Page 43 of Ruthless Intent

His expression doesn’t change at my words. “And yet, here you are, surrounded by witnesses, having an intimate dinner with me. Not really the actions of someone who thinks I brutally murdered her brother, are they?”

I go cold. Is this the real reason he wanted to be out in public with me? I could have signed the contract anywhere, somewhere private, but here we are, surrounded by other diners.

I think back to the way he’d kept his hand against my back as we moved through the restaurant. I didn’t want to make a scene, so I said nothing. Yet to anyone watching, it would have looked friendly, caring, intimate.

“I’ll admit, my initial plan was a little more straightforward,” he continues. “As I knew you didn’t live here anymore, I was going to give the police my theories on your mother. I could have convinced them that you lied on the stand to protect her. But then I came across you in the cemetery, and … well, it was too good an opportunity to ignore, wasn’t it?”

“Too good an opportunity?” I whisper.

“I spent fourteen years being told what to do every hour of every day. Ruining your name is easy, but you’d still have control over your life. This way you get to experience what your words, your decision, did to me on a more physical level.” He leans across the table, stabs at a mushroom on my plate with a fork, then lifts it to tap against my lips. “Open your mouth.”

I shake my head.

With his free hand, he takes out his cell and places it on the table. His fingers move over the screen, navigating to his contacts list. There are only four numbers listed. I don’t get a chance to read them before he taps the bottom one. Even though it’s not on speaker, I can hear the sound of ringing. A male voice answers.

“Sheriff McFadden.”

“Wait!” I slap the screen, cutting the call.

How does he have the direct number for the sheriff? Why does he have it?

The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach intensifies. If he can speak directly to the sheriff, then that explains how confident he is in getting my mom arrested so fast.

He taps my lip again. “Eat the food.”

He feeds me half of the appetizer before putting down the fork. People keep glancing our way, and I’m sure they’re whispering to each other about what they’re seeing. My cheeks are burning, and it’s a relief when he finally signals for the server to take away the plates.

She returns a short while later with our mains. I eat in silence, praying with every mouthful that I don’t vomit it back up all over the table. Zain either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because once we’re done, he leans back on his seat, and looks at me.

“Would you like dessert?”

“Do you want me to have dessert?” There’s a slight bite to my tone, which makes one corner of his mouth lift.

“See? You can do as you’re told.”

“I hate you.”

“Not yet, you don’t.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ZAIN

We don’t bother with dessert. Ashley is looking a little green. I do consider ordering something just to see if she vomits all over the table, but the more sensible part knows that it won’t look good for what I have planned if she throws up in the restaurant.

“Ready to go?”

She can’t hide her relief when I pay for our meal and stand, and she’s on her feet before I finish speaking. I tuck the contract back in my pocket, and wait for her to move in front of me.

I hold a small debate with myself on whether I should reach for her hand, touch her back or just walk beside her. I’d guided her with my palm against her spine on the way in, and the warmth of her body through her clothes against my skin had felt odd. Physical touch isn’t something I’ve dealt with for years and everything, including hugging my mom, seems to feel extra sensitive right now.

If I want people to jump to the conclusion I want, then I need to play my part, so I rest my hand against her back and guide her out. She stiffens at my touch, but doesn’t try to move away.

People watch us as we walk through the restaurant, making no attempt to hide their curiosity. I have no doubt it’ll have already spread around the room who we are, and there’s not a person in here who won’t be wondering why we’re sharing a meal or what we’re talking about.

We walk to my car in silence. When I open the passenger door for her, she looks at me.

“What if I made a statement saying I was wrong? Will you reconsider doing this?”

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