Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ROMAN
A nger tightens the muscles at the back of my neck as I glare at Katherine’s retreating form. I have no idea what she said to Chloe, but I doubt it was anything good.
Keeping my anger leashed, I take another couple of questions from the crowd, then gesture to the emcee to wrap things up.
Moments later, I’m striding down the steps from the stage to a round of applause.
I barely notice it. I’m too focused on Chloe, who’s fidgeting with the stem of her wineglass as I approach. Her smile when she looks up at me is stilted but genuine.
“Let’s go.” I refuse to talk about Katherine in the middle of these people, and I’ve done what I came here to do.
With a farewell to the man next to her, she stands and follows me out of the room.
Once we’ve left the ballroom, I pull her into the nearest alcove. “What did Katherine want?” My tone is more abrupt than I mean for it to be, but I don’t bother to temper it.
Her eyes widen. “She just wanted to introduce herself.”
I scoff. “I know my ex-wife. She’s not the friendly type.”
Brow crinkling, she averts her gaze. Quickly, though, she steels herself and faces me again. “She wanted to tell me that you’re a workaholic and you put your company first. I told her I already know that.”
I study her, certain she isn’t telling me the full truth.
By the way she keeps her eyes fixed on mine as she raises her chin, it’s clear she won’t reveal anything else. She doesn’t look upset, so I’d like to think that Katherine wasn’t as catty as I expected her to be.
“Okay.” As the word leaves my mouth, her shoulders lower a fraction. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.” She checks her watch. “If we leave now, we should make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare.”
“Actually,” I say, drawing the word out. “I’ve made a last-minute appointment to meet up with a business acquaintance, so we’re going to stay one more night.”
Her lips part. “We are?”
“Yes, and I’ve already contacted your father to make sure he was okay with it. He said to let you know that Carol is taking good care of him.”
Chloe blinks rapidly, bewildered. “You called my dad ?”
“He’s listed on your contact form.”
With a shake of her head, she huffs out a little laugh.
Her response makes my mouth twitch. “What?”
“It’s just… you keep surprising me.”
“Just trying to even the score,” I tell her.
“Uh-huh.” Eyes sparkling, she cocks her head. “And what if I’m not okay with staying another night in the incredibly beautiful city of Nice?”
I rub my hand over my mouth to hide my amusement. “Actually, my acquaintance is in Paris, so we’ll stay the night there. But to make up for putting you out by extending our stay, I’ve arranged entry for you to visit the Louvre this evening.”
She sucks in a sharp breath. “What?”
“I won’t need your services during my meeting, so,” I shrug, feigning nonchalance, “why not? It would be a shame to visit Paris and not see it.”
Her throat bobs and a glossy sheen makes her eyes shimmer. “Thank you, Roman.”
The emotion in her voice ties unexpected knots in my chest. “No need to thank me. After all, I’m forcing you to stay another night.”
She shakes her head again, at a loss for words.
She’s still speechless as I steer her toward the exit. “Shall we then?”
We packed this morning and left our suitcases in the car, so once we’re buckled in, we head straight to the airport.
“Are you sure you don’t need me for your meeting?” Chloe asks as we board my jet.
“No. It’s informal.” And a last-minute decision. The man I’ve arranged to meet is an acquaintance from college who I’m catching up with over drinks. “It’s about an hour and a half to Paris. You should have another nap. Don’t want you falling asleep in front of the Mona Lisa.”
She gives me a beguiling smile. “Dad would never forgive me.”
After we take off, she retires to the bed at the back of the plane, and I dive into work. The flight to Paris is smooth and uneventful, the drone of the jet engines the perfect type of white noise to encourage productivity.
Chloe gets up not long before we land, and I insist she have a light meal. If she doesn’t eat now, she won’t have time before my meeting and her Louvre visit. Though we’ll be able to have a late dinner.
In Paris, a waiting car carries us to a premier hotel nestled in the heart of the city.
Chloe’s suite is once again next to mine. Clearly, I’m a masochist who enjoys torturing myself with the knowledge that my gorgeous assistant is only a wall away. That her bed is only a few feet from mine. But these suites have the best view of the Eiffel Tower, so I can tell myself my motives are utterly unselfish.
“Get changed into something more comfortable,” I tell her when we reach her door. “I’ll drop you off at the Louvre on the way to my meeting.”
Less than an hour later, we’re back in the car, maneuvering through early-evening Paris traffic. The Louvre looms in the distance, the former royal palace, with its imposing facade and iconic glass pyramid.
As we approach, Chloe admires it with a smile on her face. “I wish Dad could be here for this.”
The longing in her voice invades my chest. “Maybe you can come back with him sometime.”
“I’d like that. It’s always nice sharing these experiences with someone.” She turns to me. “I suppose you’ve been before.”
“A few times.” Lips pressed together, I survey the streets around us. “Will you be all right on your own?”
The smile she gives me is sincere. “I’ll be fine.”
Phone in hand, I double check that I’ve forwarded her entry confirmation to her. Since the King family is a patron, obtaining a ticket on short notice was easy enough. As she exits the car, I keep my focus fixed on her. She looks small and alone among the tourists that crowd the area around the glass pyramid.
The car pulls away before she’s out of sight. Halfway to my destination, I’m still replaying her words in my head. “It’s always nice sharing these experiences with someone.”
My plan to have drinks with Jameson is nothing but an excuse. I have no stake in this meeting. And frankly, I’m not overly fond of the man. Spending my evening watching Chloe smile as she takes in the artwork is far more appealing than drinking expensive alcohol while sitting across from someone who doesn’t have anything particularly interesting to say.
I send a message to Jameson letting him know something’s come up and I won’t be able to meet him after all, then direct my driver to turn around.
A short while later, I stride through the entrance of the Louvre, struck anew by the scale of the museum. I’ve been here several times, yet it’s no less a labyrinth of culture and history as it was the first time I visited. It’s less crowded in the evening, but still, finding Chloe might take a while.
It shouldn’t surprise me when I catch a glimmer of pale gold hair in the famous Salle des états, the room that houses the Louvre’s Venetian masterpieces. She’s standing in front of The Wedding Feast at Cana by Paolo Veronese, her head angled, body practically swaying toward it as if being drawn closer.
This is a side of Chloe I would never have known if Jasmine hadn’t pointed it out. It’s intoxicating, the sight of her, and it kills me to realize that a woman who only met her in passing found out more about her in an hour than I have in the three months she’s worked for me. Because I didn’t think to ask. Because I didn’t want to know.
Didn’t want to let myself care.
Except, somehow, I do anyway. I want to know what she thinks and how she feels. What makes her laugh and what brings her to tears. I want to understand her passion, her struggles—every piece of her.
But I can’t have those things. And once we’re back in New York, I won’t have this either.
All I have is right now.
Quietly, I step up beside her. She’s so absorbed in the painting that she doesn’t notice me.
“I’ve heard these things are better experienced with someone else.”
Hand pressed to her chest, she whips toward me. “Roman!” She shakes her head. “What are you doing here? Was your meeting canceled?”
“Something like that.” Before she can probe further, I nod at the painting in front of us. “What do you think?”
Frowning, she studies me, but after a moment, she turns back to the painting, as if she’s accepted that I won’t give her more of an explanation. “It’s incredible. I can’t imagine having the skill to paint something this big and detailed.”
I take in the artwork. It’s the largest in the Louvre’s collection and depicts the biblical story of the Marriage at Cana, where Jesus turned water into wine. It’s an elaborate scene, with an intricate play of light and color that brings the lavish feast to life.
“The colors are still so vibrant.” Echoing my thoughts, Chloe gestures at the dark blue of the room’s wall. “I read that they chose the midnight blue because it contrasts with the specific palette the Venetian Masters tended to use.” She points at parts of the scene. “Reds, yellows, oranges, greens. The room itself contributes to the artwork. It’s incredible.”
Her smile is like sunshine, the warmth sinking into me and flaring hot behind my ribs. I have to curl my hands into fists in an effort to stop myself from touching her. To see how far and fast that heat would spread if I had her satin skin under my hands.
“I didn’t know you wanted to be an artist,” I say to distract myself.
She turns to me, brows drawn together. “Why would you?”
She’s right, I’m her boss, not her friend. Even so, it feels wrong that I didn’t. I want to know— need to know—more about her. “What happened?”
She cocks her head, forehead furrowed, as if my question is strange. “ Life happened.”
When did she give up on that dream? Was it when her father got sick? Or was it before that? Indulging in my curiosity isn’t helpful, not when every detail I discover only makes me want to know more, but it’s becoming a compulsion.
With a hand at her back, I turn her away from the painting, then usher her toward the other masterpieces housed in the huge room, stopping to take each one in.
She reads each plaque, sharing interesting tidbits of information with me. I already know many of the facts, but I listen attentively anyway. It’s hard not to, when her enthusiasm is so infectious.
As we move through the exhibit, I intersperse comments about what we’re looking at with questions about her. I discover that she never attended art school or took art classes in college. That most of what she knows about the theory of art she learned from the books she read as a child, and from her dad.
The sadness that clouds her expression when she talks about him slices through me. Her voice is steady as she shares how hard it’s been for her to witness the progression of her dad’s disease, how having his art stripped slowly but surely away was almost as painful for him as the inflammation in his joints.
When she once again mentions her hope that he’ll soon paint as well as he used to, a smile lights up her face.
And my damn chest lights up right along with it.
Which is a big fucking problem.
Because though I’ve tried so damn hard to deny it, what I’m feeling is more than just physical attraction. If that’s all it was, then I’d have no trouble maintaining control around her.
My attraction runs so much deeper. How can it not? She might look delicate, but she’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. And she pours that strength into taking care of the people she loves without hesitation or complaint.
Knowing how much younger than me she is should make a difference. It should be enough to keep me in check. But it’s not. Not anymore. That mix of strength and vulnerability, the warmth she possesses, the kind of maturity that goes way beyond her years—it’s impossible to see her as anything less than a woman in every sense of the word. And no matter how hard I fight it, I can’t stop wanting her.
But there are still lines I refuse to cross. Because no matter how much I admire her or how deeply I’m drawn to her, she’s still my beautiful, young employee. And that means she’s off limits.
Even if I can’t keep my eyes off her as I follow her around the room.
Before I know it, we’re standing in front of the glass case housing the world’s most famous piece of art.
For a long moment, Chloe studies the Mona Lisa . Eventually she gives a little shake of her head. “It’s funny how such a small thing can leave such a large mark on the world.”
“Mysteries and what ifs will always intrigue people,” I say. “It’s our curiosity that hooks us.”
Her lips curve up. “We all want to know what’s behind her smile.”
She may want to know, but for me, it’s much harder to force my attention away from the soft wistful smile on Chloe’s face than the enigmatic painted one.
“I never thought I’d see this in person,” she murmurs. “It’s almost like reaching back in time and feeling a connection to a person who lived centuries ago. History come to life.”
Her lashes flutter, and her eyes go glossy with an emotion that conjures an answering ache in my throat. When was the last time I was truly moved that way? When was the last time I appreciated an opportunity like this rather than dismiss it as a mere interruption to my goals?
I flash back to the conversation we had during her first week with the King Group when she told me that being rich isn’t everything. That it doesn’t guarantee happiness. Words I’ve heard so often that they slide off me without any impact. Usually because they’re said in voices brittle with envy.
For the first time the reality of those words strikes me hard enough to pierce.
Her happiness in this moment has nothing to do with the private jet we flew in on or the luxury suite I’m paying for. My money may have gotten her here, but it’s this moment of human connection that’s brought her true joy.
And it’s reflected in the smile that plays on her lips.
There’s a twisting sensation behind my ribs, and a wave of disorientation that has me clenching my eyes shut.
“Roman?” A soft touch on my arm centers me, loosening the screw in my chest.
Her face is lifted to mine, ridiculously pretty eyes watching me with concern.
Without thinking, I raise my hand and skim my knuckles along her jaw. “I’m fine, sweetheart.”
Her pupils dilate and her lush mouth parts in response, and once again, I’m dizzy, this time because of the force with which blood rushes to my dick.
Teeth gritted, I shove my hands into my pockets, determined to keep them away from her. “There’s a lot left to see. We should keep going.”
She blinks, then, with a visible swallow, she turns and moves on to the next painting.
As she goes, I drag my hand down my face. Stop touching her . More than ever, I need to remember who and what I am—and what this is.
Once I’ve reined my urges in, I catch up to her. At first, the atmosphere between us is thick, and she seems reluctant to meet my gaze, but eventually, she relaxes and once again reads aloud from the plaques and points out the details she loves about each piece.
And even if I stand a little closer to her than necessary, I manage to keep my hands away from her.
We spend the next few hours meandering through the museum, taking in the paintings and sculptures, the ancient artifacts in the antiquities section. It’s been years since I spent this long not thinking about work. I should be on edge. I should be checking my phone for messages and emails. But I’m too fucking enamored with watching Chloe to care. I’m too entranced by the way she blossoms in the atmosphere of the museum like a too-beautiful flower in the sunlight.
“Are you hungry?” I ask just before closing time.
She laughs. “I’ve just realized I’m starving.”
“I booked a table for a late dinner.”
Brows knit together, she frowns. “You must be tired. I can get room service if you want to get an early night.”
“I think I have enough energy to eat.”
“I forgot,” she says, with a mischievous smile. “You have stamina.”
There’s no stopping the slow smirk spreading across my face. I know it’s wrong, and I’ve been keeping myself in check for hours, but I can’t resist tilting my head closer to hers. “You have no idea how long I can last.”
She inhales sharply. But before I can regret my words, she turns so her lips almost brush my cheek. “I think I’ve witnessed firsthand how long you can last.”
A hot surge of lust floods my veins and I bite back a groan. It takes everything in me not to tell her that she hasn’t seen anything. That I could easily spend all night making her come over and over before I let my own satisfaction take me.
She bites her lip in an effort to hold back her smile, even though her eyes dance with it.
It hits me in the gut. My too-young, too-pretty assistant, whose smiles I’ve become obsessed with and whose touch I’ve been craving, is playing with me.
And I hate how much I fucking love it.
“You know what happens when you play with fire, don’t you?” I say, my voice low and rough.
If I thought my words would have her backpedaling, I was wrong.
Even as her cheeks flush, she cocks her head. “I imagine I’ll get very, very hot.”
We stand too close, the air between us crackling with enough desire to drown us both. With too much intimacy to pretend that all we are in this moment is a boss and an employee.
With sheer force of will, I step back. It hurts, the way her face falls, but I’m doing the right thing by both of us. There’s no way giving in to this attraction could lead to anything good.
“Come on.” The words come out gruff. “I can’t have my assistant wilting on her feet because I didn’t feed her.”
In response, her stomach grumbles loudly. She presses her hand against it while letting out a self-conscious laugh.
“Let’s go eat.” I do my best to smooth out my tone.
She exhales. “Okay, that would be lovely.”
I feel it the moment she steps back into her role, the distance opening between us more than just physical.
It’s what I need—what we both need—in order to keep our relationship professional.
There’s nothing professional about the way my hand automatically finds the small of her back as we make our way to the car, but I ignore the implication. It’s become a habit, and I’m not ready to break it just yet.
I’ll work on that once we’re back in New York, along with restoring the boundaries between us.
That’s what I tell myself. But twenty minutes later, when we pull up at our dinner venue, the one I chose just for her, the look on her face as she peers out the window lights me up inside.
Eyes wide, she turns to me. “Is this it?”