lock of her pale hair fell from her otherwise tidy bun and, reflexively, he twined the sleek strands around his index finger. Smooth as silk, almost like spun gold or something that even he couldn’t afford.

She really was a goddess.

Growling softly, he reluctantly let go of the hair before she could decide she’d make him.

He drew in one more breath and let the air out, eyes closed.

Delicious. He would have done almost anything to keep her where she was, even answer her blasted questions.

“All right, Goddess Mary. I’ll let you ask your questions—”