She shoved her glasses back on. “Yep.”
The knot in his gut tightened. “Sure you can’t get out of it?”
Her little chin went up. “Why? Is tomorrow better for you?”
Why did he feel like he was stumbling blind through a minefield? “It is if what you need tonight is for me to walk you back to your room, fetch you a glass of water and two painkillers, and then dim the lights so you can rest.”
“You’re an attentive guy, aren’t you?”
He folded his arms. “Czarina, what do you want from me? Spill it.”
“I want what you promised me. Nothing more. Nothing less. I don’t want your clever lines, and I didn’t sign up for an Outward Bound adventure. You told me I could count on you for a soul-deep, hurts-so-good, cry-for-mercy orgasm. So tell me, Rider, are you going to fuck me tonight or not?”
Her volume rose as she spoke. Her last question reverberated around the carport. Heads turned their way.
He stepped closer and took her arm, pulling her to him as well. “That’s what you want?” His temper was a rare thing, but he recognized the ice-hot flow of it in his blood, the chill in his voice.
Scarlet flooded her cheeks. Undaunted, she nodded.
“That’s all you want?”
Another nod.
How could he have misread her so completely? There was no way. No fucking way. A bitter taste coated his throat. “I don’t believe you.”
She laughed, but the sound held no humor. “Your ego blows me away.”
Maybe, but it was brittle pride that came to his rescue right now. “Go inside, Czarina. Neither one of us is in the mood.”
The color washed out of her face as quickly as it had swept in, leaving her pale to the lips. “Good-bye, Rider. It was fun.” She pivoted and walked through the open glass doors. They closed behind her, obscuring her retreating form behind scrolling letters that spelled out St. Sebastian.
A hovering valet looked at him awkwardly—like a reluctant witness ready to swear on a stack of Bibles he hadn’t seen or heard anything.
Nick stalked back to the driver’s side of the car, got in, and started the engine. And then, fuck him, he waited another thirty seconds, hoping the czarina would come back through those doors, and say…what? Let’s start over. I’m Arden St. Sebastian, and I’d love to have dinner with you.
Didn’t happen.
He peeled away from the curb, silently cursing this fucked-up situation of his own making. How could he hold it against her that she viewed him exactly as he’d presented himself? Exactly how he was. What had he expected?
He’d spent the last six years playing the field like a fucking Olympian, studiously avoiding anything resembling a relationship, or anyone likely to seek or provoke needs that couldn’t be satisfied by a short-term interaction with his cock. Now the consummate player wanted more, and the irony was, the woman he wanted more with only wanted one thing from him. Nothing deeper. Nothing real—not even her real name. And he’d gone in knowing those limits, being happy with them. Hell, ecstatic with them.
Shame burned in his gut. He steered his car down the main highway, leaving the hotel in the distance, but there was no way to get distance from his feelings. He’d winked and smiled and charmed his way through scores of women, calling it freedom. Calling it living the dream in paradise. But Evelyn had called it for what it really was. Avoidance. Fear. In a nutshell, fairly pathetic.
Walking into his condo only intensified the feeling. He hurled his keys toward the kitchen counter. They skidded across the granite and clattered on the floor. Fail. Just like the candles and flowers on his patio table. Romantic gestures she’d rejected without even seeing them.
Or had she?
You still haven’t told her how you feel. What you want.
How do you feel? What do you want? Define “more.”
He rubbed his hand over his sternum, where pressure lodged, and drew in a deep breath. You love her. You want to be with her.
Fuck. Even as the pressure in his chest dissipated, frustration settled in.
She was holding out for someone different. Case in point, she had a date lined up for tomorrow night.
One he needed to cancel right now. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started to look up the number for the hotel, deciding to leave Evelyn out of it. This was one of those occasions he was better off asking for forgiveness rather than permission. He tapped the number, but as the phone rang, he thought the move through. What if he didn’t cancel? What if, when she showed, he did what he should have had the balls to do tonight? Taken her hand and said, “Hi. I’m Nick Bancroft, and I’m in love with you.”