really think women working as paid hostesses for your parties would give their real names? I imagine each of them has a life outside of being paid entertainment, even if it’s not nearly as seedy as some might perceive.”
I’m hoping the small slur will get him to give me a little leeway, a slight concession so that he doesn’t jump back to full-fledged anger. But his lips don’t even quirk, maintaining a hard-pressed look of bare restraint.
“Fair enough. But that didn’t answer my questions. What’s your name, and why has Mostest Hostesses never heard of you?”
I bite my lip, trying to think. The name is an easy enough answer, but the rest is more complicated.
Nathan suddenly slams his palm against the table, the crashing sound startling me as he stands to loom over me, barking, “Tell me!”
I shrink into myself, looking at my hands in my lap, the words quiet but tumbling from my lips. “Emma Daniels. My name’s Emma Daniels. I took Jessica’s place because she had car trouble.” It’s as close to the truth as I dare get, as much as I can safely give.
If I tell him the rest, I won’t leave here alive. I’m almost certain of it.
Nathan grasps my chin, lifting it to force my eyes to his. He searches my face, lingering on my eyes so long I think he can see into my soul before finally moving toward my lips. Involuntarily, I lick them, letting them part on a breath. He bends down, in my face and in my space, and I’m not sure if he’s going to kill me, yell at me, or . . .
He whispers my name, “Emma.” It’s more breath than sound, a pained hitch lancing through the syllables, and then he’s on me.
His lips press to mine powerfully, demanding and taking. He tastes spicy and bitter like the wine, his mouth hot as he holds my chin in place, leaving me no chance to escape.
Not that I want to.
I want this. Whatever this is, whatever magic he’s weaving, catching me in his web and holding me hostage. I want it all.
And he knows it as my back arches, pressing in my seat toward him, trying desperately to get closer. Just when I’m on the edge of my chair, he pulls back, leaving me wanting.
His smirk is full of cocky arrogance, his eyes alight with victory as he sits back in his chair.
He leans back, a king on his throne, and callously commands, “Tell me everything. The truth this time.”
And though his demeanor would typically have me shut down immediately, knowing that he’s continuing to play me like a damn fiddle, I find that I want to tell him.
Guilt runs through me at the lies I’ve told, leaving ice in its wake. And I know that the non-truths were necessary, and I’ve shared more honesty than not, but still, the foundation is a lie, leaving the bricks crumbling where we quickly built something more.
I realize something.
He knew. From the moment I walked in this house tonight, he knew I wasn’t Kitty Williamson, wasn’t a Mostest Hostess. And yet he told me all those things about himself.
Does that make him shrewd or open? Is it strategic manipulation, underhanded maneuvering, or was it real honesty in the hope that I would return the same once he showed his hand?
I don’t know so I’m not sure how to proceed. I hear Claire in my mind, telling me to lie, stick to the script, and get the fuck out of here. Whatever I have to say to get out alive.
But I can’t quiet the hope in my heart that says what I’m feeling for Nathan has to be real—crazy fast and scary on so many levels, including actual life and death—but potentially something big. The first small drops in a bucket that could be a torrential downpour if I’m willing to risk everything.
And I gave up sticking to the safe route years ago.
“My name is Emma Daniels. My favorite color really is yellow, and I do like Alicia Keys and muffins. That’s all the truth, and remember how I said I like Tomb Raider?”
He nods but is still frozen, not giving me an ounce of encouragement, but I can feel that he still expects me to divulge my every secret.
“I was a nerdy kid, spending my free time reading books about ancient civilizations, watching documentary-style stories about Greece and Rome. I liked Tomb Raider because Angelina Jolie was this badass brain, like I