Page 20 of One Cut Deeper
He offers a bread basket. “You could have taken it to your family.”
Beneath the towel, my fingers find warm French bread. Now I’m really impressed. “You bake bread too?”
“Not hardly.” He laughs. “I don’t have the patience to wait for it to rise. I only warmed it to trick you into thinking I’m a master chef. Your family isn’t often the recipient of your baking efforts?”
I sigh, hoping he’d drop it. “Not often, no. It’s complicated.”
“Family usually is,” he agrees. “Did you talk to your parents today?”
“Mom and my sister. You’re officially invited. You’ll even get to meet my older brother, who lives in California. I guess he’s flying in for the big event.”
“You don’t sound thrilled.” He pours a full glass of red wine for himself and then a small amount in my glass. “This is merlot, a little stouter than the moscato you tried yesterday. I used it in the mushrooms.”
I barely take a sip, just wetting my lips. They start tingling. Wow.Stouteris an understatement. If I drink a whole glass of this, I’ll be under the table and miss being awake in his bed tonight. “I’m thrilled you’ll be there. You may not be so thrilled by the time we leave.”
He reaches over and lightly squeezes my hand. “I know exactly how complicated family can be. Well, I used to. I loved my brother dearly, but we fought and hated each other at times. Sometimes you don’t know how good you have it until it’s all gone.”
That doesn’t sound good at all. Is he deliberately giving me an opening to ask for more details? I’m not sure. He frowns, sad lines deepening around his eyes. He almost seems surprised he told me that much. Because he doesn’t want to depress me with stories of a dysfunctional family—or because these things are so painful he never shares them with anyone?
I wait a few seconds to assess his mood, hoping for another hint of what he wants to talk about. I don’t have to wait long.
“I’m not in the market for a full-time slave.”
The buttery steak turns to dust in my mouth. I wash it down with a big drink of wine, then nearly choke when the alcohol burns down my throat. I risk a glance at his face. He watches me, eyes heavy lidded and darkly sensual despite his words.
“Bedroom slave, yes. 24/7 slave, no. I travel too much.” He stands, whispering, “Excuse me a moment.”
I stare down at my plate, trying to get a grip on myself. He basically said he doesn’t want me at all. So why go to the trouble of cooking me dinner, giving me instructions, making me deal with my family, for fuck’s sake, only to tell me I’m not going to work out before we have a single night together?
He sets a glass of water beside my plate, cold from the fridge, and then takes his seat without another word. Bite after bite, he methodically eats his steak and helps himself to another piece of bread, while my resentment simmers hotter by the moment.
He can’t go ruin my world and then eat like nothing is wrong.
Yes, he can.
The Master can do anything he wishes.
It’s a game, but this one I don’t want to play. I ignore the water he so thoughtfully got for me and sip at the glass of wine, though it makes my eyes burn. At least I can blame it on the alcohol instead of tears.
“Didn’t I get your steak done enough?”
I tap it with my fork, breaking off some of the delicious crust of seasonings on the outside, but I can’t bring myself to take another bite. “Sure. It’s fine.”
Even to my own ears, my tone is surly. He arches a brow but doesn’t comment on my attitude. Is he trying to give me the brush-off? Or drive me to bad behavior so he can punish me? As much as I yearn for the latter, I fear it’s the first, although he hasn’t told me to leave. Yet.
I need to ask more questions. Try to figure out what his angle is. “So, what exactly do you do for Doctors Without Borders?”
Finished with his steak, he pours himself another glass of wine and leans back in his chair. He stretches his legs out in front of him, his knees wide enough that his thigh brushes mine. Despite my fury and hurt, I suck in a breath at the accidental contact.
“I’m a troubleshooter.”
“What does that mean?” Fuck, I hate my snide, snotty tone.
“I do a little of everything. Security, helping with setup at a new location, building roads or bridges as needed to get a party in or out. I’ve got nearly ten years in the military and law enforcement, as well as a degree in engineering. They use all my experience to get the job done.”
“You carry a gun.” I try to make it a question, but it comes out more an accusation.
“Sure do. There’s no way in hell that I’d go into Sudan without some protection. The doctors need someone like me. Someone who’s willing to kill if needed to keep them safe. They can’t save other people if they’re gunned down on a dusty road between villages.”