Reluctant Surrender (13 page)

Those dreamy green orbs set her on fire as he stared at her. This subject wasn’t much better. “You read that post too?”

“I’ve read all your posts. I have them on rss feed.”

“All?” Her voice squeaked as her palms slapped the granite.

He nodded.

She needed to get hold of herself. There was nothing wrong with him reading her ramblings. Although when she wrote them as Riling Rita she was a stranger broadcasting to strangers and that somehow was liberating. Him knowing who she was personally and that those were her gripes about life on her blog made her feel claustrophobic. “Your physique? I, ah, don’t recall.”

“I think it’s coming back to me. I recall the word stunning…”

Her index finger started tapping the counter of its own accord and she eyed it as she worked out how best to answer. “Oh. That was fiction.”

He took up chopping the vegetables again, thank heavens, but then he asked, “Did John have a to-die-for physique too?”

“God no! He—” She was just about to say he’d been too skinny for his height when she realized he was baiting her. “Very funny.”

“I thought we’d have an early dinner and take the boat into town for a drink.”

When he put aside the vegetables and pulled out a pair of black gloves from a drawer, she asked, “A drink? Sure, but I don’t really drink.”

“That’s good because tonight is the only night you’ll be allowed to. I wouldn’t recommend you drinking too much though, given your nerves.”

He put on the gloves and she swallowed, trying to stay focused. She’d never seen black gloves before other than in the movies just before the heroine died. But those were leather and these were… What the heck were they? Latex? She was straining to confirm this as fact when he snapped the second one on and she deflated. Yep, latex.

“I’m finished with dinner prep. I have one item to see to and then I’ll start the fish.” He withdrew a small paper bag out of another drawer. “While I’m doing this I want you to go to your en suite bath and paint your finger and toenails with the polish I’ve picked out for you.”

He held out the bag, but as fixated on the gloves as she was, it took her a few seconds to react. The moment she accepted the bag he went on.

“You’ll find everything you need. Polish remover, cotton balls and a nice matte cherry-chocolate paint.”

She was going ask him if he was serious. He looked intent enough as he turned his attention to rummaging through another bag on the counter. Why he would want her to change the color she just had done two days ago at the salon was baffling. There wasn’t a chip or a smudge anywhere. “I just had a mani and pedi done.”

“Yes, but I don’t like frosted polish on you. The effect is noncommittal.” He swung around. “What you’re wearing looks as if it’s a prelude.”

“Prelude?” She curled her fingers over her palms and examined the shade of misty pink passion shining with bits of glitter. Prelude? She shook her head.

“That non-statement color looks like something I’d prime my walls with before I did the real color.”

Her mouth dropped open and she didn’t know what to say to that.

“I was careful to pick a shade that will highlight your beautiful skin.”

Snapping her jaw shut, she peeked in the bag and spying the purple-black in the bottle, she frowned. “I’ve never worn anything darker than coral and only then because it was the color the bride chose for us bridesmaids. Are you sure this won’t look Frankenstein-ish on me?”

It was his turn to shake his head. “Do you have a monster fetish I should know about? First the mummy reference and now this?”

She should really hate the fact that he remembered everything because when she was nervous, as she usually was around him, she said a lot of silly things. But she didn’t. Instead it made her feel important. As if what she had to say mattered. Silly or not. She loved that. Instead of answering him she changed the subject. “Is that ginger root?”

“Yes.”

“Are you using that tonight?” She’d never had raw ginger with anything but sushi. As he examined the craggy root that looked like a small fist, she got a funny chill. Maybe it was the way he was handling it, or it could have been those gloves. Either way, she still squirmed. When he dropped it into a plastic baggie, sealed it up tight and put it in the vegetable crisper without cutting any off she figured it wasn’t ready to be used. “Not ripe enough?”

“It will be by Thursday.”

There was that look. The one that burned her from inside out and back again. Latching on to the distraction of him taking off gloves she blurted, “Do you always handle ginger with gloves on?”

He stacked the pair and put them back in the drawer. “It’s a habit. You really only need the protection when you take the skin off it. It’s nasty stuff if you get the juice on your hands and don’t ask if it gets in your eyes. Have you handled raw ginger before?”

“No. I’ve had shaved ginger with my sushi, but otherwise I use powered for recipes.”

“If you like, I can show you another way to prepare it on Thursday.”

It was hard not to agree. He made it sound as if the process was a privilege not many got the chance to share. “Sure. I’m always up for trying something different.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds, neither speaking, but the silence was comfortable. Easy. Much like the whole afternoon. He was strange, there was no doubt about that. She’d accused him of being mysterious and nailed that about him without even realizing it. But there was something else too. When they’d had lunch and played chess there’d been a sense of calm. A no-stress zone around him that wore off on her and in a good way. Actually if she were going to describe the feeling in one of her blog’s posts? She’d say she felt as if she’d been on vacation.

“Colin, be a good girl and go do your nails. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

With those words her insides were back to being jelly. Before she made a complete ass of herself and said something stupid or worse, did what she wanted to do and went to him for a hug, she slid off the stool and nodded. When his eyes twinkled over that sexy grin of his, her knees wobbled and it took every ounce of strength she had not to fall on her face.

“Colin?” She stopped but didn’t turn around. “Take off those panties before you return to me. I didn’t give you permission to replace the ones from this morning.”

Now she spun around. “How did you know?”

“I’m not a big fan of panty lines. They ruin my view.”

Her hand instantly went to her backside as she brushed over the slight ridges her undergarment created.

“In the future, sweetheart, when I take something from you, you’re not allowed to replace it or have it back until I say so. Is that clear?”

It sure was and so was the concept of a woman needing to be a pillar of strength to be able to submit to a man. Because right now? She was using all her strength not to tell him to go to hell. That wouldn’t go over well, she was thinking. So, she pressed her lips together, bit the side of her cheek and nodded.

Two seconds later she quickened her pace as his chuckle echoed behind her down the hall…the bugger.

Chapter Eight

Ethan put the plate down in front of her and waited. Sure enough…

“What’s this?”

“Kale.”

She made such a disgusted face he had to work hard not to smile. This was a lesson, though, so there was no smiling allowed.

“I ain’t eating this.” She picked up one chip and examined it with an
eww
-yuck expression. “Besides, you overdid it. It’s hard.” She tapped it against her plate a couple of times. When the food shattered, he sighed.

“These are baked kale chips. They’re good for you.” Placing his hand over hers, the one that bashed the chip, he gently squeezed. “I only gave you a few. I want you to eat them. All of them.”

“All right.” This was drawn out dramatically and sensing the attached “but”, he waited for her to finish. “I might puke though.”

He stared down at the top of her head while she hunched over her plate and again wondered what it was about her that stroked him. So far he’d learned that she was a jittery, clumsy mess when she was nervous. A condition she was constantly in when around him. She had a penchant for porn. Her grammar and vocabulary took a nosedive when she was being obstinate and that fucking bun on her head was glued in the same location with no seeming variation and yet, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

Maybe he had a Professor Higgins complex.

“Puke, huh? If you do, we’ll clean it up and start all over again. And don’t bury them under your mashed potato. I’ll be checking.”

He was surprised when she laughed and even more so when she said, “That would be a waste of good potatoes. Mashed are my favorite.”

She wasn’t kidding. As she dug into her second helping it came to him. She was real. Genuine. With an outward confidence that belied her innate submissive qualities. Providing she didn’t think there was a chance of sexual interaction between them, she was relaxed and easy to read. This person sitting up at the counter and eating was a far cry from the wreck of a woman this morning. He’d have to think about this phenomenon.

Then somewhere between her telling him about her educational background and how she came to start up her business, he began to suspect she was possibly a rare breed among submissive women. An alpha submissive. If that were true, he was in for a wild ride because those types of women were not only freakishly smart, but strong and capable, which made dominating them a treasured experience.

Of course, watching her push the kale chips around her plate at the moment made that BDSM miracle a little hard to imagine.

“From now on, I’d advise you to eat the kale chips first. As in,” he took one off her plate and held it out for her, “get what you perceive to be the bad stuff off your plate so you don’t have to stress about it later on.”

She moved to take the chip and he smiled. Pulling her plate in front of him, he said, “Sorry. Another downside to leaving these to the last. I don’t trust you to eat them on your own, so you’ll take them from my hand.”

While he waited for her to do as he’d instructed, he thought about the night ahead. With her being nervous and alcohol available he hoped she exercised caution.

“This is silly.”

“I know. They’re only chips.” He gestured for her to lean in. Her catlike eyes were glassy and she licked her lips. If she raised her gaze from his hand and looked into his eyes he’d probably kiss her.

“Here goes nothing,” she muttered and rocked forward for a bite.

The velvet wetness of her mouth slid against the tips of his fingers and he had to steel himself. “Another.” His voice had gone husky, gruff, as she ate one chip after another from his fingers until all seven were gone. Looking down at the empty plate he was sorry now that he hadn’t piled her dish high with them. The way she committed to the task of consuming them was inspiring.

Wiping his hands on his napkin, he asked, “That wasn’t so bad was it?”

“No.” Those exquisite eyes blinked at him and he inwardly groaned. She was back to being the scared and uneasy wreck.

“I like your polish. You did a beautiful job with it.”

“What?”

“Your nails.” He took hold of her hand and brushed his thumb back and forth over the space above her knuckles. “I was right. This color does suit you. Let me see your toes.”

When she twisted on the stool to show him, he scowled. “What are those and why are you wearing them?”

“They’re slipper moccasins. One of my readers sent me them to me for my birthday last year. She crocheted them herself. Do you like them?”

“No.”

“You don’t?” She lifted a foot and turned her ankle right and then left, critically eyeing what he could only describe as a knotted disaster. “They didn’t use to have all that pilling, but I think they’re cute. That’s a cat face on the strap by the button.”

“Let see.” He didn’t wait for her to move, instead he scooped up her foot by the heel and brought it to his lap. “I thought I told you no shoes in my house.”

She was white-knuckling the side of the counter. Her elbow braced while she scowled at him. “These aren’t shoes. They’re slippers. Homemade ones.”

Judging by the dark clouds collecting in her stormy-blue eyes she was attached to the little treasures. Best not to tell her that they looked like dead mice strapped on her. “I can see that.” He unbuttoned the offending item and let it wilt over his thigh. “I don’t want anything between your naked skin and my floor. Not shoes, stockings, socks or even homemade slippers. There’s no negotiating on this.”

Her eyes bugged out of her head as she mouthed the word okay.

Shifting, he adjusted her foot on his thigh and motioned to her. “Give me your other foot.” When she did he unbuttoned that slipper and examined her toes. “Look at these perfect feet. I love the polish. It’s much nicer, isn’t it?” He continued rubbing his hands on each of her arches and looked right at her.

“Yes.”

The clouds were gone, replaced by a brilliant, blue sparkle that shined brighter than her polish. “Do you always dress so formally when you’re at home?”

She’d been wearing the navy-blue skirt suit with that blouse since she’d arrived this morning. She hadn’t even taken off her short blazer.

“I’m not at home.”

When he heard that comment he gently pushed her feet off his lap and helped her readjust on her stool. “You are. For the balance of the ten days I want you to think of the boathouse as your home. As a place where you belong…with me.”

“Why can I drink tonight?”

He finished tossing the knitted monstrosities onto the floor as he thought about her question, taking a moment before forming his answer. “I want us to have a normal night tonight. A date, if you will. Don’t you drink when you go on a regular date? If you don’t, don’t, but remember. You’re nervous. Alcohol and nerves are a bad combination.”

Colin didn’t know what to make of his comment about a normal night. Normal? Regular? As opposed to what? “I don’t really drink much when I go on dates.” But then it wasn’t as if she went on many dates.