Page 67 of A Touch of Dark
“You don’t like pizza.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, a rare display of displeasure. “I’ve never tried it.”
I wait for another punchline that never comes. In fact, he looks far too uncomfortable to be lying. He’s tense: a mountain of man perched on a delicate wooden chair.
“Tell your slave to forget the silverware—”
“My men are family, not slaves,” he insists. Quietly. Calmly. Even so, the tone conveys an unmistakable warning to never utter that word again.
“Your man, then. Tell yourmanto forget the silverware. Then give me your hands.”
Now, it’s his turn to look wary.
“We could sit here all night,” I tell him, “or you can ask your questions before I get tired and go home. Now, I’m starving. Hands.”
He raises the object to his mouth and mutters something in Spanish. Then he stows it and slams his hands onto the table. Pushing the box of pizza aside, I reach for one and bite back a swallow. I’ll never get over how soft he feels. Perhaps our surroundings have something to do with it. His fingers are petal-soft.
With my free hand, I heft a slice of pizza onto his palm. “Now, bring it to your mouth,” I instruct, “and take a bite.”
His lips move, murmuring something I can’t understand. Spanish? One word stands out.Amen.A prayer?
I don’t have the chance to reconcile the pious nature to his criminal one. He grimaces. His fingers flex against the crust as though he’s unused to the texture and slow ooze of melted cheese. Unlike how he handles flowers, or maneuvering, or—admittedly—women’s bodies, I suspect pizza is something he’s never been subjected to before. He’s never seen it.
“It’s shaped like a triangle,” I explain. My fingers curl around his, helping him guide the slice to his mouth.
His brow furrows at the teasing swipe of sauce and dough against his lip.
“Take a bite,” I instruct.
He does, only to promptly set the slice onto the bare table while he chews. I sense that pizza will not be a returning item on the Villa menu. As he swallows, he fishes through his pocket for a handkerchief and dabs at his mouth.
“Heyworth Thorne used to have lunch from an expensive French café hand-delivered to him when he sat on the bench. I assume thatthis”—he nods toward the barely touched pizza—“was not a regular entree on your dining table growing up.”
I start to correct him only to realize that he’s right in a sense. Daddy had our cooks prepare family-style meals every night and a healthy breakfast in the morning. Pizza or cheap snacks were treats I typically sampled only at school occasions or birthday parties. Before I became a Thorne, however, stale crust eaten out of the box while surrounded by the smell of booze had been a daily occurrence.
“I ate it more often before I was adopted,” I admit.
He nods. “When you were eight.”
If he expects me to react to his knowledge of yet another intimate detail of my life, well… I don’t.
“Ask your questions, Mr. Villa,” I quip. “I’m getting tired.” I yawn loudly for dramatic effect, but he hunches forward, like a wolf readying to go in for the kill.
“Are you a virgin, Ms. Thorne?”
I nearly choke on my next bite and wind up coughing. Calmly, Damien offers me his handkerchief as I sputter, my eyes streaming.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Answer the question.”
“And if I am?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, betraying his impatience. “I would prefer a yes or no answer.”
“What made you ask that question anyway?”
His teeth audibly grind together. “You didn’t…feel like other women I’ve been with. I’d also like to give you the benefit of the doubt by assuming that you aren’t skilled enough in acting to have put on the performance that you did.”
