"Bottles we don't offer, late closing, women who aren't for sale."
"You?"
"No."
"Never?"
"Never directly." I swallow a sip. It's good wine. Rich and fruity with a hint of sweetness. My head is already fuzzy, but it's not the alcohol.
It's him.
He's intense. Intriguing. Handsome.
I'm sure there are women who don't think so, who think the scars ruined his good looks, but they're wrong.
I checked for photos of him before the accident. He was handsome, yes, but in a plain way.
Now, he's fascinating.
"I don't believe you," he says.
"Why not?"
"You know you're beautiful." Somehow, he makes it a compliment and an accusation at the same time.
"How do you figure?"
"The way you dress." His eyes rake over my body. "The way you hold yourself."
"Mr. Davey insists I wear a short skirt. Says guys like gams."
"He says gams, really?"
"Close enough."
He half-smiles. "You disagree?"
"No. It works. Guys like pretty girls in tight clothes."
He raises a brow see.
Okay, maybe I know I'm conventionally attractive, but— "Beauty is all perception. If I dyed my hair green and wore baggy sweats, men wouldn't have the same reaction."
"Who's stopping you?"
No one. He's right. "It's not me."
"Is this?" He motions to my dark, wavy hair. My tight sweater dress.
I nod. "Mostly." I take another sip. "Would you still invite me here if I dyed my hair green?"
"It wouldn't suit you."
"You're a style expert now?"
He motions to his suit jacket and tie. "You disagree?"
"No. You're well-dressed. But I'd bet good money you paid someone to put your look together."
"How much? I could use some spending cash."
A laugh spills from his lips.
He is teasing me.
He's funny.
A reclusive rich man with a sense of humor. That's a rare combination.
"I don't have much on me," I say. "If I win, you get whatever's in my wallet. If I win, I get the photos."
"That doesn't sound fair."
"No. But you know the truth. You can agree and make—" I check the wallet in my purse. "Forty bucks and a Starbucks gift card."
"How much is on that?"
"I can't remember. I can't bring myself to go into Starbucks when I'm in the city."
"Not up to your standards?"
"It's for tourists."
"Why not admit it?"
I don't know. I guess I don't feel like I deserve them. "I can't always afford to be choosy."
He nods and takes a long sip of his wine. "It must be strange, working with men who can afford to throw money at their problems."
"Women too."
"Yes, but I imagine women aren't the ones who offer to buy you."
"They're entitled in different ways."
"Am I entitled?"
"I haven't decided." I swallow another sip. Then another. I need to be careful. To go slow. But I'm nervous, and this might be my only chance to savor good pinot noir. "Is that why I'm here? Are you trying to buy me?"
His eyes bore into mine. He examines me, deciding how I'll react to his offer. "Not the way you mean."
"What do I mean?"
"I want you, Danielle, but I don't pay for sex."
"No?"
"No." He takes a long sip. "I didn't invite you here to fuck you. I'm after something else."
"What?"
His eyes fix on mine. "I want to marry you."
Chapter Five
Adam
Danielle's dark eyes go wide.
Her wine lips part.
She starts to speak, but nothing comes.
She's surprised.
Is she offended too?
Since the accident, I don't know what to expect from people. Women who used to beg for my attention stare with horror.
Others barely notice the scars.
Some find them fascinating.
I'm not sure which is worse, someone obsessed with the physical markings of the accident or someone who barely sees them.
Maybe someone who sees the way it changed me.
That was what happened when my father died. I was fifteen. I looked normal to people who didn't know, but those who did—
They could see it, somehow, this curse overtaking me.
I'm not the man I was before the accident. It isn't just the physical changes that make me a monster.
Losing Bash destroyed me.
"Did you just say…" Danielle sucks a breath through her nose. "You want to marry me?"
"Yes."
She blinks, confused. Overwhelmed, maybe. "Why?"
My eyes trace a line down her body. Long wavy hair, light brown skin, lush curves.
That black dress cutting a line between her perfect tits.
Every inch of her soft skin begging for my hands.
I'm a monster now, but I'm still part man.
She's gorgeous.
I dodge the question. "Do my intentions matter?"
Her eyes fill with surprise.
"You need money. I have money."
"There are other ways of making money."
"Not what I'm willing to pay."
"How much is that?"
"A million dollars."
"But…" She sucks in a shallow breath. "You barely know me."
"I know enough."
"How?" She studies me carefully. Not the way other women do. Not looking for the man I used to be or horrified by the monster I've become.
With curiosity.
Need.
Desire.
"Mr. Pierce?" her voice softens. "Adam?"
"If that isn't enough, name your price."
She sits back in her chair, stiff, frustrated.
I'm another rich asshole who thinks I can buy her.
It's not true, but it's not wrong either.