by Gwen Allen
Vince curses and grabs my wrist. He forces my hand open then pulls me away from the rose bush like he doesn't trust me near it.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snaps at me as he holds my hand and takes a look at the damage. "Are you an idiot or something?"
"It's fine."
"Like hell it is. Let's go and clean that up and put some bandages on," he insists.
I don't know what made me do it. Maybe I just wanted something to snap me out of this captive state of mind. I did snap Vince out of his gloom, kind of. He is a different Vince as he drags me off to the kitchen and makes me take a seat at the kitchen counter.
The impatient manhandling isn't new. Watching him go in search of the first aid kit in the big, well stocked pantry, I think about how there is another man hiding inside his barbed exterior. It's like Vince had wrapped himself in thorns to hide and protect anything good that might be deep inside him.
I cast my eyes down at my bloody hand resting on the cool, marble countertop. The pricks are still welling up with drops of blood, red against the white marble. Even if thorns are only there to protect, they still cut. They still hurt. The thorns are there as a warning, but I just don’t know how to listen to warnings. I stare at Vince hard when he comes back with a first aid kit in his hand.
"Since when do you have a self-destructive streak?" he asks as he gets the kit open and then takes my hand in his.
"Since I met you, I guess," I tell him. My answer is slow to come. The way he's holding my hand and tending to me is putting me in a sort of trance. My skin tingles but my breathing is deep and calm.
He says nothing to that just cleans up my hand while glaring at me now and then. Vince cups my hand gently and dabs at the blood without causing me any more pain than I already inflicted on myself. His gentleness reminds me of how softly he touched that rose petal.
Once he's done with that, he tapes a big bandage over the palm of my hand. His touch is unbelievably tender though. It makes me want to ask, "Who is this guy?"
As he starts to repack the first aid kit, he tells me. "And don't do any more stupid crap like that."
"I guess you're the only one who's allowed to hurt me," I say sarcastically, but he is completely serious when he answers.
"Damn right." Then he shakes his head at me. "And what good are you in the kitchen with your hand like that?"
"I'm not much good in the kitchen either way," I tell him. "And why do you care anyway?"
"Because now I can't get you to cook me something," he says, sounding put out.
"When did I promise to cook you anything? And I'm no expert in the kitchen. You wouldn't be impressed," I tell him.
"You work in a restaurant and you don't know how to cook?"
"I know how to cook. I just can't do it on a professional level. It's not like I can just stand around the kitchen at the café while people are working and rushing around. Watching those guys is intimidating. Do you know how fast they are? They would blow you away," I say to him and point at his face with my hurt hand. "Ouch."
Vince rolls his eyes at me.
"Did your mom cook?" I ask him on an impulse.
"Why are you asking me about her?" he says turning gloomy as soon as I mention her.
"I was just wondering what she was like?"
"She was beautiful, then she was sad, then she was dead," Vince sums up.
I watch his face turn hard and unreadable as he tries to keep the pain from his eyes.
"Sorry. I guess you don't like to talk about her. I like talking about my dad even if it's hard on me, and I have to struggle not to cry. I want people to know him, what a great guy he was and that he was funny. He made me and Mom laugh all the time."
"Must be nice," Vince says through gritted teeth. The look in his eyes becomes so pained as he turns away to stare blankly out the kitchen windows at the garden outside.
It seems like his memories of his mother only hurt him. I know she died when he was a kid and that she killed herself. Maybe that's why. I was older when I lost my dad. I got a lot more years with him, good years.
"You must have some happy memories of your mom," I prompt him.
"They're all lies," he says, his voice harsh.
"Don't say that," I tell him. I want to get him to see that there's always some light in the darkness, but he looks like he's ready to leave so I give up that argument for now. "Ok. I'll make you something to eat since you bandaged my hand for me."
Vince looks skeptical. "With your hand like that?"
"My one handed cooking can be my excuse if it doesn't turn out right," I say.
"You just want to poison me," Vince says.
"You're planning to watch my every move, aren't you?" I say to him with a note of challenge in my voice.
He looks up and down the length of my body. Of course he does. I need to watch what I say around him.
I sigh and look around me apprehensively. I don't know my way around this big kitchen with its slick, expensive appliances. Until now all I've done in here is get a drink from the fridge and occasionally a snack. There is a cook who prepares meals and I eat at the café a lot too.
"Maybe you won't poison me. Maybe you'll just starve me to death," Vince complains as I stand there indecisively while he leans against the white marble countertop.
"Give me a second to get my bearings," I say and go to open a few cabinets at random.
Vince grumbles and pushed away from the counter. Damn, he's giving up on me and leaving. I feel so disappointed. I don't know why. I'm not supposed to be spending time with him anyway. But then I realize that Vince isn't leaving. He opens a cupboard and pulls out a rack with an assortment of frying pans hanging from it.
"Here you go. Take your pick," he says.
"I guess you want me to fry you something," I say as I pick a medium sized pan.
"If you can manage it. What else can you do one handed?" he says.
The next step I can handle on my own, but Vince still hovers over me as I stick my head in the huge fridge. I rummage around and come across some plain, cooked pasta.
"I hope the cook wasn't saving this for something," I say as I pull it out of the fridge.
"You're going to fry me some pasta?" Vince says, losing even more faith in my cooking abilities.
"Yes. No. You'll see." I get out some eggs too. "This is something my dad liked to make with leftover spaghetti. My mom likes the version with spinach that's topped with cheese. But this is my dad's version. The good news is it has bacon," I announce and hold up the bacon I found in the fridge.
Of course Vince likes the sound of that. "Then it might be worth eating."
"Of course it will be." I get tongs that are hanging over the stove and get to work. Soon the smell of bacon frying fills the kitchen. I can tell Vince is enjoying it though I'm trying not to pay too much attention to him. It's unsettling to be near him. Whenever he wants to see what I'm doing, he stands too close for comfort.
After I'm done with the bacon, I get it out of the pan to cool so I can break it up. As soon as I set it aside, Vince reaches for a piece, and I have to swat his hand away.
"You could save yourself some trouble and stop right there. All I need is the bacon," he tells me.
I point the tongs at him. "That right there is your whole personality summed up."
"You start psychoanalyzing me and I'm leaving," he threatens.
"Fine," I say. It's not like pointing out his shortcomings would do any good.
Cooking with only one hand isn't easy, but I swear Vince enjoys watching me struggle. When I show him I can crack eggs with one hand, he just shrugs. I hand him the last egg.
"You do it then," I tell him.
"That's hardly a challenge. I just watched you do it," he says. He does a decent job and looks smug about it.
"You would probably make a halfway decent cook if you weren't so spoiled and pampered," I tell him.
"And who would I cook for?" he asks like no one would be worthy.
I almost say "me" but bite my tongue. Now that I have everything ready, I mix together the eggs, the pasta and the bacon pieces. As I put the mixture in the pan to cook up, Vince nods with approval.
"It's starting to smell promising again," he allows.
"If I get you a beer, will you get some plates?" I ask since I saw beer bottles in the fridge.
"It's a deal."
As he brings back plates, knives and forks for the two of us, I realize we're about to share a meal. Eating with him shouldn't be a big deal, but it seems weird, like it should mean something, except it doesn't. Nothing means what it should with Vince, not sex, not sharing a meal, or being stepbrother and stepsister. That last thing is something I don't even want to think about. It doesn't seem to apply.
Only now that we're sitting down to eat at the kitchen counter, I wonder what the hell we are to each other. I'm so preoccupied by that unanswerable question that I almost miss what Vince says about the food.
"It's good. I might let you cook for me again," he says arrogantly.
"I wasn't auditioning for you. I was just saying thank you for helping me with my hand," I tell him, but I'm happy he likes it. "My dad knew what he was doing in the kitchen. He was a better cook than Mom, but he would never admit it. He used to say that Mom was his shining star." I get a little choked up when I say that. For a while, I can't swallow then I continue to eat in silence. As I'm eating one of my dad's favorite foods, I don't trust myself to talk about him or I might burst into tears.
Vince stays quiet too. He only speaks up after we're done eating, and I get up and start washing the dishes.
"We pay people to do that, you know," he tells me while he gets himself another beer from the fridge.
"You expect me to leave a sink full of dirty dishes?" I say and turn to him just in time to watch his throat work as he takes a swallow of his beer. I quickly turn away. "My mom and dad would have killed me if I made a mess at the café and left it for people who work there to clean up. I can just hear it, 'We don't pay them to clean up after you, young lady.' Makes me cringe just to think of it."
"Don't play the good girl with me, just stick the dishes in the dishwasher," he says dismissively.
"It's only a few dishes. You should roll up your sleeves too. My mom and dad always worked side by side and..." I stop and straighten at the sink, suds dripping off my hands. What the hell am I saying? I wasn't just comparing Vince and me to my mom and dad. I make one meal for the guy, and I lose my head.
As I stand there feeling stupid and kicking myself, I notice that Vince is staring at me. I only glance at him. Right now I can't look him in the eye.
"I just remembered I have to start on an assignment. I wasted enough time with you," I tell him defensively.
Quickly, I get back to washing dishes. My hands shake a little and I tell myself to get it together and not break any dishes. The whole time, Vince leans next to me, sipping his beer and staring at me to make sure I feel as uncomfortable as humanly possible. He doesn't even offer to dry the dishes. I hate him.
Chapter 11
~
Julie
I can't believe it, another dinner party. I barely survived the last one, but I guess rich people have these kinds of shindigs all the time. For a while I had a small hope that Vince might not be there. Then all my hopes were dashed as Curtis confirmed that his son was coming.
I wonder if getting drunk is an option. I've never actually been drunk. Maybe it was high time I started. No, I'm not old enough to drink. Only one year shy, I just can't catch a break.
I have on another new dress. It's light gray. The top drapes perfectly but all I can think about is how Vince might slide it right off me. I can't get dressed up any more without thinking about what he might do to me if he catches me alone.
This time Mom invited one of her oldest friends and her husband, and Curtis invited two other couples. It's not a huge crowd, but the conversation is lively at the dinner table. The food is excellent. The venison with chestnut and wild rice pilaf is to die for, but once again I can't enjoy my food because of Vince. I should be stuffing my face, not pushing food around on my plate. It's all his fault.
Every time I catch his eye, my insides quake. His smile is knowing and suggestive. It's like no matter what I'm wearing, he can still see me naked like he did in my room above the café.
When he isn't leering at me, he's glaring at Mom every time she laughs or speaks. I might have brought his ogling on myself by acting like a damn fool around him, but my mom doesn't deserve the nasty looks he shoots in her direction. He's such an ass.
When I glare at him in warning, he returns a predatory smile. I shift in my chair and squeeze my legs together in a subconscious self-defense move. As I squirm under his gaze, he looks so self-satisfied. I start to worry that someone will notice the effect he has on me. Playing with the food on my plate, I wish I wasn't too nervous to eat so I could at least keep busy that way.
After we're done with dessert, everyone goes off to one of the sitting rooms for coffee and drinks. I figure I've done my part to be sociable and I excuse myself. Once I'm out in the hall, I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
As I keep making my escape, my heels echo on the marble floors. At first it's the only sound then another sound of footsteps joins them. These footsteps are heavier, covering greater distance at each stride, male. That determined stride rings with arrogance at every step. It can't be anyone but Vince.
I just continue down the hall and hope he goes away. Or do I want him to keep chasing me. He makes me nervous and excited. I'm ready to jump out of my skin, but I don't want him to know that he has such a powerful effect on me.
When he finally overtakes me, he comes up too close, right behind me and I jump. As I spin around, I see how he looks at me from top to bottom. Showing lewd interest in every inch of my body, he makes it seem like he really can see through my clothes.
"Feeling Ok?" he asks but doesn't show any actual concern. "You weren't eating much. Food not to your liking?"
"I'm fine. The food was fine. I'm just not hungry," I tell him.
"Let's see, maybe you're hungry for something else," he says and smiles at me.
"What?" I ask but he doesn't answer.
Vince puts his arm around my waist and leads me through the door of one of the guest rooms. As I try to pull away from him, he turns to stare me down. He leans in a little and all I can see is the incredible, icy blue of his eyes.
"I'm feeling kind of disrespectful, maybe even belligerent. I could go back to that sitting room and make a toast. You want me on my best behavior? Let's see if you can put me in a better mood. Cheer me up right now," he says with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
The bastard is blackmailing me. With his hand on my arm, he takes me further into the room, and I let him. Not because of any blackmail. I go into that room because his hand is on my arm and his eyes are on me and because his voice is inside me. He can take over my whole body just with his voice, make me his for the taking.
"You scared?" he taunts me as he shuts the door and locks it.
"You don't scare me," I lie.
"You'll need to take that dress off," he tells me.
"Only if you get naked too," I say. I want to see him naked, damn it.
He shrugs and opens his arms, inviting me to strip him. I start with his suit jacket, taking it off and trying to breathe evenly. Setting it aside, I run my hands down his arms, feeling the hard muscles under silky fabric.
As I unbutton his shirt slowly, Vince lifts my face up to him and starts kissing me. I can't work the buttons any more. My whole awareness is on Vince's mouth devouring mine.
Vince deals with the last few buttons and gets his shirt off. Watching him strip out of it takes my breath away. He is beyond gorgeous. But his pants are next and I'm trembling so hard.
He sighs and spins me around. He unhooks my dress and lets it drop off my shoulders and then to the floor. I step out of it, but I don't get the chance to pick i
t up before Vince hooks an arm around my waist and gets my bra off with one hand. His hands are on me now, pressing me against his naked chest and caressing my breasts.
"I want you naked all the way," he growls in my ear and I slide my panties off while he kisses my neck and rolls my nipples between his fingers. I would do anything he told me as long as he doesn't stop what he's doing to me.
I feel drunk on his touch and then dizzy when he turns me to face him. As I reach for his fly, my fingers brush against the steely hardness of his erection. It's big, pushing forward, straining the front of his slacks. My hands shake as I try to undo his fly. He looks down at me cruelly, enjoying my fumbling.
In this state, I'm useless. My fingers just won't work right. Then he takes over. He pushes my hands out of the way. He unbuttons and unzips his fly deftly in just a few flicks of his fingers. He pushes down on the waistband of his boxers and pulls his cock free.
"Get on your knees," he orders me.
I do it automatically. I don't know why. His voice is like a whip and I have to obey. He's in charge and whatever he wants will happen. It's that feeling again—he controls me and I let him, no I want him to. As I kneel in front of him, my self respect lies in shreds.
I don't want to be a good girl. I only want to please him. That's why I look up at him and just wait. No matter how scared I am, I want him.
"And don't touch yourself," he commands me.
"I wasn't going to," I blurt out in a shaky voice.
"You'll want to, but don't," he tells me sternly.
A part of me is determined to do whatever the hell I want, but another part of me wants to obey him more than anything. And I want to do it right. If I'm going to do this, I want him to like it. I want to satisfy him.
As Vince steps up to me, I inhale sharply then hold my breath. My lips tremble. Stunned, I stare at his huge cock at close range. I can't believe I had that inside me. No wonder it hurt so much.
Vince grunts with impatience as I just kneel there feeling amazed and frightened by his cock. He doesn't wait for me to come to my senses. With one hand he tilts my chin up then teases my lower lip with his thumb. I open up and tentatively reach for the base of his cock. My fingers don't fit around it as I stroke up and down the shaft and bring my face closer to the glistening head.
