“That’s better. You act like I’m going to hack it off or something.” He sighed in exasperation, squeezing my fingers tightly twice, then letting go. “I just wanted to emphasize what I’m saying. I’m not trying to be a hard-assed prick. I care. I always have. I know you’re not used to that, but you should be. I’m a part of your family. I’m the closest part of your family, physically and emotionally, unless I miss my mark.”
He hadn’t, of course, he was dead on, but I was as unlikely to admit that to him as I was to cop to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. The rest of the family still lived in Russia or had been so disconnected with my father that I had never met them.
Anthony was the closest family member to me, despite the fact that I seemed to try to resist that thought.
An Uncle Anthony.
An Uncle Anthony I wanted to have sex with.
It was an entirely sobering thought.
“So,” Anthony continued on as if I hadn’t been dumbstruck at what he’d been saying, “when should we get together next week?”
I had to suppress a snort. It wasn’t as if my social calendar was so terribly full that I wasn’t able to fit him in between my couture fittings and my flower arranging classes… It was more likely that I wasn’t going to be able to afford to see him more often. I was barely covering the lunches we had, and no way was I going to allow him to pay for everything or ask for a cent. My pride was far too strong for that. For some reason it made me feel I was letting down the memory of my father by coming across as anything but financially sound.
But I also didn’t want to challenge him, not here, not now. I imagined he’d notice my absence when the time came. I could only hope that decorum would keep him from doing anything drastic—like disciplining me—despite his threats.
Taking self-delusion to its highest level, I sat back in my chair, mentally trying to finagle my barely there finances so that I might actually be able to afford to see him next week… depending on what bills I could put off paying, and how little I ate during the week. “I don’t know. You have more of a life than I do. You tell me.”
We decided to meet and go to a movie next Saturday afternoon. Anthony had wanted it to be an evening show, but I pushed for a matinee, which was less expensive.
The rest of dinner was much less intense. Anthony got me talking about television shows and relatively neutral subjects. I seemed to relax a lot, until he glared at me when I put the dessert menu down and announced I didn’t want to have anything.
“Pick something. We’ll split it,” he fairly growled. “You look like you need a good solid meal and could stand to put a few pounds on. I’ve noticed that you have lost quite a bit of weight since Dasha died. Which I understand is a normal part of the grieving process, but you are literally skin and bones.”
Seeing that he wasn’t going to relent on this, I gave a little angry sigh then reached for the menu again. We settled on a brownie sundae that was literally sinful—a slightly underdone brownie with two scoops of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge and caramel sauce, as well as three big swirly spirals of whipped cream.
The best meal of my life… and not just because of the food.
Chapter Six
Anthony
She groaned again when tasting her first mouthful of the confection, and I found myself wondering starkly if she sounded like that in bed. All of a sudden, I was rock hard, and that wasn’t a condition I was used to lately. In fact, I didn’t think I’d had an erection since Dasha had died. It just wasn’t something I thought about. I was grieving… which meant I didn’t give a fuck about sex.
But Raychel—I’d never considered Raychel in a sexual manner while Dasha was alive, but apparently my body had. She was the only woman to inspire this response in me in a long time, and it made me want to take another look at her. And watching her eat this dessert was just about going to kill me, I could tell.
She was unselfconsciously sexy. I knew that Raychel wasn’t trying to entice me. Exactly the opposite. She wanted to melt into the woodwork with pretty much anyone, especially me, apparently. But she was taking a spoonful of that decadent dessert and eating it, then pulling the spoon out very, very slowly, with her eyes closed, her face the very picture of bliss.
I wanted to see her like that, but not in relation to food. I was getting more and more uncomfortable by the second, having to shift in the chair and try to adjust myself as discreetly as possible. I was afraid that when I had to stand up when we left, the evidence of my desires was going to be in plain view.