Promised

We bypass the rows of mirrored elevators, heading for the stairwell. ‘Are the lifts broken?’ I ask as I’m steered through the doors and pushed up the stairs.

‘No.’

‘Then why—’

‘Because I’m not lazy.’ He cuts me off, leaving no room for further questioning, and continues to hold my nape as we take the stairs.

He might not be lazy, but he’s seriously crazy. Four flights of stairs in and my calf muscles are burning again. I’m struggling to keep up. I battle on for one more flight, and I’m just about to call for a break when he turns and picks me up, obviously aware of my breathlessness. My arms around his neck feel right, as comforting as they did before, as he continues with me draped across his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Our faces are close, his smell manly, and he keeps his eyes set firmly forward until we’re outside his shiny black front door.

Miller drops me to my feet, hands me my bag and takes hold of my nape, using his free hand to get the door open, but as the view inside his apartment hits me, I suddenly want to run away. I see the art, the wall where he restrained me, and the couch where he sat me. The images are all vivid, and so are my feelings of helplessness. If I cross this threshold, I’ll be at Miller Hart’s mercy and I don’t even think my long-lost sass will assist me . . . if I manage to find it.

‘I’m not sure I—’ I start backing away from the door, uncertainty abruptly plaguing me, sensibility worming its way into my confused brain. But the fiery determination in his clear eyes is telling me that I’m going nowhere and so does the increased grip of his hand on my nape.

‘Livy, I’m not going to jump you as soon as I get you inside.’ His hand shifts down to my upper arm but he doesn’t restrain me now. ‘Calm down.’

I’m trying to, but my heart won’t let up and neither will the shakes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ He steps away from me, giving me access to the entrance of his apartment. ‘I’d like you to go inside, but only if you want to spend the night with me,’ he says slowly, pulling my gaze to his. ‘And I want you to turn and leave if you’re not sure because I can’t do this unless I know you’re one hundred per cent with me.’ His face is straight but I detect an element of pleading behind the impassive blue gaze of his eyes.

‘I just don’t understand why you want me,’ I admit, feeling insecure and vulnerable.

I know what I look like; I’m reminded every time someone stares at me or comments on my unique eyes, but I also know that I have very little to offer a man, apart from something pleasant to look at. My mother’s beauty was her downfall, and I never want it to be mine. I’m at risk of losing my self-respect, just like she did. I’ve made it so there’s nothing to know. Who would want to give any attention to a girl who offers no intrigue or interest beyond her looks? I know exactly who: men who want nothing more than a pretty woman in their bed, which is exactly why I deprive myself of the potential of being loved. Not lusted after, but loved. I never want to be my mother, yet here I am, tinkering too close for comfort on the edge of debasement.

I can tell that he’s thinking hard about how to answer my question, like he knows it’ll influence my decision to stay or leave. I’m willing him to make his next words count. ‘I’ve told you, Livy.’ He gestures me inside. ‘You fascinate me.’

I don’t know whether that’s the right answer but I slowly walk into his apartment, and I definitely hear a quiet, relieved exhale of breath from behind me. I circle the round table in his entrance hall, placing my bag on the white marble as I pass, before coming to a stop, not knowing whether to sit myself on the couch or go into the kitchen. There’s an air of awkwardness surrounding us and despite his words in the car, it’s difficult.

He walks ahead of me and shrugs off his suit jacket, laying it neatly over the back of a chair before making his way to the drinks cabinet. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks, pouring some dark liquid into a tumbler.

‘No.’ I shake my head, even though he’s not facing me.

‘Water?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Sit down, Livy,’ he orders, turning and gesturing towards the couch.

I follow his pointed hand and take my reluctant body to the large cream-coloured leather couch while he leans against the cabinet, slowly sipping his drink. No matter what he does with those lips, whether it’s speaking or simply taking a sip of a drink, it’s distracting. They move so slowly, almost sensuously . . . deliberately.

I’m desperately concentrating on regulating my thundering heartbeat but I lose the battle completely when he moves towards me and sits on the coffee table in front of me, his elbows braced on his knees, his drink suspended in front of his lips, his eyes simmering with all sorts of promises. ‘I need to ask you something,’ he says quietly.

‘What?’ I blurt the word quickly, worriedly.

His glass lifts slowly but those eyes stay on mine. ‘Are you a virgin?’ he asks before tipping the tumbler to his lips.

‘No!’ I recoil, mortified that he’s taken my reluctance as an indication of that. But in truth, I wish I was.

‘Why are you so offended by my question?’

‘I’m twenty-four years old.’ I shift uncomfortably in my seated position, diverting my eyes away from his inquisitive stare. I can feel my face heating, and I want to grab one of his fancy silk cushions to cover it.

‘When was the last time you had sex, Livy?’

I’m dying on the spot. What does it matter when I last slept with someone? Running seems like the best option for me but my reason for escaping has changed.

‘Livy,’ he prompts, placing his drink down, the chink of glass on glass making me jump slightly. ‘Will you please look at me when I’m speaking to you?’

His sternness irritates me, and that’s the only reason I do as I’m told and look at him. ‘My history has nothing to do with you,’ I say quietly, resisting the temptation to snatch his drink and down it.

‘I simply asked you a question.’ His surprise at my sudden spunk is clear. ‘It’s usually polite to answer a question when you’re asked one.’

‘No, it’s down to my discretion whether I answer any questions that I’m asked, and I don’t see what relevance your question has.’

‘My question has plenty of relevance, Livy, as will your answer.’

‘And what’s that?’

He looks down at his glass and swivels it on the table for a few moments before slowly returning his eyes to mine. They cut straight through me. ‘It will determine whether I f**k you hard immediately, or break you in first.’

I gasp, my eyes widening at his obnoxiousness, not that he’s affected by my shock or reaction to his crass words. He simply takes his tumbler and has another slow sip of the dark liquid, keeping his unrevealing eyes on me.

‘I don’t like repeating myself, but I’ll make an exception,’ he states. ‘When was the last time you had sex?’

My tongue is knotted in my mouth as I remain under his watchful eyes. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to think that I’m even more pathetic than he must think already.

‘I’ll take your reluctance to answer as an indication that it’s been a while.’ He cocks his head and that lock of hair falls onto his forehead, momentarily distracting me from my humiliation. ‘Well?’

‘Seven years,’ I whisper. ‘Happy?’

‘Yes.’ His response is swift and genuine, yet the stunned eyes are evident. ‘I have no idea how that’s possible, but it pleases me immensely.’ He grabs my chin and lifts. ‘And I’m talking to you, Livy, so look at me.’ I follow through on his instruction until our eye contact is restored. ‘I guess that means I’ll be breaking you in.’

I don’t gasp this time but my blood instantly heats, sending my pulse rate through the roof, replacing embarrassment with want. I want him more than I know I should.

Meeting his intoxicating stare with my own driven gaze, I send instructions to the muscles in my arms to lift and feel him, but before I can engage them, my phone starts squealing from my bag.

‘You should answer it.’ He sits back, giving me space to leave the intimacy of his closeness. ‘Let her know that you’re still alive.’ There’s no amusement on his face, but I hear it in his tone.

I stand quickly, keen to reassure my inquisitive grandmother that all is well. I don’t look at the screen before I answer, but I should’ve. ‘Hi!’ I greet, way too chirpy, given my circumstances.

‘Livy?’ The voice on the end of the line prompts me to pull my phone from my ear and look at the screen, even though I know damn well who it is.

I sigh, picturing Nan frantically dialling Gregory to inform him of the events earlier this evening. ‘Hi.’

‘That man. Who is he?’

‘My boss.’ I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he buys it, but he scoffs disbelievingly, which quickly tells me I’ve failed to fool him.

‘Livy, give me a break! Who is he?’

I’m stuttering all over my words, frantically searching my mind for some rubbish to feed him. ‘Just . . . he’s . . . it doesn’t matter!’ I snap, starting to pace. Gregory won’t be happy, not after our conversations about Miller Hart.

‘It’s the coffee-hater, isn’t it?’ His tone is accusing, spiking my irritation.

‘Maybe,’ I retort. ‘Maybe not.’ Why I’ve added that is a mystery. Of course it’s the coffee-hater. Who else would it be?

I’m so busy trying to fob off my friend I don’t notice the coffee-hater looming behind me until his chin is on my shoulder, his breath heavy in my ear. I gasp as I turn around and, stupidly or not, I hang up on Gregory.

Miller’s brow is a knot of confusion. ‘That was a man.’

‘It’s rude to eavesdrop.’ I stab at the reject button of my phone when it starts ringing again.

‘That may be so.’ He holds his drink up, one finger detached from the glass and pointing at me. ‘But like I said, that was a man. Who is he?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ I say, fidgeting and diverting my eyes from his accusing blues.

‘If I’m taking you to my bed, then it is my business, Livy,’ he points out. ‘Will you please look at me when I’m speaking to you?’

I don’t. I keep my eyes on the floor, silently wondering why I don’t just tell him who it was. It’s not who he thinks it is, so what does it matter? I’ve got nothing to hide but his demand for the information is unearthing a childish rebelliousness in me. Or it could be my sass. I don’t need to find it because it seems to come out to play willingly around this man, which is undoubtedly a good job.

‘Livy.’ He hunkers down and captures my eyes, his brow raised in authority. ‘If there’s an obstruction then I’ll happily eliminate it.’

‘He’s a friend.’

‘What did he want?’

‘To know where I am.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my grandmother has obviously told him that you were at the house and he has put two and two together and come up with Miller.’ My mortification is growing by the second.

‘He knows about me?’ he asks, those dark brows showing no sign of lowering.

‘Yes, he knows about you.’ This is getting stupid. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ I ask, wanting to escape and gather myself.

‘You may.’ His glass extends from his body and points toward a corridor leading off the lounge. ‘Third door on the right.’