Zulu, page 18
Inhaling sharply, from his touch, from the inquiry, I fought not to shiver as awareness raced up my arm and prickled across the back of my neck. I should’ve been expecting this. If I knew nothing else about this man, I knew he was ruthless in his pursuit of asking alarmingly personal questions.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Even though.”
He pulled into a small parking lot, glanced in his rearview mirror and tipped his chin. Then he cut the engine, but he didn’t let go of my hand.
The Lamborghini Vance was driving pulled past us as he revved the engine.
Stark hazel eyes focused on me as the beginning rays of the setting sun slanted across Zane’s face, making him look more austere and more handsome than any man I had ever seen. “Why?”
With one simple but impossibly weighted word, he dominantly demanded an answer. One I couldn’t give or begin to explain without defining a lifetime of living in everyone else’s shadow of agendas, but never being allowed to be free enough to even wish for freedom.
Having no response that I could safely give, I evaded. “Some questions are more complicated than a simple answer in a parked car, Mr. Silas.”
As if knowing he was asking more than I was willing to give, he pressed with an even more complicated, yet direct question. “You afraid of me, beautiful?”
Never more so than in that moment. “Yes.”
“Because?” he asked immediately, neither his emotionless tone nor locked expression holding even a hint of his thoughts.
Already having given him way too much, I turned the question back on him. “Do you ask all your dates if they are afraid of you?”
“I don’t date.”
Taken aback, it took me a second to formulate a response. “I find that hard to believe.”
Staring intently, he said nothing.
When the reason why hit me, a flush crested my cheeks before dropping all the way to my chest with a crushing blow.
Oh, God.
I’d been so naïve. Not only was I completely out of my depth with this man and so jealous I couldn’t breathe, I suddenly regretted a dinner that hadn’t even started.
“I see,” I said cautiously, somehow managing to keep my tone even before turning away and trying to focus on anything except what he actually did with women when he wasn’t dating them. Staring at the expensive cars in the small parking lot, I said what I should have before this night even started. “Perhaps this wasn’t a good—”
Abruptly grasping my chin, he turned me back toward him. “Idea?”
“Yes,” I admitted, but my traitorous body melted into his dominant hold, and my breathy, fearful voice betrayed my emotions.
“Agree.” The single affirmation, spoken with thick, masculine authority, hung between us for exactly one heartbeat before he followed it up with every ounce of dominance that made him the most intimidating and intoxicating man I had ever met. “But it’s happening.” Releasing his grasp on my chin, he reached across me and undid my seatbelt. “Wait.”
As he got out of the SUV, I inhaled deeply and fought for the composure my mother had taught me since before I knew the meaning of the word. But as a tall, muscular, stoic warrior rounded the front of the SUV while simultaneously scanning the parking lot as if he were looking out for my safety, it struck me.
This man had come to me.
Favor or not, the Solace an excuse or icebreaker, loyalty to his coworker—perhaps it didn’t matter.
He was here, and I no longer had to be solely defined by my lineage.
For one night, maybe I could just…let it all go.
Be the woman I wanted to be
Two foreign words whispered across my lips. “Be free.”
Zulu
She was right.
Dinner was a bad fucking idea.
Already so damn protective and territorial of her, I triple scanned the parking lot, wishing like hell I’d had a damn comm in so I could get real-time updates from November. My head tripping over the Kostas issue even though he was in Greece, still hung up on the Genoa thing, I was simultaneously trying to crack the incongruities of this woman while imagining every way I wanted to fuck her. But more than all that, the second I laid eyes on her, I knew I wouldn’t be able to go three weeks again without seeing her. No fucking way.
For the first time in my life, duty and honor weren’t coming first.
An exotic, submissive brunette with dangerous secrets was.
Opening her door, I held out my hand, but immediately noticed something different in her expression. “You good, sweetheart?”
As if she’d changed her mind about dinner being a bad fucking idea in the span of seconds, she took my hand and made eye contact as she gracefully got out of the Land Rover. “Fine, thank you, Mr. Silas.”
I didn’t let go of her. “Silas now, huh?”
“Seems fitting.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You teasing me, Kitten?”
A hint of a smile hit her full lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Goddamn, she was. My cock pulsed, and I fucking winked. “Keep that up, sweetheart. I like it.” Leaning down, giving it right back, I brought my mouth to her ear, but I didn’t kiss her or drag my teeth across the sensitive flesh. “I like it a whole damn lot.”
Dipping her head, she tried to hide it, but I saw her reaction to me as a shiver hit, and a blush spread across her cheeks. “Duly noted.”
“Good, Kitten.” Locking the vehicle, scanning the parking area again, I released her hand and moved my palm to the small of her back as I led her toward the restaurant. “I should’ve asked earlier.” Before I made the reservations. “Do you have any food allergies?”
“No. Do you?”
Unsure why she was throwing the question back on me, I glanced down at her before I opened the door to the restaurant. “I was asking so I can let the chef know.”
She nodded. “Thank you, I appreciate it, and I understand. I’m asking in case I need to let my chef know.”
I fucking smiled. Wide. “Are you inviting me to dinner on your boat?” I held the door for her.
“Perhaps one day. When you aren’t loaning my yacht out to your coworkers or when we both decide this is no longer a bad idea.” She walked into the restaurant.
Immediately on her six, I caught her protectively in my arm and curled my hand around her hip as I leaned down to her ear. “Touché, sweetheart, touché.” Standing back up, I switched to French and addressed the hostess, using one of the few phrases I knew.
Parisa waited until the hostess had seated us and walked away before she spoke again. “You speak French.”
“I know a few key words and phrases.” Setting the menu aside, I took the in. “You never told me why you learned Mandarin and Cantonese.”
Her gaze roamed over the menu like she could read it. Hell, maybe she could. Setting it down, she looked up at me. “My mother chose it. She thought it would be prudent for me to learn many languages when I was growing up.”
“Mandarin isn’t a popular choice.” I couldn’t get past there being a purpose for it.
Taking a sip of water, she averted her gaze. “One can only guess at what the reasonings were behind my mother’s choices.” Setting her glass down, the little hint of vixen she’d shown me in the parking lot came back out. “Do you know any key words and phrases in other languages?”
Dropping my voice, I threw down. “You aiming to converse with me in another language, Kitten?”
Like I was hoping it would, the blush came back. “I don’t believe I need to aim for anything, Mr. Silas. I think you’ve got that covered.”
Christ, I was in trouble with this woman. “Keep calling me Silas, Kitten. See what happens,” I warned with a wink, watching her face for any tells before I purposefully circled back to our previous conversation. Not wanting her to think too long or hard about the dominant warning I’d just given, I answered her question. “For the record, Spanish, Italian, and German.” I left out Dari and Pashto. I didn’t speak about my time on the Teams or boots on the ground in Afghanistan.
A waiter approached. “Bonsoir, monsieur. Bonsoir, madame.”
“Bonsoir,” I replied before glancing at her. “Shall I order for us?”
“That would be fine, thank you.”
I gave the waiter our order, then glanced back at her. “Wine? Scotch?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
I ordered her a glass of chardonnay, and the waiter left.
She studied me a moment. “I think you know more than a few words and phrases in French.”
I didn’t tell her Conlon had looked up the restaurant on the flight over, told me what to order and how to pronounce shit. “I promise, sweetheart, what you heard is the extent of it.”
The almost teasing, almost smile came back. “I think you downplay a lot of things, Mr. Silas.”
The waiter returned with her wine, then retreated.
She glanced from the glass to me. “You’re not having anything?”
“I’ll be in the air after dinner.” I nodded at the wine. “Drink.”
Lines formed between her eyes, and she dropped both her gaze and her voice. “I don’t make it a habit of drinking alone.”
Reaching across the table, I tipped her chin so I could see her eyes.
She hid it, but I still saw it. The same damn thing I saw when I’d told her I didn’t date.
Aiming with the only ammunition I had at the moment, I gave her the truth. “When you’re with me, you’re never alone.”
Her poised mask slid into place, but her voice stayed quiet. “And when I am not?”
Jesus, this woman had a way of cutting into me that was harder, deeper and faster than any bullet or IED.
I wanted to do more than reach across a table and give her words. I wanted to sink inside her and tell her she was fucking mine, but I knew damn well what would happen if I pulled that trigger now. Despite her little vixen side she was letting out in teasing quips, if I got her under me tonight, my dominance would scare the hell out of her faster than I could say Kitten.
Using the only play I had in a restaurant in the middle of Saint-Tropez, I made her a promise, one I’d never made to another woman. “I’m only a phone call away. Anytime, day or night.” Stroking her soft cheek, I reiterated the damn words I hoped like hell she would hear. “You are not alone, Parisa.”
Her dark-eyed gaze locked on me, she didn’t hesitate as she spoke with a level of resignation I understood. “I am precisely that.”
Using every ounce of control I’d learned in the military, my expression remained SEAL-locked as I fought the urge to pick this woman up, carry her back to the G650 and fly the fuck away with her. But taking her wouldn’t be doing her any favors. She was already running, and I’d spent my entire adult life on the move. What the fuck could I offer her that would be stable? Sex and an empty bed most nights of the week? All I had was the truth. “There’s a lifetime packed in that statement, Kitten, and whole damn lot I want to say, but none of it’s appropriate right now.”
“My apologies.” She looked away, and her fucking manners came out like they’d been drilled into her on repeat. “It was neither my intent nor want to solicit sympathy or platitudes. I have much, much more than most people. I was being ungrateful.”
No way in hell was I letting her travel down that path. “Gratitude has nothing to do with the reality of feelings. You either feel shit or you don’t. Being grateful isn’t an exclusivity clause. You get to feel however the hell you want, with or without gratitude.” I wasn’t going to cast judgment, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to shove her wealth down her throat. If anything, money seemed like it’d been nothing but a noose for this woman.
“I was right, Mr. Silas.” She met my gaze. “There is much more to you than meets the eye.”
The waiter appeared with our first course.
Parisa
The waiter dropped off our first course, and Zane went silent. Picking up his water, not touching his food, he stared at me as I reached for my fork, carefully keeping one hand on my lap.
I wasn’t exactly a nervous eater, but I was acutely aware of every lesson in etiquette my mother had instilled. What not to eat in public, what utensil to use, how much to eat, how little to eat, what amount to leave on your plate, how to chew, hold the napkin, dab it just right so as not to disturb your makeup. Sit up, sit straight, thighs together, ankles crossed, one hand in your lap, don’t make noise, don’t fidget, don’t lean on the table—it was endless, and I was aware of it all.
But I was more conscious of every single one of my breaths around this man.
As if he could hear my thoughts, he issued an order. “Eat, Kitten.”
I couldn’t. Not until the man took the first bite. But I knew I could neither say that nor explain years of habit to him. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m assessing.”
The next breath was a nervous one as I discreetly set my fork down. “Should I ask what or whom?”
“The latter. You.”
“Mm.” Even my nod was practiced—minimal and only once, as if I could possibly discern any of his thoughts as my nerves edged into a restlessness that was all at once thrilling and terrifying. Even though I had no intention of drinking from it, I grasped my wine glass with only three fingers as I’d been taught. “Should I allow you to ponder in silence or ask what exactly you are assessing?” I swirled the glass.
His gaze locked on mine, he picked up his fork, speared the single scallop first course that was artfully arranged on a bed of frisée with a trio of colorful sauces and ate it in one bite. Setting his fork down, shoving the plate aside, he palmed his water glass in his huge hand and rested his forearms on the edge of the now-empty table in front of him.
Nothing about him or his single bite was remotely steeped in etiquette. Yet every one of his movements was a masculine display of calculated control and dominance that made me wonder what he was like behind the controls of an airplane.
Shamelessly remembering his hands on my legs, I watched his throat move with a swallow as he took a sip of water, and heat flushed across my entire body. “How was the first course?”
Not answering my question, he instead lowered his voice to a dark, aggressive, dominant command. “Now you may eat, Kitten.”
Tingles exploded across every inch of my flesh in a riot of desire. Barely hiding my shock, I did not hesitate as I picked up my fork and knife. Cutting the scallop in half, avoiding the lettuce and making sure no sauce would drip onto my dress, I put the small half bite in my mouth.
Tracking my movements, exuding sexual dominance that was a thousand times more intense than any man I had ever encountered, he watched my mouth as I took the bite.
A rush of heat warmed my cheeks, and it was all I could do to chew and swallow without squirming in my seat.
“Wine,” he ordered in the same dominant tone.
I brought the glass to my lips and sipped the cool, crisp Chardonnay.
When I set the glass down, he spoke. “Do you know what I think?”
The flush grew to a level of wanton heat I was not prepared for in public. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
His gaze intensified, and his voice dropped even lower. “Do you need it to be, Parisa?”
As sure as if he’d laid his hands on me, his voice, his question, they struck me like a sharp, awakening slap, and suddenly I knew.
One mere sentence, more defining than the moment my father told me I was marrying Konstantinos, and Zane “Zulu” Silas had just altered the course of my life.
Except he hadn’t merely altered it.
He’d awakened my soul.
But the air in my lungs, the part of my mind unwilling to let go, it panicked at the sheer thought of the words pushing to escape my lips. The very notion of the thought was so deeply ironic with the twisted similarity of my entire upbringing, but there was one crucial exception. This wasn’t my father stripping me of my choices and this very moment.
This wasn’t someone else doing the taking.
It was me.
I would be robbing myself of my own desires if I did not speak the truth.
A truth I had been desperately, painfully hiding from. One I’d never dared allow to form until this very moment.
I needed a dominant, alpha, meticulously controlled man who would make me his world. My very soul craved it. But until I’d met this commanding Navy SEAL who treated me like glass while looking at me as if I were his last meal, I had not truly understood my own desires.
And God help me, I wanted to be his every meal.
I wanted to be on the receiving end of the storm that was swirling in his stark hazel gaze right now. I wanted to hear that dark, aggressive, commanding tone he’d only used on me twice. I wanted to be everything he desired.
But I didn’t know how to say the words or what would happen once I gave them voice.
I didn’t know how he would react.
I didn’t know anything.
I only knew, same as the envelope I’d found, there was no turning back.
My core was pulsing, my body was aching, and my soul was begging—tell him, Parisa.
Tell him.
My lips parted, and frightening certainty came without return passage. “I need it to be rhetorical.”
For two terrifying, horrifying beats of my heart, he said nothing as his intense gaze bored into mine.
Then he leaned forward.
One hand grasped my chin, the other snaked under the table and halfway up my skirt. Gripping the bare flesh of my thigh, his deep, demanding voice spread across my body like the blissfully hot Mediterranean sun. “You’re going to eat every course put in front of you, drink every ounce of that wine, and converse about whatever the hell you want, manners be damned. Then, like a gentleman, I’m going to take you back to your boat, but I’m not going to touch you or that ache between these luscious thighs.” Applying more pressure, his fingers dominantly dug into my soft flesh as if staking his claim. “Because this isn’t about one night of fucking. This is you and me now.” Holding my gaze, he let his words sink into my desperately parched soul. “Later, when you’re in bed thinking about my hands on you, you’re going to understand why I didn’t take this further tonight.”
