Page 37 of 10 Days to Ruin

“I wouldn’t want you to go through the trouble!” she says. “I mean, not that it’s notsogentlemanly of you. What woman doesn’t dream of a big, strong man to pull out chairs and order for her?” Her voice drips honey, but there’s an ocean of vinegar underneath it. “How would I manage those things all by my dainty, ladylike lonesome?”

The challenge in her tone makes my dick throb. Makes me want to bend her over this table and show her exactly what kind of man she’s dealing with.

But that would be… uncouth. And I am nothing if not a gentleman.

At least until the bedroom door closes.

“I lead an empire. I can handle ordering your dinner.”

“Oh, anempire,hm?” She leans in and grins, all teeth and no warmth. “Tell me all about it. Got any big emperor’s plans cooking? Parades? Grand balls? Maybe a big, round spaceship to destroy enemy planets?”

Something’s off. The fire I saw in her eyes at the gala—the defiance that made me want to break her—it’s here and there, present and gone, dancing around faster than I can place it. And when it does disappear, it’s replaced by this sugar-sweet parody of fawning submission that sets my teeth on edge.

Was her stubbornness that night just an act? Or isthisthe act?

One thing’s for certain: by the time this night is over, I’ll strip away every mask she’s wearing until there’s nowhere for her to hide. I’ll find the real Ariel Ward underneath.

And then I’ll tame her properly.

People think romance is complicated, but it isn’t. It’s an equation, the simplest one of all: wine, dine, fuck. That three-step routine has won me way more hearts than I ever wanted, especially when all I was interested in was a night with the body that hosted them.

So why shouldn’t Ariel be the same?

Why shouldn’t she fall at my feet like every other woman before her?

Ten days is about nine and a half more than I need.

The waiter comes back with a heaping platter of caviar and sets it down in front of us. “Five portions of the osetra?—”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ariel tuts sadly. “This isn’t what I wanted! I meantthose.”This time, she points at a completely different dish on a completely different table. The three blind mice wouldn’t have missed by that far of a margin, but she shows no sign of confusion. Just that smile again.

I can’t decide whether I want to laugh or fuck it out of her.

“Er… Ma’am, I just want to be sure I’m…”

“Those are tarts, right?” She eyes the man. “That’s what I want! So sorry about the confusion!”

The server looks hopelessly at me. I shrug. If she wants to make a fool out of herself, I won’t stop her. It doesn’t change how this night will end: a moan in my ears, a ring on her finger, an army in my pocket.

In the meantime, I’ll sip my champagne and wait.

She picks her nails absent-mindedly as the waiter once again vanishes into the kitchen in search of her tarts. To his credit, he doesn’t take too long, though he brings backup this time. Another server to carry over two plates of hors d’oeuvres.

“Fig and goat cheese tarts,” the poor bastard explains. “Paired with a glass of our best Chateau Pétrus. 1920 vintage. An excellent year.”

The dish is a work of art: plump figs dripping with honey, goat cheese whipped into clouds, all of it paired with a Merlot that’s heaven on the palate. I wait for her to eat, if only because I want to see what ecstasy on her face looks like before I show her just how much more her body is capable of feeling.

But Ariel takes one delicate bite, then sets her fork down like it’s burned her.

“Not to your taste?” I ask.

I shouldn’t care what she thinks of the food. Shouldn’t notice the way her throat works as she swallows.

Her smile is sugary enough to rot teeth. “I’m not really a fan of goat cheese.”

Liar.There’s no fucking chance that a Greek princess doesn’t like goat cheese. Hell, she probably nursed on the shit from birth.

But fuck it. I won’t waste time with this petty bullshit. If she wants to play this game, I’ll let her. Let her pretend she isn’t ravenous for more than just food.

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