Page 18 of Ruthless Savior
“And how did you get the bruises?” Ronan’s voice is tight, and I realize he’s angry about the bruises.Why?
“I went to see him the day before Thanksgiving. Because of the loan. He had one of his men hold me, and another punched me in the face.” My voice quivers. I remember going home after, having to lie to my mother about slipping and falling on ice.
Ronan pauses for a moment. “Let’s go back to the beginning of this. But first, you need to eat.” He nods to the chair he pulled out. “Sit. They’ll bring the first course out in a moment.”
The first course. What the fuck? What kind of luxury does this man live in, that he has multi-course meals for two people? I sit down, numbly, because my stomach is growling constantly now, and I realize that I’m actually so hungry I feel faint. Now that there’s the possibility of food, my body is rioting.
Ronan sits back down at the head of the table. I sit there stiffly as a staff member in a crisp uniform comes and pours wine for us both—red—and fills icy glasses of water. I lick my lips and reach for it as another staff member sets down a bowl of what looks like butternut squash soup in front of me, and a winter salad studded with dried cranberries and pears.
“Eat,” Ronan says, probably seeing me looking at the food like a scavenger about to fall on a carcass. “We’ll talk in a minute.”
I try to pace myself, but it’s difficult. The salad is exquisite, crunchy, and sweet and salty, with a blue cheese vinaigrette to complement the dried fruits. The soup is velvety and rich, and I finish another glass of water before I try the wine. It’s a little too dry for me, but I can tell it’s very expensive.
Ronan doesn’t say another word until the soup and salad have been swept away and a second course is brought out, this time baked mushrooms with an herbed cheese stuffed inside, wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with a balsamic glaze. I reach for my fork and knife tentatively, and he finally speaks.
“I understand this is difficult for you.”
I drop my cutlery back on the table.Difficult.Like this is a minor inconvenience instead of my entire life being turned upside down.
“Difficult,” I repeat the word slowly. “Why don’t you start by telling me what you want from me,Mr. O’Malley?”
He doesn’t flinch. “Why do I need to want something from you?”
“Because in my experience, men like you don’t save others out of the goodness of their hearts.”
There’s a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. “And what kind of man do you think I am, Leila?”
My name sounds good on his lips, in his accent. It shouldn’t, and I do my best to ignore it, to ignore how handsome he looks, sitting at the head of the table so casually.
“A man with money,” I say finally. “And power. Apparently, a man in the mafia.”
“Mm.” He nods. “People have talked, then.”
“I have ears.” I shrug. “Was it a secret?”
“No. Although I would have preferred to tell you myself.” He looks at me with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “What do you make of that, Leila?”
“That you saved me because you want something in return.”
He takes a slow breath in. “What I want right now is for you to tell me the truth. About what happened, about why you were there, about what Rocco De Luca was going to do with you. Then, we can talk about the future.”
His hazel eyes meet mine, calm and implacable, a man who is used to getting what he wants.
“Tell me what happened, Leila.”
5
LEILA
Itry to stall by taking a bite of one of the stuffed mushrooms. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever tasted, which makes me feel guilty for enjoying it. How can I sit here eating a meal that probably costs more than we spent on groceries in two weeks while my mother is at home sick, probably scared, and confused, and wondering if she's ever going to see me again?
But I can’t remember the last time I ate before the sandwich earlier, and my body doesn't care about my moral dilemmas. I finish off the mushrooms on my plate before I answer, and Ronan refills my water glass from a crystal pitcher.
"Tell me what happened," he says quietly. "From the beginning."
I balk at it. I don’t know why, exactly. He’s acting as if he wants to help me, but I feel myself digging in my heels, wanting to block him out. I don’t know him, and I think it’s understandable that the last week has made me incredibly wary of strangers, especially strange men. “I already told you?—”
“Leila.” His voice hardens slightly. "You're sitting in my house, wearing clothes I provided, eating food from my table. I pulled you out of a cage in a warehouse where a very dangerousman trafficked women. I think I've earned the right to know how you ended up there."
