But that was unfair of him. It was probably just criminals she had a problem with.
Candy tripped out of the room with a little wave, and Lizzie watched the younger woman go with what appeared to be fondness. But then her gaze turned to Isaac, and he watched its warmth disappear. It was strange how her eyes could be soft as melted honey and hard as stone all at once. She was a woman of contradictions.
And he didn’t like that at all. He didn’t.
“Smart move,” he heard himself say—and then came shock. Because somehow, his mouth had spoken without permission from his brain. Usually, he had to force his voice out into the world, and now it was taking solo trips? What the fuck?
She arched a brow, folding her arms over her chest. She was wearing an oversized jumper that drowned her figure, hanging almost to her knees. Thank God. Because the last time he’d seen her, her thighs had been worryingly distracting.
“What do you mean?” She asked innocently.
“Sending your friend away. She seems too sweet to survive five minutes with me.” His tone was as close to scathing as it ever would be. She seemed to get the message. She shifted her weight uncomfortably, and her lips parted. Her pupils dilated. Fear?
Then she said, “Is it hard?”
For some reason, the question pointed his twisted mind to the state of his cock—which was starting to take a disturbing interest in the conversation.
But she didn’t mean that. She couldn’t. Unless she was one of those women, the kind he’d come across more and more as his reputation grew. The kind of woman who would happily fuck someone they considered subhuman, just for the thrill of it.
And though he'd thought he despised her already, somehow the thought of Lizzie being like that made him absolutely furious.
“Is what hard?” He asked through gritted teeth.
She smirked. “Convincing yourself that you’re the centre of everyone’s universe.”
Ah. Direct hit.
There she stood, her skin shining in the firelight like topaz, her dark hair pulled back in a way that should’ve looked awful, but only emphasised the loveliness of her features—those full lips, that broad nose, her wide eyes. Now, at the precise moment when he disliked her most, the fact of her beauty—that thing he’d tried so hard to ignore since the very first moment he saw her—hit him harder than ever. Jesus fucking Christ, even her ears were adorable. And that was just unfair.
“You’re pretty fucking bold,” he said through gritted teeth. Because it was true, and he wasn’t sure if he admired or despised her for it.
She arched a brow—and then he had to wonder if she was reading his mind, because she said, “Does that bother you?”
He spoke without thinking. “You bother me.”
“And God forbid anything get under your skin,” she whispered. It was treacherous, that whisper. It made him want to lean in. To watch the way her lips kissed each consonant.
“Bet I bother you too,” he whispered back. “People like you—you don’t like it when guys like me end up on top.”
She smiled indulgently. “Oh, my darling. Is that where you think you are? On top?” She shook her head, taking a step towards him. “No. You’re a tool. Mark’s tool, actually. Maybe one day you’ll be someone else’s. And I’m sure they’ll pay you handsomely for the pleasure, just like Mark does… But you’ll still be a tool.”
Fury shooting his control to pieces, Isaac surged forward, crowding her. So she thought he was a monster, and a fool besides. Let her have it, then. Let her have just what she wanted. No doubt she always did.
He stood over her, looking down into her pretty face, his breath raw and ragged and loud in the silence of the room, and he waited, studying her bottomless eyes for… Something. Satisfaction. Vindication. Even fear. Anything, anything at all, as long as it meant that she saw him.
There was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It was soft, and it was mocking, and it was a lie. He knew because her eyes were shuttered completely—but back in Oxfordshire, they’d displayed her hatred clear as day.
She was hiding. He had no idea why. And that shouldn’t have intrigued him, but it did.
“You are the best torturer I’ve ever known,” he said softly.
Maybe he was imagining it, but her eyes sparked a little at that.
“I learned from a great teacher,” she murmured. That threw him. Who in this woman’s pampered life could possibly have shown her this—how to reduce another person to dust with nothing but a glance? “Are you trying to scare me?” She asked.
“No.” A moment ago that would have been a lie, but now it was true. Suddenly, Isaac realised what he was doing, and hated himself for it.
His size was intimidating; he knew that. Once upon a time, using it to his advantage had been a necessary habit. But there was no need for that now. And using prison tactics against somebody half his size was nothing more than the work of a coward.
He took a breath, stepping back. Let his eyes slide closed for a moment so that he could concentrate on the floor beneath his feet. It would do. The fire helped. But he needed to get outside, and soon.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to meet her gaze. “Sorry,” he said. "Shouldn’t have done that. Won’t do it again.”
She arched one delicate brow. “Do what?”
So she wanted to make this difficult. Well; that was her right. “I won’t… Lose my temper.”
“Is that what just happened?” She cocked her head. And then, to his surprise, she stepped towards him. Closer and closer until there was nothing but a breath and a foot of height between them. Until she rose up and up and up, onto her toes, and even their height difference was obliterated. Suddenly her face was so close that he’d only have to lean down—just a touch—to kiss her.
Which he absolutely was not going to do.
“I think like your temper,” she said simply. “It’s adorable, really.” Her quicksand eyes captured his, and he finally saw something other than blank dismissal in their depths. Something he’d never expected to see, not in a thousand years.
Lust. Lust that burned hotter than the flames crackling behind them.
Suddenly, Isaac was afraid.
“I’m guilty,” he said. “I’m guilty of every crime I’ve ever been convicted of.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Was it his imagination, or was she moving closer, leaning into him as slowly as the earth span?
He tried again. “A man is dead because of me.”
“I am aware,” she murmured.
“I won’t meet your parents. You can’t use me to make your mother hysterical.”
“My mother is never hysterical.”
“No, I bet she isn’t. I bet she’s just like you.”
For a moment, the flame of her lust flickered, threatened to die. “My mother is nothing like me,” she said, frost creeping into her voice. But then her face cleared, and she spoke again. “Have you ever smoked a cigarette?”
“I started smoking when I was ten,” he admitted, just to see judgement flash across her face. To remind himself of why he should leave. Now.
But the judgement never came. Instead, she smiled. “I started when I was twelve. To stay thin.”
Isaac blinked. Huh. Who’d have thought childhood smoking was something they had in common?
“Did you quit?” She asked.
“Had to. Couldn’t afford it when I…”
“When you were in prison.” She almost said the word without flinching. Impressive, all things considered. “Well, I quit too. I realised after a while that my lungs were more important than my waistline. But sometimes… Sometimes, when I really need it—”
“When you have to,” he said, understanding dawning.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Sometimes you have to. And there’s no point beating yourself up about it.”
“It’s not like it’s a habit anymore,” he said.
“Exactly. And they say each one takes five minutes off of your life,
but…”
He leaned down. Just a touch. His hands went to her waist. Her hands went to his shoulders. And he said, “What’s five minutes, anyway?”
“Nothing at all,” she whispered.
He kissed her. He kissed her, and she was right: it was nothing at all.
He kept repeating that to himself, in time with the rapid rhythm of his own heartbeat.
It wasn’t the moment of coming home after a long, cold, day, shutting the door on winter and sinking into your favourite chair. It wasn’t the fantasy of a soft pair of hands and a smile to greet you when you arrived. It wasn’t even the memory of a home to go to, one full of love instead of things.
It was absolutely nothing at all. If anyone asked him, that’s what he would say. Because how the fuck could a woman who held herself so stiffly feel like pure summer melting in his arms? How could a woman who despised him make him feel like a king with nothing more than the brush of her lips, the flick of her tongue, the pull of her hands on his shirt?
How the fuck could this woman, out of every woman on earth, be the one he’d waited a lifetime to touch?
Their mouths danced, advancing and retreating in a teasing rhythm that echoed the way she toyed with his emotions. Just like her words, her touch was laced with challenge. She took from him without remorse, her tongue hot and demanding, her body pliant against his, and Isaac thought he might do anything—anything at all—to get her into bed. Because holy shit, if she could own him so thoroughly with just her mouth…
He was doomed.
As suddenly as she’d come to him, she took herself away. Pulled his slice of heaven from his hand, and really, at this point in his life, he should expect that, shouldn’t he?
He’d once thought that she didn’t seem fairy-like, but in this moment, she was all magic. She stood panting and wide-eyed, with her lips parted from his kiss and her fingers pressed to her cheek.
She was regretting it already. She must be. But it had been so perfect while it lasted. Just like the single cigarette you had to have.
Then she whispered, “The girls are coming.” And the sounds of the outside world filtered through his lustful haze. He heard familiar voices, unrepentantly loud in the way only a kid’s can be.
Isaac sobered instantly, adjusting the erection straining against his jeans and wondering exactly what he’d done to make fate treat him so cruelly.
Oh, wait; he already knew the answer to that.
“I’m going to dress for dinner,” Lizzie was saying, touching her hairstyle self-consciously. Smoothing what was already smooth, as if her hair would be so foolish as to disobey her.
“Dress?” He echoed. Really, it was no wonder people suspected his work was ghost-written. What was it about conversation that erased his ability to string a sentence together?
But she said “Yes,” as if she understood exactly what he meant. “There’s a dress code.” She headed for the open door, her steps quick and light. “Didn’t you read your welcome package?”
“Ah…” Not really. But his answer didn’t matter; she was already gone.
If it weren’t for the sound of the girls cooing her name as they passed her in the hall, he might think she’d never been there at all.
Ten
Isaac Montgomery could wear the shit out of a suit.
Which, Lizzie told herself briskly, was not something she should notice. Her task didn’t require admiration; only the imitation of it.
But Jesus Christ; the way his roughly hewn jaw and sharp eyes contrasted with the sleek, black three-piece? The way those impossibly broad shoulders filled out his suit jacket? There wasn’t a soul on earth who could avoid noticing that. Even surrounded by vast, glittering chandeliers, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one side of the chateau’s Michelin-starred restaurant, it was Isaac that drew Lizzie's eye. His body, his beauty, and his utter separation from everything around them. He may as well have been a thousand miles away.
“You alright?” Candy muttered under her breath, stabbing awkwardly at the leafy garnish on her plate.
“Fine, darling. You don’t eat that part, by the way. It’s for decoration.”
Candy’s lips twisted wryly. “Why’s it on the plate if I can’t eat it?”
“Don’t ask me.” Lizzie nibbled delicately on her sea bass, hiding a smile.
“Whatever. What did you and Isaac talk about, earlier? After I left?”
Well. That wiped the smile right off Lizzie’s face. Chewing carefully, she let her gaze travel slowly around the table, avoiding Candy’s knowing eyes. As it was the first night, Mark had arranged for them all to eat together. That gave Lizzie plenty of faces to study as she avoided her new friend's question.
Beside Lizzie sat the girls, who had been giggling amongst themselves throughout the meal. On the other side of Candy was Sir John Barrett, a gruff, old military man whose non-fiction tomes were apparently quite popular. His greying eyebrows were bushy enough to match his impressive moustache, and he held himself with a conscious care that Lizzie respected. His piercing, blue eyes and red-tinged cheeks gave him the appearance of an especially grumpy and grizzled Santa Claus.
Next came Kate Winters, a bubbly woman in her mid-thirties with glossy, dark hair and unnaturally white teeth who wrote yummy-mummy cookbooks. She appeared to be unimpressed with French cuisine, thus far. If Lizzie recalled correctly, Kate fed her three children a vegan, gluten-free, plant-based diet. The poor woman was glaring at her lonely plate of sautéed mushrooms with something close to murder in her eyes, but what could be done? The French, behind all their sophistication, were a nation of comfort eaters. Kate, it seemed, was not.
Beside Kate sat Clarissa, who was sparkling and vivacious in a lavender-grey gown that matched the restaurant's icy decor. Had she come down earlier, to coordinate her outfit? That was what Mother would do. Lizzie was impressed. Echoing one's surroundings was key to the art of effortless belonging.
Mark sat with his wife, directly across from Candy. He matched the room too; or rather, his cold, colourless gaze favoured the silver waistcoats worn by the restaurant's waiters. His tie and pocket square were of the same shade. As Lizzie watched, he turned to the man on his right and murmured something under his breath with a charming smile.
The man on his right was Isaac.
The display of camaraderie sent disgust crawling over Lizzie's skin. Mark was plotting to destroy this man—to blackmail him into submission for some nefarious purpose—yet had the audacity to behave as though they were friends.
But then, she was just as bad. Wasn't she? Lizzie bit her lower lip as Isaac grunted in response to Mark's words. God, the silent, brooding man was infuriating. His scowling presence was like a thunderstorm settled directly over their table; he'd barely deigned to say a word all evening. His reticence grated against every inch of Lizzie's society-trained nerves. She could quite happily throw her salad fork at his head.
And yet, just an hour ago, she'd kissed him.
God, what the fuck had she been thinking?
Without warning, Mark turned his head, catching Lizzie's gaze like a sprung-trap. His eyes bored into hers, and she knew exactly what she should have been thinking: protect Olu.
Only she hadn't been.
Isaac shifted uncomfortably, as though the furniture was too delicate for his large frame. And that single movement reminded Lizzie of what had truly passed through her mind as she'd brushed her mouth against his.
That if his presence alone could make her feel so much, surely his touch would set her alight.
“Lizzie?” Candy prompted, nudging her beneath the table. “Are you listening to me?”
Crap. Tearing her focus from the men across the table—her demon and her soon-to-be-shame—Lizzie pinned her smile firmly in place as she faced Candy again. But then she saw the knowing arch of the younger woman’s slim brow, and she let her facade drop.
She’d been doing that a lot, recently. She had no idea what it meant.
Except weakness.
“We can’t talk about it when he’s sitting right there,” she murmured.
“Why not? He can’t hear us.”
“How do you know?”
Candy smirked. “He’s not paid attention to a word said all evening.”
Ah.
“Because he’s been so busy trying not to stare at you.”
Wait. What?
“I—I beg your pardon?” Lizzie stuttered.
Candy chuckled. “You sound like the bloody queen sometimes, you know.”
“Sorry. But what do you—”
“Don’t bother being all coy. Just give me the gossip.”
Shaking her head, Lizzie sighed. “I don’t know," she whispered. "He’s so… grim. And anyway, Isaac is not interested in me. He thinks that I’m… That I’m stuck up.”
“You are,” Candy said immediately. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not a nice person. You just have to work a bit harder at it.”
Laughing despite herself, Lizzie rolled her eyes. “My, how you flatter me.”
“Someone’s got to tell you the truth. But listen—I think you’re wrong about Isaac. I think he’s very interested in you. And you should trust me on that. I know things.”
Lizzie picked up her napkin, patting gently at the corner of her mouth to hide a smile. For someone so young, Candy was rather decisive. Which was probably how she’d achieved success early in life. Lizzie had often found that being sure was half the battle, in most situations.
And Candy, it seemed, was quite sure about the inner workings of Isaac Montgomery’s mind.
At least someone was.
She was trying to kill him. It was the only explanation.
He would die, and it would be all her fault. She just had to come down here looking like gilded fucking sin.
Lizzie leaned forward, closer to Candy's ear, and the weight of her lush cleavage pushed threateningly at the neckline of her glittering, forest-green gown. It hung off bare shoulders, swirling elegantly around her body like a stormy sea. He had no idea what that kind of dress was called, but he wanted to buy her one for every day of the fucking week.
Undone by the Ex-Con_A BWWM Romance Page 7
