Page 30 of Dangerous Passion

Chapter Seven

Drake heard the bathroom door open. Steam escaped from the bathroom, curling around Grace in silver tendrils as she stood in the open doorway.

Christ, she was beautiful.

And scared.

He stood, a male’s instinctive reaction in the presence of a beautiful woman.

Her entire body language spoke of distress. Eyes huge and fixed on him, not really knowing whether he was friend or foe, she was curled in on herself, seeking comfort from herself. She tucked her hands under her armpits to hide the fact that they were shaking. She was barefoot, one foot curled over the other. Her feet were extraordinarily pretty—pale, narrow and high-arched.

Drake walked up to her and untucked a hand from where it was clamped against her side. Slowly, watching her eyes carefully, he brought her trembling hand to his mouth.

Her eyes widened.

He smiled at her. “You’re looking a little better. I’m glad. I’ve had some food brought up. You’ve had a bad shock and some warm food would do you good.”

Drake released her hand and held himself utterly still. It was the only thing he could do. She must be feeling as if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole, only not into Wonderland but into Horrorland. He was lucky she wasn’t screaming at him, calling the police.

Drake knew it was absolutely essential that he gain her trust and then bind her to him in all ways. This long journey they were undertaking together had to begin now. The only way he knew to take that first step was to remain still, opening himself to her.

Drake had spent a lifetime scaring scary men. At first out of desperate self-defense and then later, when he grew in strength, prestige and wealth, as a tactic. He was good at it. He was strong, smart, rich. Utterly ruthless. Those qualities gave off an aura that usually was enough to tell any man confronting him to back off. The kind of man who didn’t perceive it was usually stupid, inevitably on the losing end, and often ended up dead.

Intimidation was second nature to him. He lived in a feral world. He knew how to stay on top by being more feral than most. None of his weapons, though, were any help here, with Grace. He didn’t want to intimidate her, he wanted—needed—to seduce her.

Step number one in seduction—make sure the woman doesn’t fear you.

So he stayed perfectly still, moving only his lungs, holding her hand carefully. Not too loose, not too tight. He was close enough to smell her, but not so close he was invading the buffer space every animal needs.

They stood there, Drake watching her calmly, utterly still. Slowly, her breathing evened out and she straightened. At some level, deeper than words, she realized she didn’t need to guard her vital organs, which is what she’d subconsciously been doing in holding herself so tightly.

His stillness reassured her. Someone who means you harm gives off minute signals, muscles bunching and readying themselves for attack. He deliberately relaxed every muscle, cleared his mind of all thoughts, and made himself open to her, something he never did with anyone.

It worked. The vein beating in her neck took on a slower rhythm, her hand relaxed in his.

“Come,” he said finally, tugging lightly. “Dinner is waiting for us. Let’s go before it gets cool.”

Grace stood for just a moment longer, watching his eyes. Whatever it was she was looking for, she found it. “Okay,” she said softly, and stepped forward.

Drake looked down at her feet and frowned. “You’re barefoot. I’m sorry I don’t have any slippers that would fit you. Maybe one of the maids has a pair of slippers.”

She smiled slightly. “Don’t worry about it. The floor is mainly rugs and I’m used to going barefoot in my house. I’m okay.”

He didn’t like the idea, though he had to admit that he enjoyed looking at her pretty, bare feet. But she might catch cold. He made a mental note to tell Shota to add several pairs of Ferragamo slippers to the list of things to buy her.

They walked down the big hallway together. He didn’t release her hand and she didn’t tug it free. Drake was so taken by her presence at his side, by the feel of her soft hand in his, that he was almost at the door of the dining room beforehe realized that it was the first time in memory that he’d walked hand in hand with a woman.

Such a strange and intimate connection, in some ways more intimate than fucking. You can fuck a woman you don’t particularly care for. Easy. But you don’t hold her hand. Holding hands signifies an intimate connection, one of trust and affection.

They weren’t there yet. But they would be. They had to be.

“Go on,” he said, holding the door open for her. She looked up at him and, reassured by what she saw on his face, walked into the room.

Shota had outdone himself. By his amazing radar, Shota had understood that this wasn’t a business dinner. He’d brought out Drake’s best china and what looked like all his silverware. Drake had no idea what the china plates were. When they’d arrived in Manhattan, he’d simply told Shota to buy the best, and he had. Gleaming, delicate white plates with a silver rim, crystal glasses, creamy white candles in silver candlesticks. The candles were lit. Together with a few low lamps, they were the only illumination in the huge room except for the enormous crackling fire.

The table looked appealing and intimate, not at all what it looked like when set for his solitary dinners. When he ate here, it was for fuel. This looked like a little ceremony.

It must have appealed to the artist in her, because as he watched her, a small smile curved her lips. “Very pretty,” she said softly.

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