Page 63 of A Touch of Dark
Red. White. Yellow. Pink. Roses in every hue imaginable sprout around him, a morbid rainbow, clashing with the black of his suit and matching blindfold. Here, Damien sticks out more than ever: a glaring stain on this otherwise paradise.
“I hope this is suitable to your terms,” he says dryly.
“It’s not a sex club, at least.” I fight to keep awe from my tone. “I hope you don’t think that bringing me here will make me let my guard down. I’ve never been that sort of woman.”
The kind to fall for extravagant gestures such as a private dinner among a makeshift field of flowers. Then again, I’ve never been the sort of woman whom men made such gestures for on a regular basis.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
He has his head cocked, confused as he processes my words. Oh. I could kick myself. Obviously, he isn’t aware of how this venue might appear to someone. Which makes it doubly infuriating that he brought me here. Why?
Could the choice be entirely personal rather than meant to intimidate? Maybe. He wants to confront me on familiar ground.
“Did you plant all these yourself?” A tendril of appreciation makes it harder to seethe. I’m wandering the nearest row before I can stop myself, reaching out a finger to brush a soft bloom—a dangerous act in the world of Damien. “I hope this isn’t oleander?” I ask belatedly.
“Toxic shrubs are in the righthand alcove,” he replies. “And I require assistance, but I care for what I can.”
He sounds…hesitant. Each word is clipped. Defensive. The same way he sounds whenever I mention one of his paintings. He thinks I’m mocking him.
“It…it’s beautiful.” My body deflates with the admission and I keep wandering, brushing flowers as gently as I can. Just to make sure they’re real and not plastic.
He follows me, keeping a cautious distance.
“I’m assuming this is where my ‘toxic shrub’ came from?” The righthand alcove. I find an area slightly set apart from the main display. Those boxes are silver, which gives the plants they hold a mysterious air.
“No. I know a supplier whom I trust, but I would never discard one of my plants.” Judging from his tone, he could have substituted another word:I would never murder one of my plants.
Not for the first time, he displays obsessive protectiveness of his work. Even sending a thinly veiled threat to a target is seen by him as wasteful.
“And the roses?” I wonder. Unsurprisingly, his appear unmolested. I doubt my floor is good enough to be graced with Damien’s hand-grown creations.
“Also purchased.” He sounds closer.
Perhaps because I’ve stopped walking, riveted by a blossom unlike any I’ve ever seen. Ebony petals form a cup with a wash of light pink inside. I tentatively finger a petal; it’s so soft, one touch feels liable to tear it.
“A black orchid,” Damien explains. He must have the layout memorized, down to the location of each blossom. “Ironic, considering you don’t seem to be wearing that color tonight…” His nostrils flare. Maybe the bastard really can sense color by smell.
For the first time since leaving my suite, I look down at my dress and lament forsaking my chosen color. I went to the boutique earlier today—one I’ve frequented for years. When I requested something in “a more colorful shade,” the saleswoman looked as though I’d proposed ending world peace with a wave of my manicured hand. In a daze, she wandered into the back room and returned with this.
A blood-red number in the same shade as his massacred roses. The fabric feels too thin, a mixture of satin and lace. The neckline plunges a hairsbreadth too low, displaying nonexistent cleavage. All in all, it’s a garment so unlike my usual style that I wouldn’t recognize myself.
“Well?” I confidently appraise my opponent. No earpiece tonight—unless he hid it. No lackeys nearby to feed him all the right answers either.
Just me and him. A level playing field for once?
“What color am I now?” I extend my arms, offering myself up for his scrutiny. “Oh, Damien, all-knowing stalker of Juliana Thorne. Tell me how I look. Bonus points if you can describe it based onsmell.”
Mocking a blind person may be wrong in a different context, but I’m prepared to make an exception. Until he steps forward and inhales me deeply, without warning or permission.
“Oh, I can’t be sure, Ms. Thorne, what with mydisability…” He reaches for me, finding my shoulder. Two of his fingers tease the spaghetti strap of my dress and follow it down to the lacy neckline, heedless of the exposed flesh beneath.
He knows just how to unnerve me. Where to touch so I can’t claim indecency. As well as the exact moment to pull his hand away and bring it to his mouth.
I expect him to rub his chin thoughtfully. Not run his thumb directly over his lower lip as if tasting scarlet on my skin.
“Why, Juliana, I have to say, you smell divine inred.”
Bastard. “You cheated,” I snarl, turning away from him. “What, did you have me followed to the boutique?”
