my knee and leans in closer to me, and my heart seems to stop, because the closer his eyes get to me, the more arresting they are. They hold me in place until I can’t breathe, can’t move. “You should let me surprise you every now and then.”
He gives my leg a light squeeze and then backs off, taking the drinks from the bartender and handing me one. “Here’s to this part of the night. No more talking. Only dancing.”
I bite down on the straw to keep from laughing. “Excuse me. It sounded like you said dancing.”
“You don’t think I can dance?”
“It’s not that I don’t think you can, it’s that I can’t.”
He sucks back on his drink thoughtfully, and I have to tear my gaze away from his lips before he catches on. “When was the last time you went dancing?”
I try to think. Eventually I admit, “Never.”
His brows go up. “Never?”
“My school wasn’t a party school,” I tell him. Actually, it was an online school that I did out of my own shitty apartment in the Bronx. It was all I could afford. But he doesn’t have to know that.
“You didn’t go out with friends? You’re young, Gabrielle.”
I glare at him. “Not every young person cares about friends and partying. You don’t have any friends.”
He blinks and moves his head back in surprise. “Were you trying to make that a low blow?”
“Was it? Does anything hurt you?”
The bartender clears his throat, and we both look at him in unison. He quickly starts wiping down the counter, pretending to mind his own business.
I suppose it does look like we’re a bickering couple who might just have a throw down in his bar.
I give Pascal a sheepish, quasi-apologetic smile and suck down the rest of my drink.
“I can’t tell if alcohol is making you more relaxed or more angry,” Pascal muses after a moment.
“You have that effect on me,” I say under my breath.
“We’ll see.” He turns to the bartender and says something in Spanish. Before I know it, I not only have another sangria, but there’s a shot in front of me.
“What is this?”
“It’s either going to make you like me more or make you like me less.”
I pick it up and sniff it. It smells strong with a hint of sweetness. “That’s quite the gamble.”
“A risk I’m willing to take.”
Shots are never a good idea, but I’d just given Pascal the very accurate impression that I haven’t had a lot of fun in my life, and I’d like to show him otherwise.
Hell, I’d like to show myself otherwise.
I raise the glass and take back the shot in one go. It burns beautifully, and I immediately feel the warmth of it encompass me.
“You took that like a champ,” he says once he’s done his, wiping his mouth.
“Maybe I’m stronger than I look.”
“I might call you a little sprite, but I know you’re stronger than you look. You said you’re harmless until threatened, and I don’t take that mildly.” His eyes rake over me. “I don’t take any of you mildly. You’re a force to be reckoned with.”
I’m not sure if he’s saying that because he knows that kind of comment means something to me and I’ll eat it up like candy, but either way, I needed to hear it. And I needed to hear it from him.
Shit. Maybe the alcohol is making me like him more.
You’re going to sleep with him, aren’t you?
I try to bat that thought out of my head.
But it doesn’t surprise me.
And more than that, it doesn’t scare me.
It should. He’s Gautier’s son. Yes, he’s also my boss, but that part is so minor, since I only took the job for one thing. The fact that he’s Gautier’s son, that he’s nearly as wicked, that his vile blood runs through Pascal, that should terrify me beyond all hope.
And yet as more drinks come and the music gets louder and I start feeling looser, with my actions, with my feelings, the fear drifts away. I let myself look at him longer, not caring that I’m being blatant about it. He seems to enjoy it. He seems to enjoy all things that involve me.
What happens after you sleep with him? The voice comes back. What happens when you sleep with him and then you leave with your mother, never to return?
Better yet, what happens if I sleep with him and then kill his father?