The moment we enter Paradox, Mr. Hale scans the room, much like he did yesterday. He probably runs into people he knows all the time. Except his high-alert posture seems too vigilant for expecting an acquaintance. It’s more like he expects a threat. Probably women tackling him to the floor.
We sit at a small table in the corner, with a half-finished chess game and squashy orange-velvet chairs. Only Aiden Hale could look the way he does against orange. The rest of us probably look like prison inmates. I glance at the chessboard to distract myself from his mouth, which he is currently caressing with his thumb.
“Do you play?” he asks.
“I used to. Not anymore though.” I rely on years of practice to conceal the sadness in my voice. Chess was something I did with my father.
“Why not?” I notice real interest in his eyes. No matter how disarming that interest is, I cannot indulge it.
“It’s a long story. What did you want to discuss, Mr. Hale?” I’m not in a rush with him, but I don’t want the giddiness I feel in his presence to fade at my memories.
“I have time,” he says, searching my face. I beg him with my eyes to drop it as I did during my presentation. He nods but his jaw flexes and his eyes harden. Ah yes, he doesn’t like my secrecy. We are interrupted by Paradox’s waitress, Megan, who ogles my Mr. Hale shamelessly for thirty seconds before snapping to her senses at the rather harsh clearing of his throat. After some blushing and stammering—much like yours truly—Megan comes back to earth.
“Hi! My name is Megan. What can I get you folks?”
Mr. Hale looks really annoyed. Whether it’s her ogling or stammering, or the fact that she addressed him as “folks”, I have no idea. Suddenly, it dawns on me that it must be quite exhausting to have women gawking all the time like he is an exotic beast at a zoo. I can’t fault him. But I can’t stop my own ogling either. I realize belatedly that he is waiting for me to order.
“A hot chocolate, please.”
Megan smiles. She knows my chocolate dependency and has enabled it gladly for the last four years.
“And for you, sir?”
“An espresso doppio and a Pellegrino, no ice, no lemon,” he reels off quickly. Megan almost breaks her sparkly pen, trying to write it all down. She stumbles away, tripping once. Tripping seems to be an environmental hazard of being around Mr. Hale.
“Something amusing?” he asks me. It must have shown on my face.
“I was just contemplating selling you some of my secret-formula skunk spray so you can repel all your admirers.”
He chuckles and the dimple puckers in his carved cheek. It’s such a simple gesture but the effect on me is out of proportion. Almost like an instant addiction, this idea of making him laugh.
“And what is the going rate for this defensive weapon?” he asks.
“One million dollars.”
“Of course it is.” He chuckles again. The throaty sound is so beautiful that oddly, it fills me with a sense of loss. I look away from his face, unwilling to examine my reaction too closely.
Megan brings out our order then. Her hands shake a little when she sets the espresso before Mr. Hale. She leaves, this time looking carefully at her steps. Good idea.
“So, what did you want to discuss, Mr. Hale?” I ask the question that is buzzing in my brain to prevent myself from tripping while sitting down.
His smile vanishes as he sips his espresso. He sets down his cup and looks at me with probing intensity. “Are you the woman in my paintings?”
Bollocks! The question settles in front of me like a coiled beast. Blood rushes to my feet and my stomach twists. My mouth parts to let in some air. I notice with horror that he has seen all my reactions, which must be confirmation enough. I have to get it together. No matter my flights of fancy, what Javier and I are doing is illegal. I’m a goner already, but Javier could get deported. I have to help him, even if it takes me down.
“Why would you think that?” I try to keep my voice as composed as possible but don’t do a great job of it.
“I’m a man of means, Miss Snow.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Bloody hell, does he know about Javier already?
“It means that if I want something, I will stop at nothing to get it. In this case, however, the conclusion was not hard to reach. I saw you at Feign’s gallery and the way the receptionist ordered you around indicated that you must work there. I obtained a copy of Feign’s personnel records and the only two women that have worked for him are blondes. You are the only one with dark hair and the woman in the painting of the neck has dark hair.” He finishes explaining his process calmly, like he is merely giving directions.
“But the model does not need to be an employee. She could be anyone.”
“Yes, she could be. But she is not. She is you.”
“If you have already reached this conclusion, why are you asking me about it?”
“To hear you confirm it, Miss Snow.”
“Why would my confirmation matter if you are convinced?”
“Because it will be a surrender, rather than a conquest.” His voice is softer and more hypnotic than ever, but his eyes are exponentially more probing.
“A surrender? Is that why you’re here?”
“It’s one of the reasons. And before you try your distraction technique again, let me make it clear that I don’t intend to divulge the other reason for my visit until you have satisfied me on this point.” He pauses. Then, his eyes burn with a new intensity.
“Admit it,” he whispers. I imagine this is how the snake must have sounded to Eve. But Eve did not have a family to protect. I do.
“It seems that despite your impressive deduction skills, you have overlooked one possibility, Mr. Hale.”
“Have I?” He cocks his head to the side, sounding sure that he has overlooked nothing.
“Yes. It’s possible that there are different women for each painting.”
“There is only one woman, Miss Snow. And we both know who she is. But if you need more convincing, I’ll be happy to show you.” His voice is husky and low. Yet, it echoes in my ears, even after he stops talking.
“Show me? How?” I’m nervous about the word show.
He leans across the small table into my space. I smell sandalwood, cinnamon and something I can’t name. My heart starts clawing against my rib cage. The few breaths I was managing stop. He extends one long index finger and hovers it very closely to my throat without touching it.
“Like this,” he whispers. “It’s your neckline. Your throat. Your collarbone.” His finger trails along the path he is describing but does not touch me. Nonetheless, the effect on me is visceral. My body coils and tenses like a warhorse coming to a sudden stop at the crumbling edge of a cliff.
“I have no doubt, Miss Snow, that if you take off this sweater and these jeans, I would see the same waistline, hip and leg as in my paintings.”
I can’t speak through the terror and thrill that are tearing me in half.
“I can describe them to you if you wish. You have three dark freckles, positioned exactly like an equilateral triangle right above your left hip. They are the only marks on your skin. I would be more than happy to prove my case. Would you like me to, or will you surrender?”
I try to locate some words, or even air, but I can’t. Something darker, scarier than my fear of getting caught assaults me. My shallow breath, the blood rushing in my ears, the flutter at the bottom of my belly and the involuntary flexing of my thighs explain it better than any words. Arousal. I have not felt it in four years. And without a single touch, he has revived it.
I revel in the feeling of my body coming alive. He interrupts my resurrection.
“Which will you choose, Miss Snow?” he prompts, and I have to remember the choices he gave me. Ah yes, prove it or surrender. Truth be told, I’d like him to prove it. Prove it with scientific precision. But I can’t admit that to him. I have only one option.