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All the simple but engaging conversation pieces I used on clients at The Villa to get them to talk dry up as I look up halfway through the silent meal to find his gaze locked on my wrist. Specifically, the courtesy-of-Miguel finger-marked bruise circling my left wrist.
His gaze moves from the bruise to my face.
His eyes are a thousand white-hot blades spiking into me.
I swallow wrong. My fingers fly toward my water glass.
He calmly sets his cutlery down, his meal abandoned.
I gulp more water. I chose water for the simple reason that I need a sharper than ever handle on my mental faculties. The consumption of alcohol was encouraged at The Villa during work hours, but I witnessed its ill effects on both clients and girls often enough to stay away from it.
But now I wonder if I should’ve asked for a glass of the Bordeaux Quinn poured for himself. The Bordeaux he’s sipping now as he watches me.
“Grievances. Let’s hear them.” The question is clearly not one he wants to discuss. His gaze keeps moving back to my wrist. Each time the look in his eyes tips the volatility scale further toward what I imagine insanity looks like.
I glance at the door, wondering if I’ll make it out in one piece. I haven’t had a drink, and yet I’m tipsy with the sheer volume of high-octane emotions racing through me. “I don’t have any. Honestly.”
His hand closes around his wine glass. He picks it up. Sets it back down. He lays his palms flat on the table. “Hmm. And what about your co-workers? Are they grievance-free too?”
I try to shrug. My shoulder refuses to cooperate. “I don’t know. I haven’t been here that long.”
“Perhaps a visit is required then, to stare into the whites of their eyes, as it were. Judge their contentment, or lack thereof, for myself.”
“Surely you have people to do that for you?”
“A team of them.”
I push a piece of beef around, before I spear it with my fork. “There you go. You can get them to put together an anonymous poll for you.”
He considers my response for a second. “There are things I don’t mind delegating. This isn’t one of them,” he breathes.
His gaze hooks into me again. Then my wrist.
God. He’s serious.
My mind flies through the possible outcomes of the CEO visiting the basement three days after I start working for him. None of them are good. Aside from the personal attention it’ll spotlight on me, there’s Sully. I’m not sure how he’s squaring away paying me in cash, but the last thing I want is scrutiny on him.
“Please. Can you not do that?”
His left forefinger taps on the table. I wonder if it’s a grounding mechanism of some sort. “You don’t want me to find out whether or not my employees are happy?”
“You can do that…without making a personal trip down there. When was the last time you went down there, anyway?”
“I’ve never had the privilege.”
“But suddenly you want to? I’ve been serving you for three days. There’s no way your visit won’t make them think I’m some sort of…snitch.”
“And the idea of being labeled as such distresses you?”
“Of course it does. Wouldn’t it, you?”
A single tic flicks past one cheek, a ghostly sliver of a smile. “Are you asking me for a favor, Elly? Are you asking me to care about your comfort?”
The question is weird. Quinn Blackwood is, hands down, the strangest person I’ve ever met. He’s also electrifyingly handsome and frightening enough to make me wonder how I’m still in one piece.
“I know I have no right to—”
“On the contrary, you have rights. Perhaps more than you know.” Again softly spoken words, as if he doesn’t want to spook me with whatever he’s suppressing.