He hands me a glass and I glower at him. “No. But you’re going to talk anyway, aren’t you?”
“Not for long. What I said in the car, about the divorce being too painful for your mother to talk about—I wasn’t making excuses for her. I was trying to imagine what things are like for her. Being at the Lyle can’t be easy.”
I shoot him an are-you-kidding-me look.
He shuts the pizza box and puts the leftovers in the fridge. “Yes, I know it’s luxurious and it’s trying its hardest not to look like a rehab clinic, but it’s a rehab clinic all the same. She’s going through withdrawal. You must have seen her hands shaking.”
I swirl my straw in the lemonade and don’t answer.
“She’s trying, Adrienne. Being away from the world might be the only way she knows how to cope right now. It’s rotten for you, but I think at least your mother might deserve a few second chances right now. And third and fourth chances probably, too.”
“How can you be so nice about her? She was hardly nice to you.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “That’s because I have ungentlemanly intentions toward you. A mother always knows.”
Despite my irritation, I feel my mouth quirk. A few ungentlemanly intentions would be pretty welcome right about now. I lean forward and play with one of the buttons on his shirt, looking up at him from beneath my lashes. “Intentions such as...?”
He leans forward, resting his arms on the countertop. Dropping his voice he says, “Intentions such as...asking if you’ve had enough for dinner.” And he tweaks my nose.
Drat. I stack the dishes in the dishwasher and I get my insulin and do the blood test and injecting thing. When I’m finished I notice him watching me, his arms folded, and heat flashes through me. There’s a thoughtful look in his eyes and I know he’s thinking about more than vegetarian pizza. Slinking close to him I ask, in the sweetest voice I can muster, “Have I been good like you wanted me to be?”
He raises a hand and rubs his thumb over my lower lip. “You’ve been good, babygirl.”
I twist happily on my tiptoes and run a hand down my ponytail, dimpling at him. “Thought so,” I say. I wait for him to kiss me, but he doesn’t take it further, so I turn away.
But Dieter grabs my wrist and pulls me back. His eyes, which just a moment ago were mild, are black and dangerously narrowed. There’s a taut, menacing set to his shoulders as he looms over me. “And do you think,” he growls, “that means I’m pleased with you?”
His manner has changed so abruptly that I just stare at him, surprise rooting me to the spot.
“Do you think,” he says, drawing me inexorably closer to him, “that a day or two of behaving yourself is enough to make me forget about all the times you’ve sassed me?”
My lips part, but I can’t think of anything to say.
“Have you even said that you’re sorry?”
“I’m sorry,” I squeak.
He considers me, his expression ferocious. “The trouble is, I don’t think you really mean that.” He lets go of me and starts unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them back to his elbows.
I watch, my eyes growing wide. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Uh—”
“What do you think bad, disobedient girls get when they’ve been rude and bratty?”
Oh, god. Even though I sort of said that I wanted this I’m suddenly terrified by the implacable look in his eyes. I back away but he grabs hold of me again.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
This is the Dieter that I can’t predict. The Dieter that he’s been working hard to suppress because he doesn’t think it’s right to put me through what he’s clearly about to put me through.
“I, um...thought I should go to bed?” I ask hopefully. “You know, as punishment?”
“Oh, princess,” he says, raising his heavy brow in mock-disbelief. “Really?” And then quicksilver fast he hauls me over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and heads for the stairs.
&nbs