Owning Violet
Page 29
The stupid car comes to a halt, jerking us both in our seats, and then the driver is climbing out, going around the front of it so he can open Violet’s door first. She thanks him profusely, which makes him act the fool, and he nearly slams the skirt of her dress in the door. Then he’s opening my door, all stern and expressionless, nodding at me when I start to stuff a twenty-dollar bill in the front pocket of his shirt.
“Stop ogling her like you want to lick her from head to toe or I’ll crush your nose in with my fist,” I tell him pleasantly, slapping his chest after I shove the twenty in his pocket. “Got that?”
“Sir, yes sir.” The driver practically snaps to attention and I send him one last menacing glare, taking hold of Violet’s arm as I guide her into the restaurant.
“What was that about?” she murmurs questioningly after I open the door for her.
“Don’t worry about it,” I reassure her with a quick shake of my head.
The restaurant is huge; it had once been a warehouse that was recently converted and they played up all the exposed pipe, beams, and brick walls as part of the theme. I’d come here often enough when it first opened that I became friendly with the manager, who explained to me the theme behind the restaurant, the menu, and the drinks at the bar. Casual but elegant comfort food, with a sort of old-fashioned speakeasy vibe—that’s what the owner had been going for.
I think he pretty much nailed it.
“Ooh, I love what they’ve done with this place,” Violet says as she takes it all in before turning to smile at me. “I’ve heard the food is excellent.”
“It is.” I lead her to the front podium and offer up my name to the woman who’s standing behind it. Her eyes light up with interest and she grabs some menus, then asks us to follow her. We do so, me placing my hand on the small of Violet’s back, pressing my fingers into her skin. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t tense up, doesn’t relax, but I can tell she’s hyperaware of my presence. She seems slightly on edge and I like it.
Hell, I revel in it.
The hostess leads us to the back of the restaurant, to a wall that has four thick wooden doors lining it, all of them closed. “Number three is your room for the evening,” she says as she leads us to the second door, resting her hand on the handle. “Please let me know if you need anything else. Your server should be right with you.”
She pushes open the door and we both walk inside, the hostess flashing a friendly smile at us before she pulls the door shut behind her. The space is cool and quiet, and the giant rustic wood table that sits in the center of the room could fit at least twenty people around it.
“We could have a conference here and your entire team would fit comfortably,” Violet marvels as she walks toward the table, resting her hands on the back of one of the chairs.
“Yes.” I approach, stopping just behind her, so close I can breathe in her deliciously addictive scent. “But I’d much rather be with you tonight. Alone.”
She says nothing, merely stares at me from over her shoulder, those velvety eyes drinking me in. I can’t tell if she likes what she sees or if she hates me. I can’t get a read on her and that drives me insane. I can read people. That ability alone has got me far, both when I was a punk kid and now in my career.
But Violet? I can’t get a solid read on her and I don’t get why.
Chapter Nine
Violet
Throughout dinner Ryder was a perfect gentleman. He made polite conversation, keeping any overtly sexual undertones out of it. Oh, he flirted. He flashed the occasional smile that made me a little dizzy. He plied me with plenty of wine, too, and I wondered if that was because he saw how I reacted at the party last night. Fueled by my anger, fueled by the alcohol, ready to do battle with Zachary.
I still can’t believe I behaved that way. If Father had seen me like that, he would have been mortified. Rose was still upset that she hadn’t been able to witness me raging at my jerk of an ex.
Typical.
I couldn’t help but think as the dinner went on and Ryder was so polite, so subtly charming, that he was like some sort of predatory animal lying in wait. Calculating his next move, soothing me, tricking me into believing all was well. And then he’d strike. Capture me completely and take me as his willing victim.
And I feel willing, as wrong as I know it is. I want him. It’s wrong, but I do.
“The inspiration file.” He pulls it from out of nowhere, though I knew he’d brought his briefcase in with him. I take the file, our fingertips brushing, the jolt his touch elicits every single time surging through me. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”
His tone is casual but beneath it I hear the edge, though I can’t quite decipher it. Is he nervous? Prepared for me to challenge his team’s choices? Afraid I might hate everything I see?
My fingers shake as I slowly open the file, my breath catching in my throat when I see the first image. It’s of a woman with long, dark hair, her head thrown back, her eyes not quite closed, deep red lips parted. Her hand rests at her neck, her arm between her bared breasts. The photo is sensual, not sleazy, but the woman definitely appears as if she’s in the throes of passion.
I flip it over, refusing to look at Ryder, to let him know that I’m already off center and I’ve only looked at one image.
The next photo is of a stack of French macarons, each one a distinct, vibrant color. The image, each delicate cookie, is beautiful in its simplicity.
“Stop ogling her like you want to lick her from head to toe or I’ll crush your nose in with my fist,” I tell him pleasantly, slapping his chest after I shove the twenty in his pocket. “Got that?”
“Sir, yes sir.” The driver practically snaps to attention and I send him one last menacing glare, taking hold of Violet’s arm as I guide her into the restaurant.
“What was that about?” she murmurs questioningly after I open the door for her.
“Don’t worry about it,” I reassure her with a quick shake of my head.
The restaurant is huge; it had once been a warehouse that was recently converted and they played up all the exposed pipe, beams, and brick walls as part of the theme. I’d come here often enough when it first opened that I became friendly with the manager, who explained to me the theme behind the restaurant, the menu, and the drinks at the bar. Casual but elegant comfort food, with a sort of old-fashioned speakeasy vibe—that’s what the owner had been going for.
I think he pretty much nailed it.
“Ooh, I love what they’ve done with this place,” Violet says as she takes it all in before turning to smile at me. “I’ve heard the food is excellent.”
“It is.” I lead her to the front podium and offer up my name to the woman who’s standing behind it. Her eyes light up with interest and she grabs some menus, then asks us to follow her. We do so, me placing my hand on the small of Violet’s back, pressing my fingers into her skin. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t tense up, doesn’t relax, but I can tell she’s hyperaware of my presence. She seems slightly on edge and I like it.
Hell, I revel in it.
The hostess leads us to the back of the restaurant, to a wall that has four thick wooden doors lining it, all of them closed. “Number three is your room for the evening,” she says as she leads us to the second door, resting her hand on the handle. “Please let me know if you need anything else. Your server should be right with you.”
She pushes open the door and we both walk inside, the hostess flashing a friendly smile at us before she pulls the door shut behind her. The space is cool and quiet, and the giant rustic wood table that sits in the center of the room could fit at least twenty people around it.
“We could have a conference here and your entire team would fit comfortably,” Violet marvels as she walks toward the table, resting her hands on the back of one of the chairs.
“Yes.” I approach, stopping just behind her, so close I can breathe in her deliciously addictive scent. “But I’d much rather be with you tonight. Alone.”
She says nothing, merely stares at me from over her shoulder, those velvety eyes drinking me in. I can’t tell if she likes what she sees or if she hates me. I can’t get a read on her and that drives me insane. I can read people. That ability alone has got me far, both when I was a punk kid and now in my career.
But Violet? I can’t get a solid read on her and I don’t get why.
Chapter Nine
Violet
Throughout dinner Ryder was a perfect gentleman. He made polite conversation, keeping any overtly sexual undertones out of it. Oh, he flirted. He flashed the occasional smile that made me a little dizzy. He plied me with plenty of wine, too, and I wondered if that was because he saw how I reacted at the party last night. Fueled by my anger, fueled by the alcohol, ready to do battle with Zachary.
I still can’t believe I behaved that way. If Father had seen me like that, he would have been mortified. Rose was still upset that she hadn’t been able to witness me raging at my jerk of an ex.
Typical.
I couldn’t help but think as the dinner went on and Ryder was so polite, so subtly charming, that he was like some sort of predatory animal lying in wait. Calculating his next move, soothing me, tricking me into believing all was well. And then he’d strike. Capture me completely and take me as his willing victim.
And I feel willing, as wrong as I know it is. I want him. It’s wrong, but I do.
“The inspiration file.” He pulls it from out of nowhere, though I knew he’d brought his briefcase in with him. I take the file, our fingertips brushing, the jolt his touch elicits every single time surging through me. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”
His tone is casual but beneath it I hear the edge, though I can’t quite decipher it. Is he nervous? Prepared for me to challenge his team’s choices? Afraid I might hate everything I see?
My fingers shake as I slowly open the file, my breath catching in my throat when I see the first image. It’s of a woman with long, dark hair, her head thrown back, her eyes not quite closed, deep red lips parted. Her hand rests at her neck, her arm between her bared breasts. The photo is sensual, not sleazy, but the woman definitely appears as if she’s in the throes of passion.
I flip it over, refusing to look at Ryder, to let him know that I’m already off center and I’ve only looked at one image.
The next photo is of a stack of French macarons, each one a distinct, vibrant color. The image, each delicate cookie, is beautiful in its simplicity.
