Page 52 of Beautiful Liar

“Yours?”

“Then I believe that buys me a little sway in what goes on around here, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean, yes, if you want to play that card.”

“I don’t want to play that card. But I will. Unless you tell me why you won’t eat with me.” His voice is conversational, but there’s steel in there. Steel wrapped around six foot two of live electricity.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate. That’s all.”

Another step, and I can see the silver flares sparking the blues in his eyes.

“Look at the dining table, Elly, there are twelve places. Do you think I use all twelve places at once, all the time?”

“Of course not.”

One more step. I lose the ability to breathe.

“What do you imagine I use it for then, if not to play musical chairs when no one’s looking?”

My mouth twitches before amusement drops dead in his presence. “Business lunches.”

He lifts the last dish from the trolley and places it on the table. Then he picks up a spare plate, cutlery and strides to the opposite end of the dining table.

When he’s done laying it out, he pulls out a seat, just like he’s done the last two times I’ve been here. “So, let’s you and I have one.”

“A business lunch? Why?”

“To air any grievance you might have.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Either I’m doing something very right, or you’re lying. I believe it’s the latter.”

I’m lying about a lot of things, but I don’t like it pointed out. “You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Don’t I?” He whispers the two words in a way that sends a shiver over me. That deathly stillness that excited and frightened me the first time I laid eyes on him slides through the air, freezes us both in place.

We watch each other, his gaze never straying from its rigid focus on my face. Although his eyes…

God. There’s something in there, something deep and dark and mercilessly horrifying. But whereas before it felt like an all-encompassing outlook, this time it’s spotlighted on one thing.

Me.

“No.” I use the word, but even I doubt the veracity of it. With each second in his presence I feel his stare like a paring knife beneath my skin, opening me up from the inside out.

“Then give me a chance to,” he says. His large fingers glide slowly across the top of the dining chair. Then he grips the sides until his knuckles whiten. “Sit down, Elly.”

***

Something happens between the moment I sit in the chair and when he places my food in front of me. It’s almost like a switch has gone off inside him.

Conversation dries up and he’s no longer interested in pursuing the imagined grievance he wanted to discuss.

The seared Wagyu beef strips on a bed of Caesar salad is cooked to perfection, but I barely taste it as I struggle to chew and swallow each mouthful.

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