Only she wouldn’t need him to buy her shit, would she? She probably had more money than he’d see in a lifetime, even though he was a rich motherfucker these days.
Her hair wasn’t scraped back into its typical bun. Instead, it was pulled up tight in an elaborate, high twist that left the sloping lines of her face as bare as usual. She should have had huge ears that stuck out like jug handles—that would’ve been fair—but of course, she didn’t. Her ears were small and neat, as though they knew their owner often had them on show and wanted to please her. The whole world must want to please this woman. How humiliating that he'd joined their ranks so quickly.
Isaac gripped the arms of his rigid little chair, holding himself perfectly still as he strained to hear Lizzie's conversation. Snatches of words floated to him over the quiet cello music filling the restaurant; words just interesting enough to fill him with frustration.
“Isaac…”
There. Lizzie’s voice, plummy vowels and all, murmuring his name as she gossiped with the little agony aunt. Her tone was loaded enough to make him wish he could move closer, could go to her and hang on her every word the way he suddenly wanted to. The way her secret smile commanded him to.
And he’d thought he hated commands. Right now, it was entirely possible that just a word from her could send him to the moon.
She must be some kind of spy. An assassin. A demon. Something, no matter how outlandish, that would explain the transformation her kiss had wrought in him. She must've curled a pill beneath her tongue and slipped it between his lips—a pill that stole his good fucking sense, perhaps. Drugs, or magic. Those were the only things that could have him panting after a woman he fucking hated.
Because he did hate her, even now. He had to. She was a toff, and up her own arse besides, and she blew hot and cold, and she thought she was better than him, and she was right.
He absolutely hated her. He wondered what she looked like when she came. Which had nothing to do with her being his mortal enemy.
Wait—why was she his mortal enemy, again?
Effortlessly, Lizzie switched from her conversation with Candy to engaging the table at large. She let out a tinkling laugh at something the cookbook author, Kate, had said, and even the grim-faced Sir John looked thoroughly charmed. While Isaac sat there like a silent fool, his tie a silken noose, Lizzie lit up the room.
And it was fake. It was all fucking fake.
Everyone was taken in by Lizzie's smiles, by her demure words and artfully lowered lashes, by the way she wielded beauty and charm with razor-sharp precision. They probably thought their admiration of her was organic. That it was all their own; that they had free-will where she was concerned. They were wrong. Lizzie wasn't a sparkling young socialite. She was a con woman. Isaac watched in fascination as she brought her wine glass to her lips, her slender fingers caressing the delicate stem. She pressed her mouth to the glass in perfect tandem with Clarissa, yet she didn't appear to be looking at the other woman.
But she was. Somehow, she was. And when Clarissa lowered her glass, so did Lizzie. The faint, red outline of her lipstick had smudged across the rim. Perhaps that was enough to distract the table from the fact she hadn't swallowed a fucking sip. But it didn't distract Isaac.
See, what was really pissing him off—what had Isaac absolutely furious—was that, even though he could see right through this performance of hers... he didn't want it to stop.
It was brilliant. It was magnificent. She was flawless, perfect in her falsehood. And perhaps he only grasped that because he'd seen her as she really was, utterly guileless in her disdain for him, achingly real in his arms. Maybe if she hadn't been so blunt the day they'd met, he'd be sucked in by her wiles along with everyone else. Whatever the reason, Isaac felt like he was watching the table from a distance, some omniscient overseer laughing at the foolishness of mere mortals. Mortals who thought they'd ever understand a woman like Lizzie.
Hating her and wanting her was bad enough. But now he hated her, he wanted her, and he grudgingly respected her.
This would not end well.
A small hand tapped Isaac's thigh, and he almost leapt from his chair. Almost. But at the last second he remembered where he was, and who he was with, and his brain overruled the ingrained responses of his body. He turned to find little Ava smiling up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Isaac," she stage-whispered. "Why are you growling?"
He blinked. "Not."
"You are," Alexandra said, her head popping out from behind her sister's. "I can hear you from here."
"And you've been frowning all night," Ava added.
"What are you all talking about?" Demanded Audrey. Audrey, who was sitting right next to Lizzie. Shit. "I can't hear!" She pouted, and Isaac held his breath, waiting for the commotion to draw Lizzie's attention. He didn't know what he would do if the realest woman he'd ever met turned her grand facade his way, but it wouldn't be polite.
But for some reason, Lizzie didn't react to the noise at her left. She must be aware of it—Isaac was beginning to suspect that she noticed everything. Just like him. Yet she didn't turn around.
Maybe she didn't want to con him anymore than he wanted to be conned.
"You're like Mr. Darcy," Ava chirped, ignoring her oldest sister's whining.
Isaac tapped his fingers against the table. "Who?"
"You know? Pride and Prejudice? He's very grumpy and handsome..." She trailed off, a blush staining her cheeks.
Isaac made a show of looking off into the distance, across the restaurant. Then he turned his attention back to Ava and said, "What? Didn't hear you."
"Oh!" Relief smoothed her features. "Nothing. Isaac, I was wondering..." The sentence hovered in the air for so long that even Isaac felt compelled to help the poor girl finish it.
"Yeah?" He grunted.
"Well. Are you shy?"
He couldn't have been more surprised if she'd tossed her champagne flute of apple juice at him. "Uh..."
"Because I've been thinking, and I believe you are. You're just like Alex, you see? You're very nice, only nobody knows because you won't show them!"
Feeling heat rise in his cheeks, Isaac grabbed his expensive-ass beer—he could tell it was expensive, because it tasted like smokey piss—and took a sip, trying not to choke.
"It's okay if you are, you know," Ava said. "I'm helping Alexandra. I could help you, too! We could have lessons!"
His throat working convulsively, Isaac put down his beer. "Um..."
"Or you could ask Lizzie, if you want a proper teacher. Her grandfather is a viscount."
Of course he was. Jesus Christ. Isaac shook his head. "No. Thanks. Not shy. Just quiet." Which was a lie. His mother had called him shy. When he was a kid, she'd stroke his hair and say to people, "My Isaac, he's right shy bless him. Loves his mam, don't you babe?" And she'd look down at him, and he'd nod stiffly, even though what he really wanted to do was sink into the floor.
"Are you sure?" Ava asked, all innocence. Had he been like this, at thirteen?
No. No, of course not. At thirteen he'd been running drugs on his bike.
He forced himself to nod, just like he used to.
"Well, all right then," she said doubtfully. And she turned back to her sisters. Which was both a blessing and a curse. Now he was free of interrogation. But he was also free to stare at Lizzie.
Throughout the rest of the meal, Isaac watched her like a hawk. He knew that he was behaving badly—grunting at anyone who spoke to him, barely even pretending to eat the fancy ass food. He didn’t know what half of it was. Never ingest unidentifiable substances; that was his cardinal rule.
By the time the plates were collected and the final drinks served, Lizzie’s image was seared onto his retinas. Why did she have to be so damned beautiful?
She looked up suddenly, catching his eye, and the effortless charm she’d displayed for the past hour slid away. In its place, he saw a flash of something real, something vivid. She was so
intense when she looked at him.
Because she hated him. Passionately. He had to remember that part.
For some reason, he realised, Lizzie was the woman he’d break his rules for. He would never deny her. If she'd only fucking ask for it, he would be her delicious taboo, her dirty little secret, just because he wanted her so much. That knowledge was galling enough in itself.
But even worse was the fact that she wouldn't ask. Because she didn't want taboo; she didn't want a thrill, and her attitude was just fine. She simply didn't like him. Not because she was prejudiced; not because she was used to having her way. She didn’t like him because he was a bad person. She didn’t like him for him.
And it was becoming obvious that in another life, he could really fucking like her.
“Montgomery!” Mark snapped his fingers in front of Isaac’s face. “Come on, man. Do you hear me?”
Jolting to life, Isaac turned to find Mark standing up. The rest of the table was preparing to leave, most of them looking at him strangely.
Except Lizzie. She wasn’t looking at him at all.
“Sorry,” Isaac muttered.
“Not to worry,” Mark said. So fucking magnanimous. “Bit too much to drink, eh?”
Takes more than a pint to get me bladdered, pal. “Maybe. Might go out.”
“Out?” Mark echoed.
“Oh, not in this cold, darling,” trilled Clarissa, adjusting her ivory wrap. “We’re going back to the drawing room for chocolate. Will you come?”
“No. Thanks. Need to clear my head.”
“Ah, leave the man be,” Mark said. “He’s knows what he’s about.”
Right. Nodding, Isaac turned and sped through the restaurant as though there were engines in the back of his fancy shoes. Rude, probably. Necessary, definitely. The spider-fine weight of eyes on him, creeping across his skin all at once, was too much. He needed to get outside and look at the sky and feel the cold and touch the earth. Or the snow. Whatever. Something.
But first he’d get this awful bloody suit off.
Then he’d feel better. Then everything would be fine.
Eleven
Cold had a scent. It had a taste. Some people didn’t realise that, but Isaac had grown intimate with the cold in its many forms, years and years ago. Once upon a time, it had ruled his life each winter. Mam would put him to bed early for the cold, hoping sleep would protect him from the chill she couldn’t afford to fend off. And for the cold he’d stay awake, frozen despite his nest of blankets—even as he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing so that she’d never know.
These days, it was just another temperature. Just another feeling. Another scent, another taste.
And it was beautiful. Like the ghost of blood on your tongue after a long run tore up your lungs.
He should write that down. Might be able to use it somewhere.
Isaac stood alone in snow level with his boots, his hands shoved into his pockets and his chin tucked close to his chest. He ignored the frigid air and stared into the distance, at the point where icing-sugar inclines became jagged mountaintops. He could see the ski-paths tracing up and down each slope, and the ski-lifts above them like the ghosts of ley lines over cracked earth.
Only, he couldn’t see earth; not for miles. Usually, that would bother him. Would make him itch. But the pine on the wind and the savage cold was close enough, it seemed. His breathing was even; his soul was soothed; his mind was as quiet as it ever fucking got. Quiet enough for the fragments of poetry that chased him to capture the whole of his attention.
He hadn’t wanted to write poetry. He hadn’t wanted to write at all, when he was young. He'd been so stuck on what ‘real men’ did, on what was for ‘bitches’ and what wasn’t, that he'd denied himself.
But then everything had changed, and nothing had mattered, and he had written and written and written.
Thank God that prison warden had passed on his journal to a friend of a friend, instead of his shitty poetry. Instead of the pathetic lines he stuttered over like a baby bird trying to fly. If those lines ever faced the light of day—
Wait.
Isaac paused, quieting his wandering reminiscence, letting his other senses take over until his sight was a mere blur.
Hearing. That was the sense he needed now. Someone was behind him.
The soft crunch of snow under heavy boots floated to his ears. So soft, the walker might be trying to silence their footsteps. Trying and failing.
Not that he was paranoid. Just… alert.
Isaac held himself perfectly still, every muscle wound up tight and ready to snap to attention. Calculations ran through his mind; not numbers—he’d never trusted their black and white nature—but instincts, subtle and shifting and layered. He judged weight and gait and intention, running through options, potentialities, until he found one that seemed to fit…
There was a crispness in the air that had nothing to do with frost. And light as the steps were, they didn’t lack surety. They weren’t hesitant, but fluid as any movement could be through a foot of snow. In an instant, he knew. Or did he hope?
“Hello, Isaac.”
Her fucking voice. So soft, so sharp. Deceptive. Seductive. Did she even know? Was she even half as fascinating as he imagined her to be? Surely she wasn't. Surely it was all in his head.
Then he turned, and the dam of anticipation broke, and tension flooded free, and he had the answer to his question.
It wasn’t in his head. Not at all.
She was beautiful, as she had been at dinner, but in a different way. The vestige of whatever dark makeup she’d worn was smudged around her eyes. Her brown-sugar skin was squeaky-clean and shining, and the end of her broad nose was red-tinged. She was all wrapped up in designer ski gear, though he couldn’t imagine her skiing. But she must. That sort always did, didn’t they? Her gloves were so thick, she could barely move her fingers. Fluffy, pink earmuffs protected her ears, and despite himself, he was charmed. He wouldn’t expect her to own a thing like that. But then, she was a ballerina, wasn’t she? She probably lay down to sleep each night beneath a pink princess canopy.
He studied her, and she studied him. They stood apart, she hovering at the edge of the salted path and he out in the untouched snow, his big footprints damning evidence. He’d destroyed fresh purity for a better view, and he gave not one single fuck.
“Your hair,” he said, his eyes going to the familiar bun. The elaborate style she'd worn earlier had disappeared.
She rolled her lips in, touched a gloved hand to her head, and he thought she might be self-conscious. But he must be mistaken.
“I don’t like being all done up,” she said. “But since it was our first night…”
“So you took one hairstyle down for another?”
She shrugged, her shoulders artificially inflated by her jacket. “It sounds silly when you put it like that.”
And now he was sure: she was uncomfortable. He didn’t know how he knew—her voice was crisp as ever, her eyes cold stone—but he knew. Maybe he was getting used to her. Wasn’t that a terrifying thought?
“Why did you come?” He asked, turning back to his view. To his peace. Only he couldn’t find the feeling anymore; something bright and unsettling shimmered in its place, something that had him deliciously on edge. Perfectly present. He heard her moving closer, crushing snow beneath her feet.
“I wasn’t looking for you,” she told him. Her voice was so carefully steady when she said it, he wanted to call her a liar. Except he knew she always sounded that way. The usual cues, the hints he'd learned to notice, didn't apply to her. She added, “I like a little exercise before bed. Something to wear me out.”
Like a rocket, his thoughts were thrust into dark, desperate places. Shadowy corners of his consciousness were set alight by her words, images flashing before his eyes. He could wear her out before bed. Was she hinting? Was she asking?
Of course she wasn’t. But that didn’t stop his pulse from rising, or his cock
from stiffening beneath all the fucking thermal layers he wore. Shaking his head, Isaac turned to look at her—because that would fix things. She’d be staring at him with all of her disdain, or looking on him as some animal of lust, and it would drain the desire right out of him.
Except things didn’t go to plan. They never did, with her. He found her paces away, her gaze soft on him, her face open. The way it had been back in the drawing room, right after she’d…
“Why did you kiss me?” He blurted out.
And just like that, warm eyes turned cold. She was suddenly stiff again, her movement towards him slowing, becoming robotic.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. And that just pissed him off. She was infuriating and impossible and sexy as hell for reasons he couldn’t define; she apparently controlled both his mood and his fucking cock; and she claimed she didn’t know why she’d started him down this pathetic path? That wasn’t good enough.
“You don’t know?” He gritted out, facing her fully. “You don’t know? I thought I was vulgar. I thought you hated me.”
“You are vulgar,” she said, lifting her booted feet high as she moved deeper into the snow. “You are rude and coarse and I don’t appreciate your tone at this minute, thank you very much. But—”
Just steps away from him, she stumbled. Maybe she lost her balance; maybe some dip or root beneath the snow tripped her up. Whatever the reason, she was falling.
So Isaac caught her.
Lizzie panted, her heart thumping in her chest. She was hovering over the ground, arched as though in dance—and that must make Isaac her partner, because one of his huge hands was splayed against the small of her back, and the other wrapped firmly around her forearm. She could feel the heat of him burning through the thick, sheepskin layers of her coat, and the firm pressure thrilled her to the point of indecency. So many good intentions, she'd had, coming here. How in control she'd felt. And now it was ruined, pushed aside in an instant by the wildfire surging through her veins.
Undone by the Ex-Con: A BWWM Romance (Just for Him Book 2) Page 8
