Her cold Heart

| 6 | Time to go

Izaya’s P.O.V

Elijah’s response to my agreement to stay longer is to kiss me hard and fast, his lips firm and warm. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

Heat rushes through me with that promise and he laces his fingers with mine. “Come on. Let’s order that food.” He turns and holds onto my hand, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll run for the door, and the truth is, it feels good to have someone hold onto me, to want me. The kind of feelings I can’t afford, not beyond tonight, but I can’t help but revel in them here, now, just a little longer.

He guides me to the sitting area and we settle on the couch, with no space between us. He keeps me close, our legs aligned, and when he opens a drawer on the coffee table and removes a menu, he sets it on our joined legs, skipping to a photo.

“I highly recommend the lasagna,” he says, pointing to what looks like two thousand calories of perfection, while I think its’s about double that or more.

“The chef trained in Italy,” he continues, “and he does Italy better than Italy and that’s hard to do.”

“You’ve been here often if you’ve evaluated the chef’s resume.”

He makes a frustrated sound. “Too often,” he says. “I’m ready to be out of here.”

He’s ready to be out of here. He’s ready to be home. Tonight is tonight. It’s what I want. It’s right for me and right for him but I still find myself wanting to ask: Where is home? Why is he here? Does he know my dad ?

His finger caressing my cheek brings my attention back to him. “But,” he adds, “an excellent chef makes the stay here more bearable.”

He flips the menu to another page. “The pizza is authentic Italian as well and excellent.”

“Lasagna really does sound perfect,” I say, and his “authentic Italian” comment inspires me to one day visit Italy and compare this meal to the ones I’ll enjoy there.

“All right then,” he says, sticking the menu back in the drawer. “Lasagna it is.”

He reaches over the arm of the couch, grabs the hotel phone from the end table and requests our order, the angle of his shoulder resting in a way that exposes a tattoo I can’t believe I haven’t noticed until now.

Oh my God. It’s a paw print that reads “Isa 2014.” This arrogant, powerful, impossibly good-looking and apparently successful man loved a wolf to the point of tattooing his body with his memory.

“Thirty minutes,” he says, settling back down next to me, and surprising me by kissing me. “Do you like wine?”

“Yes. Who was Isa?”

“My best friend. He died the year I went to college.”

“I love that you got a tattoo for him.”

“He was a good friend. The best. Let me grab the wine.” He stands and crosses to a doorway, disappearing inside, and returning as he pulls on a white T-shirt, while I enjoy every second of the stretch and tug of muscles.

“Do you have a wine preference?” he asks, hands settling on his hips.

“I have a wide palate for forty-dollar-a-bottle-and-under wines,” I say. “Anything is fine.”

He laughs. It’s a good laugh. Warm. Relaxed. Sincere. “All right then,” he says, crossing the room toward the built-in cabinet behind the chair where we’d played his game.

I’m trying to understand this man who is rich, powerful, and kinky, but also has a paw print to commemorate his love for his brother.

“Do you have any pets?” I ask.

“No,” he says, returning to join me with two wine glasses and a corked bottle of wine in hand. “Pets deserve time and love that I don’t have to give.”

The same reason I don’t have a dog, I think, well that and dad doesn’t like pets. He sits down next to me. “This is a blend,” he says, joining me. “It’s smooth and easy, but I have a pinot and a merlot if you’d prefer?”

“Like I said, I have broad—”

“Forty-dollar-a-bottle-or-under palate,” he supplies, giving a chuckle and pulling the cork. “There are wines to taste and wines to drink. The expensive ones tend to drink like hell.” He fills my glass. “Try it.” He hands it to me.

“Is it under forty dollars?”

“You tell me. Taste it.”

“Why do I feel like I’m being tested?”

“Because you are. Most people can’t tell expensive wine from inexpensive wine.”

“But you can?” I ask, accepting the glass.

“I’m pretty fluent in wine.”

“I’m not a good drinker,” I warn. “You should know that before I drink, and you have to wake me up to send me home. I fall asleep because I—” I catch myself before I start talking about my schedule. “I just fall asleep.”

“I’ll do my part to keep you awake,” he promises, giving me a wink that does funny things to my stomach. “Try the wine,” he encourages again.

Feeling oddly shy, when shy is not my thing, I cut my gaze, and sip the rich wine, its slightly sweet flavor exploding on my tongue. “It’s excellent,” I say. “I like it.”

“But is it under forty dollars?” he challenges.

“No,” I say. “And I only know that because you’re you and we’re here in this fancy room.”

“You don’t know me well enough to make that statement. When you do, I’ll ask you to sum me up again.”

“When I do?”

“If you do”he says, and before I can let the possibilities in the word “if” sink in, he’s moved on, “It’s fifty-five dollars. Close to forty.” He fills his glass and corks the bottle.

I glance at the bottle. “Is it really fifty-five dollars?”

“It is indeed,” he says sipping his wine. “I discovered it a few years ago and I’ve been a fan ever since.”

I sip again and set my glass down. “ I’d have called you a whiskey guy.”

“I like whiskey,” he says. “Scotch is my preferred drink, but wine is in my blood. My family owns a winery. Actually,” he corrects, cutting his gaze. “I own the damn winery.”

The bitterness in his tone is impossible to miss and tells me that he’s recently inherited and not just a winery. Problems. I know all about problems. “You recently inherited the winery,” I assume.

“It and more,” he says, and I get the impression the more might not be all good, a situation I can relate to far too well. “My father retired a few months ago,” he adds.

More and more, I see the ways we might be drawn to each other, and I wonder if the is a kind of kindred spirit one knows by merely bumping into a person on the street. “And your mother?” I ask cautiously, aware that this might be as delicate a subject with him as it is with me.

“Taking care of my dad, like usual,” he says, shifting the conversation to me. “and your parents ?”

I reach for my wine and sip, considering my answer. This isn’t what I signed up for. I didn’t want to talk about me, and yet, I want to talk about him. I want to know more about this man that I actually trusted to s***k me. “Quid pro quo,” he says, seeming to read my mind. “I’m naked. You’re naked, remember?”

All too well, I think, as he adds, “Give me something, bonnie. I don’t even know your last name.”

And he won’t. “My mother’s a housewife. She’s alive. My father I don't really talk to.” I hate it when things get to personal which is why I didn’t want to stay with him.

“I’m not going to ask,” he says softly.

I glance up at him. “What?”

His eyes are warm with understanding, blue flecked with brilliant amber. “I get it. some times its better to just leave certain subjects.″

We do understand each other, I decide then. It has to be why I was drawn to him. No matter how much he’s pushed for the conquest tonight, he’s not a relationship person. I’m different, as he called me, because I’m not either. Women want his money or his title as well, he’d said so, but I do not. I want my own, that I earn.

His cell phone rings and since his pants are on the floor near his feet, he grabs them, pulling out his phone. I think of all the nights I’ve worked at the restaurant, fearing a call that my brother was hurt, and even with him taking his place, as a my fathers Right hand, I dread a call. Even now, I dread my phone ringing instead of his. Elijah glances at his display and sets his cell on the table.

“Do you need to take your call?” I ask.

“It’s an asshole,” he says. “And I don’t answer to assholes.” The doorbell rings and he sets down his glass. “That will be dinner and not soon enough for me.”

He heads toward the door, his stride long and confident, everything about this man is power and grace, and yet, he doesn’t overwhelm me like someone else I once knew and knew too well. Cole doesn’t constantly seem to be pulling my strings, but then, as my sister once said: “everyone is on their best behavior while trying to be naked and well fucked.”

Elijah’s words come back to me. “Give me something, bonnie. I don’t even know your last name.”

My gaze catches on my skirt and the realisation that the awkward goodbye is coming hits me. I need to be dressed. I need to be ready. Actually, I need to leave before I do something stupid with this man. Like stay the night. Like give him my last name. 

Like get involved in what won’t hurt him, but could my life. I can’t risk becoming distracted by a man who has his career while I have a long way until I have mine. So I stand up and dart for my skirt.