Page 39 of Ruthless Intent

“Pappano’s. I’m told it’s the best Italian restaurant in town.”

“It’s the only Italian restaurant in town.”

“When I was sent to prison, there weren’t any Italian restaurants at all. So that’s progress, wouldn’t you say?”

His conversational tone should relax me. It doesn’t. It does the opposite. With every word he says, with every non-reaction he gives me, my anxiety ramps higher.

I look out of the window while he drives through town, but every so often my gaze strays to where his hands are on the wheel. He doesn’t try to fill the silence. He doesn’t look at me, that I notice anyway. And by the time we reach the restaurant, I’m wound up so tight, I wouldn’t be surprised if my head exploded during dinner.

I’m out of the car before he can open the door for me. When his hand touches the base of my spine, I almost jump out of my skin.

“Anyone would think you’re nervous about being seen with me.” Amusement threads through his voice. “Or scared, possibly.”

“I’m not scared.”

I’m terrified. His behavior isn’t making sense to me. Anger I’d understand. It would match his threat about my mom. But this calm man walking beside me scares me more than his threats have.

Maybe that’s his intention.

We’re greeted by one of the staff when we walk inside. Zain tells her he has a table booked for two, and she checks the screen on her tablet. Once she finds his name, she gives him a bright smile.

“Right this way, sir.”

I wonder if she recognizes his name. Does she know where he’s been? What he was accused of? If she does, nothing shows in her face or voice when she leads us to our table or sets the menus down.

“I’ll give you a couple of minutes. Would you like something to drink while you decide what to order?”

“A bottle of red wine, and a glass of water, please.” Zain doesn’t ask what I want, doesn’t even look at me.

“You got it!” She walks away.

“Are you going to pick what I can eat as well?” I can’t help saying.

“Do you need me to?”

“I didn’t need you to pick my drink.”

“Don’t you drink wine?”

I want to say no, but I do drink wine. “Yes.”

“And red is your favorite, right?”

“How do you know that?”

His eyes lift, and there’s a gleam in them that I don’t like. “I know everything about you, Ashley. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” He sets down the menu, and leans back on his seat. “How is Scott?”

My lips part, and I suck in a sharp breath. “How do you know about him?”

“That’s not the question you need to be asking.” He returns his attention to the menu.

“What does that mean?”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Answer my question!” I half-rise from my seat.

“Sit down, Ashley.” His voice is soft.

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