CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROSALINDTRAILEDHER fingers over the spines of leather-bound books as she explored the second level of the library. After their rendezvous in the kitchen, Griffith had walked her back to her room. He’d left her with a searing kiss.
But he’d still left.
He’d spent the rest of the evening in his office and the night in his room, and she in hers. The way it should be, since they were indulging in a simple, short affair. But she was coming to realize, there was nothing simple about this. The more she got to know Griffith, the more her suspicions were confirmed that his selfish tendencies were not an inherent part of his character. Rather, they were a shield, even a weapon, against the pain of loss.
She hadn’t liked the man when she’d first started researching him. But she had respected the professional, the leader who had taken his family’s company and elevated it to new heights with strategic decisions and a firm hand. Through the news articles, the occasional interview and, of course, the tabloid stories, she had formed an image of Griffith Lykaois long before she had walked into the chateau.
An image that had been turned on its head when he had picked her up off the grass and swept her into the house with such infinite tenderness. The bits and pieces he’d revealed of himself since had only strengthened her belief that he was a man who, like so many others, had sought a way to alleviate a deep grief.
He had alluded to his so-called hedonism that first day in his office. Had given her a little more insight last night. And yes, she thought with a wry smile, there had been plenty of photographic evidence of his lengthy and varied dating history. But he had still managed his duties, still led, balancing profits with the well-being of his employees. That had been a source of confusion as she fought through his constant rebuffs.
Now that they had indulged themselves, perhaps they would be returning to their previous arrangement where they stayed out of each other’s way until she could return to civilization. A prospect that just only thirty-six hours ago, would have been a relief.
But now it just made her feel unsettled. Even a little sad that her time with her first lover would be so brief.
She pulled a book from the shelf. The soft whisper of leather on leather calmed her, as did the quiet crackling of the spine as she opened the book. The delicious scent of old paper drifted up. Her lips curved as she read the words of the familiar story about a man and a woman determined to keep each other at arm’s length despite the passion building between them.
She leaned against the shelf, her fingers tracing over the words. She had been so sure giving in to her desires would send her down the path to ruin. Yet even by the light of day, she couldn’t regret what had happened between them. It had been too pleasurable, wonderful.
It had also left her with a sense of languid relaxation that was carrying her through the morning. Instead of turning her attention immediately to business, she’d enjoyed a muffin on the back terrace, a cup of white tea as she’d strolled through the rose garden, and was now wandering through a massive library instead of reviewing wills, financial documents and lists of personal possessions for other clients.
It was fun, getting to know herself again. To see what activities she was drawn to when she had the rare luxury of a little free time.
A shrill ring cut the silence. Startled, she dropped the book. It took a second for her to realize that the ringing was coming from her pocket. She’d gotten used to the lack of cell reception, the fact that no one could reach her here. Her good mood dissipated when she pulled out her phone and saw who was calling.
“Yes, sir?”
Mr. Nettleton’s voice snapped through the line.
“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?”
“The reception is terrible here.”
“You’re still in France? Has he signed?”
“I’m here, but no—”
Before Rosalind could tell her boss about any on the discussions she’d had with Griffith, a squawk of indignation cut her off, followed by a burst of static.
“...no problem removing you from this firm.”
Her chest constricted as her fingers tightened around the phone.
“Excuse me?”
“I said I will remove you not only from this case, but from this firm if you don’t succeed.”
Her heart dropped to her feet. “What?”
“I thought removing the opportunity for promotion would be sufficient incentive to motivate you to get the job done. Obviously, I was wrong.”
Before Rosalind could respond, the call dropped.
Slowly, her hand came down. Blood thundered in her ears as the sunlight streaming through the massive windows turned from a comforting glow to glaring brightness. She sagged against the bookcase, blinking rapidly as she tried to process the bombshell Nettleton had just dropped on her.
Years of hard work. Of pursuing the dream her parents had for her. Of tucking her own hopes away as she’d foregone any type of social life to work harder, do more, be more.
All brought down to one contract the senior partner didn’t have the guts to tackle himself.
“Rosalind?”
His voice slid over her, deep and firm, unexpected kindness in his tone. He stood below her, hands in his pockets, his handsome, scarred face tilted up as he watched her.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. Are you all right?”
“I—” She started to tell him, wanted to confide in him. Had always imagined being able to share her life, from the positives to the challenges, with a lover.
But she couldn’t. Not when Griffith had explicitly laid out the terms of their arrangement. Even if their relationship was based in affection, how could she put the weight of her career on his shoulders? Whether she liked his decision or not, it was his choice.
“Yes.” She forced a smile. “Just an uncomfortable conversation with my boss.”
“About the contract?”
She slid the book back onto the shelf, debated how to reply. “About business.” She walked down the spiral staircase. “I’ll be okay.”
She started to walk by him. His hand shot out, closed around her wrist.
“Walk with me.”
She shook her head as she tried to pull her hand back. “No, thank you. I’ve wasted a lot of my morning and I—”
“Wasted how?”
He tugged her closer. Her hands came up, rested on his chest, his heartbeat a steady pulse against her palms. She stiffened and started to pull back. But when he slid a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his, she found herself holding his gaze. Taking comfort from his presence, despite the intensity of their eye contact. It was as though Griffith was trying to see right through her, into her soul. It was unnerving and exhilarating all at once.
“I’ve been reading instead of working.”
“How dare you?”
His dry comment startled a laugh from her and eased the tension from her shoulders.
“Let’s go on a walk. Get out of the house. Clear your head.”
“I have work—”
“Do you ever give yourself one day, Rosalind? One day to enjoy yourself.”
He took her hand in his, held it with a tenderness she hadn’t anticipated, tugged her toward the door.
I should say no.
And instead she followed him out into the great hall where they’d officially met for the first time. As he led her toward the front doors, she stopped in front of the painting.
“Where did you find this? It’s very well done.”
He stared at the painting, his eyes moving over the ridges and edges created by the artist’s knife.
“I was at a museum in early spring.” He spoke quietly. “An oil painting exhibition. The museum does an up-and-coming artist feature, a booklet where they put together paintings by local artists. I saw this painting and knew it. Knew the style. It had belonged to a painter my mother hosted from Brazil. I dismissed him as an amateur. Even before her death, I had started to gravitate toward wealth. Reputation. Selfishness.” His eyes centered once more on the lone figure on the beach. “Buying it seemed like righting two wrongs. Honoring my mother and all the work she did for artists like him. And a way of atoning for how I dismissed him. I had it shipped from Kent when I decided to spend some time here.”
Rosalind entwined her fingers with his. He wouldn’t listen if she pointed out that the simple act spoke volumes about the man he was becoming.
But she saw it. Saw and knew there was far more to Griffith than he let himself see.
Maybe one day...
“It’s a beautiful painting.”
He glanced down at her. The kiss he brushed across her forehead was unexpected and tender. It stirred something inside her chest, a yearning for more moments like this. Not just the wild, passionate desire they’d indulged in, but times when they just enjoyed each other’s company, drew strength from one another as they faced their demons.
Dangerous.
The word echoed in her mind once more. But this time, as she followed him out into the sunlight, she felt like the danger Griffith presented was no longer as simple as a threat to her career.
Now he was a threat to her heart.
They walked down the stairs into the bright French sunshine. When he’d notified Beatrice he’d be staying at the chateau, she’d immediately hired over a dozen people from her village to trim the grass, tidy the gardens and clean the house from top to bottom. It hadn’t been an insurmountable task. Belen had hired Beatrice to keep the house and grounds maintained when Elizabeth had passed, as if she might suddenly reappear and walk back through the gates. At the time, Griffith had thought it unhealthy at best, a downright obsession at worst. But when he’d driven up twenty-four hours later, he’d been grateful for the cleanliness, the care and attention that had created a peaceful haven. His only thought had been to have nothing to do besides prepare for his return to Lykaois Shipping and savor the silence.
But now, as he and Rosalind walked down the drive, surrounded by velvety green grass, manicured bushes and lush flowerbeds, he was glad she saw the chateau at its finest. As they walked, the tightness eased from her jaw and her usual sunny demeanor returned.
He’d heard enough of the conversation to guess what had happened. And it was his fault. His fault for not being able to sign a damned piece of paper. Before Rosalind had arrived, he’d seen that contract as the last thing standing between him and finally having to accept that his father was truly gone.
He hadn’t realized it was affecting more than just him. Not just affecting, he corrected, potentially ruining her career.
Resignation dragged down his own mood. He would have to have another conversation with Rosalind. A proper conversation about what his options were. Before she left, one way or another, he would have to sign.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. With a slight smile playing about her lips and her bright eyes looking skyward, it gave him a chance to watch, to savor the sight of her happy and content.
When was the last time he had felt happy and content? Had he ever?
He heard her sigh when they walked past the entrance to the lane of oaks, suppressed one of his own when they saw nothing but the felled tree blocking the bridge.
One more day. Just one more day.
Their walk took them through the empty fence posts that his mother had one day envisioned as the beginning of a vineyard, through an apple orchard with trees already laden with growing fruit.
They ended up back on the cliff tops, staring out together over the ocean. He glanced down, noticed a smooth, round rock the color of snow.
“Here.”
She smiled as if he’d given her all the jewels in the world. “It’s beautiful. Limestone?”
“Yes. Same as the cliffs. Although I don’t normally find one so smooth.”
She slipped it into her pocket as she stared out over the sea. “It’s odd to think that on the other side of this ocean is where I grew up.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes.” She sighed. “Living in London, though, is a dream come true. My mother loved my father, loved being a mom. But she told me that she wished she would have traveled more, especially in college. Seen more of the world before settling down.”
He heard the wistfulness in her voice, sensed the want coursing beneath the surface.
“That’s something you wanted, too.”
“Yes. It’s why when my parents encouraged me to go to college somewhere else and pursue an internship abroad, I didn’t question it too much.”
“Why not travel more?”
“I should. I just never have the time.” She breathed out. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve put myself into this box. A really tiny box that grows tighter every year. Like I’m giving up on some things I shouldn’t.”
“Why keep doing it, then?”
“Partly because of ego. When people learn I work for that Nettleton Thompson, or when I hear my father bragging about me or think about how excited my mother was...” Her voice trailed off. “It’s hard to let go of having a parent be proud of you. I worry about disappointing them.”
An image of his father flashed in his mind, that last look of defeat on his face moments before the crash. The more he thought about that last look, about how different things could have been if he would have let his walls down, just once, the deeper his regret grew.
“I understand that.”
She started, looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Don’t be. Just because I pushed my father away doesn’t mean I didn’t want his approval.” He followed the path of a seagull as it arched up into the sky, then dove down out of sight beyond the cliffs. “I just told myself I didn’t want it.”
“I tell myself the same thing sometimes.” She leaned her head against his shoulder in a natural gesture that touched him. “I like looking at the bright side of life. But sometimes I think I focus so much on finding the good in a bad situation that I don’t realize it’s just a bad situation. One I need to get out of.”
They stood there, watching the white-capped waves rise and fall in the distance, each ruminating on their own circumstances.
“Life isn’t perfect.” She sighed. “I forget that sometimes. Try to paint everything as perfect, to find the good so much I don’t accept that sometimes things will be hard.”
So had he. He’d been so used to living a charmed life that the loss of his mother had devastated him. He hadn’t known how to cope. Distraction had become his therapy, indulgence the balm to his pain. No matter that it had to be constantly reapplied, with increasing frequency and excess. It had been better than falling back into the black void he’d lived in for weeks after his mother’s death. A nothingness that had pulled him deeper until he’d wondered if he would ever surface.
They returned to the chateau. She thanked him for the walk and started to go upstairs. Even with just a few steps separating them, he felt her loss. It wasn’t simple desire but something deeper, something that made him want to spend time with the woman he was coming to know. He’d never wanted someone this way before. It unnerved him. But unlike the affairs he’d conducted before, his feelings for Rosalind felt...healthier. Stronger. Something more than just satisfying a sexual urge.
Something he wanted to explore, to savor in the precious little time they had left.
“Are you hungry?”
She paused, one hand on the railing. “Yeah, actually. I didn’t even realize I was until you said something.”
“Let me surprise you.”
She smiled even as she tilted her head to the side. “Surprise me? With what?”
“That would ruin the definition of a surprise.”
She laughed. “I suppose it would.”
“I’ll meet you on the patio in ten minutes.”
“All right. I’ll just grab—”
He took the stairs two at a time, gently but firmly reached for her hand and stopped her.
“No work, Rosalind.”
“But—”
“If you were caught up on absolutely everything and had ten minutes to yourself, what would you do?”
Her lips quirked. “Well, after yesterday...”
“Besides that,” he said even as his body went hard. “I’m not opposed to a repeat performance. But food first.”
She ducked her head almost shyly. “I would read.”
“Then grab a book from the library and a glass of wine from the kitchen and go read on the patio while I prepare lunch.”
“Wine?” she laughed. “At lunch?”
“You’re in France. A glass of wine at mealtimes, savored with good company, is acceptable.”
She reached up, smooth a lock of hair back from his forehead. Her fingers brushed the top of one of his scars. He didn’t flinch.
“Thank you.”
He made quick work of making, heating and packing food into a wicker basket he’d seen tucked in a cabinet. He added a couple more things before walking out onto the patio where Rosalind reclined on a lounge with a book and a glass of rosé.
“What’s this?” she asked with a huge smile as she sat up.
He held up the basket and, for the first time in months, he returned her smile with a genuine one of his own. “We’re going on a picnic.”
They traipsed back out onto the grassy plain at a safe distance from the cliff’s edge. He laid out the red blanket he’d filched from one of the guest bedrooms before setting out the food and the bottle with the remaining rosé. They dug into the salad, enjoying the contrasting flavors of sharp feta with sweet watermelon and cherry tomatoes. The creamy polenta and seasoned shrimp brought about exclamations of pleasure from Rosalind. Watching her enjoy her meal, how she lingered over a bite, drew out a sip of wine, made him think of the countless meals he’d had at five-star restaurants around the world. He couldn’t remember one he had enjoyed more than this picnic by the sea.
“That was incredible.”
Rosalind lay back onto the blanket, sliding her hands beneath her head as she watched the sky.
“What dishes do you enjoy back home?”
“Lobster is a big one in Maine. Clams. Anything to do with seafood.”
“Would you go back home if you didn’t work for Nettleton Thompson?” The thought made his chest tighten.
She hesitated, then finally said, “I don’t think so. It was my home at one time. But even though I followed someone else’s dream to get here, I really do love London.”
“What would you do, then?”
She was silent for a long time. “I’ve thought about opening my own firm.”
“Why don’t you?”
She sat up and picked up her glass of wine, swirled the blush-colored liquid inside.
“I worked so hard to get into the international internship program. So many people coveted the spot I got. And when I was offered a full-time position, only a fool would have turned it down. I’ve learned a lot from them.”
“But it’s not what you love.”
She slowly shook her head. “No. I got interested in estate planning when my mom helped out our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Carr. Her son and his wife had passed away in a car accident, leaving her with full custody of three grandchildren. She was grieving, terrified that she didn’t have enough to take care of them, especially because she wondered about how much time she had left.
“Mom and I were over at her house helping her clean an attic room when an estate lawyer came to visit. Local man, nice enough when I saw him around town. He sat down with her and answered all these questions, helped her make a plan and then a plan for the plan.” Her lips curved. “By the time he left Mrs. Carr was...peaceful. It was still a horrible situation, but she was able to move forward.” She looked at him then, with her hair gilded by sunlight and the smile on her face content. “I realized I wanted to do that. Help ordinary people find peace and enjoy the rest of their lives.”
Floored by the depth of her kindness, unsettled by the stark difference in how they fell into their respective career paths, he watched as she looked out over the gardens. Even though his parents had always stressed leading Lykaois Shipping was his choice, he’d slipped into his various roles with little more than his father’s recommendation. When it had been time to take over his current position, he hadn’t questioned if he would or would not get it. He’d done good work. Hard work. But he was also a Lykaois. He’d expected it.
He followed the direction of Rosalind’s gaze. More oaks had been planted around the perimeter of the garden, their leafy tops soaring above the garden walls. Once he’d recovered from most of his injuries and the pain had subsided to a manageable level, work had been a saving grace. A much healthier distraction than how he’d dealt with things before. Even though he’d taken an official sabbatical, he’d kept his eyes on the company from afar, reviewing the data and reports on a daily basis. He’d grown to appreciate the inner workings, the details he’d thought himself master of that, when applied to an international scale, were far more complex and intricate.
Details he was now responsible for. A duty he had not taken lightly. It was, he realized as he watched the treetops sway in the breeze, something good to come out of tragedy. Something he would give up in a heartbeat if it would bring his father back. The money, the prestige, the company, all of it.
But he couldn’t. What he could do, however, was continue on this path, one of responsibility and leadership. One he realized he deeply cared about.
His eyes drifted back to Rosalind. To the serenity on her face, the slight smile about her lips. He’d never been bothered to think past the surface, to see light in darkness. But the woman at his side had inspired him to do just that.
Something shifted in his heart. Something deep that he would have to deal with later.
Much later. Not now, not when he was enjoying himself too much to stop and think and dissect what was going on inside him.
“Your clients are fortunate to have you.”
“Some are even grateful.”
She laughed when he arched his brow at her. He reached into the basket and pulled out a small container of fudge. When Rosalind bit into a piece, her eyes drifted shut as she let out a moan that shot straight to his groin.
“This is incredible.” She looked at him, happiness radiating from her face. “I wish I lived like you did. Turning something simple into this incredibly decadent experience.”
Her words hit him. He’d always seen the way he’d lived his life as an escape, a way to keep himself isolated. It was why he’d punished himself with deprivation the past year.
But to hear Rosalind do what she did, find the good in something, unsettled him. Disturbed the way he’d thought about things for so long. Made him remember a time before his mother’s death when his parents had also indulged in the finer things in life, albeit in a much more moderate way. But they had instilled in him an appreciation for both the large and the small, the things they had earned and the things they benefited from because of their station in life.
When had he lost sight of that? Bastardized it for his own selfish needs?
“The way I’ve lived my life is not something to admire.”
“Not all of it, no.” She shrugged as she took another generous sip of wine. “Doesn’t take away the fact that there are good things. I read some of the interviews you gave two years ago. You know your company. The way you talked about operations and some of the things your departments were working on. Not just big projects, but smaller ones, too.” She smiled at him. “Unless it has a six-figure inheritance attached to it, Mr. Nettleton doesn’t bother to get involved with smaller clients. But you do. I like that about you.”
I like that about you.
His breath caught in his chest as her words slid through him, warming him with their simplicity and sweetness.
The possibility that he could be the kind of man she saw him as, the kind of man who could live a better life, was something he had never contemplated before and suddenly desperately wanted.
“Thank you, Rosalind.”
“You’re welcome, Griffith.”
Would he ever tire of hearing his name on her lips? The tenderness and heat in her voice as she spoke?
“The first time you called me Mr. Lykaois, I wanted to hear you say my name.”
A delightful crinkle appeared between her brows.
“When I called you?”
“The second time,” he amended with a slight smile. “In the lobby of the Diamond Club.”
She laughed. “When you watched me get thrown out?”
His smile evaporated. He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her cheekbone as he stared into her eyes.
“I did. It was wrong. It was selfish.”
“Selfish?”
“I needed you to leave.”
Her lashes swept down, then back up as she pinned him with her frank gaze.
“Why?”
“The first time I heard your voice,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss her forehead, “I didn’t think anything of it. I was too wrapped up in my pain, so angry at what you were trying to do, that I didn’t pay any attention.” He trailed his lips over her temple. “And then I heard you in Lazlo’s office. The feisty American who faced off against the guardian of the wealthiest people in the world.”
“Didn’t get me far.”
Her tone was tart, the underlying breathlessness making him smile in pure masculine satisfaction as he dipped his head.
“It caught my attention.” He kissed the curve of her ear, scraped his teeth over her lobe and savored the hiss of her breath escaping.
She pulled back suddenly, leaning away as she stared up at him.
“Did you feel it?”
“Feel what?”
“That day. In the Diamond Club. When I looked up at you, I felt...” She paused. A blush stole over her cheeks. “Never mind.” She turned away and set her wineglass down. “It’s silly.”
He hauled her back against him, buried a hand in her hair.
“Tell me.”
Blood rushed to his groin as she bit down on her lower lip.
“Like there was a...a connection.”
He swallowed hard. The unknown lay before him, shrouded in darkness and pulsing with potential. Potential pain, heartbreak, loss.
But then there was Rosalind. Here, now, alive and vibrant in his arms, looking up at him with desire and hesitancy. He’d put her through so much these past few weeks. And still she put herself out there, risked his rejection, with more bravery than he had mustered in over a decade. Admitting that she hadn’t been alone in what she’d been feeling that day. That it had shaken him to his core, that he had escaped the country because of it. Admitting that would be his own act of bravery.
“I felt it, too.”
Her eyes widened. Before she could say anything, he surrendered himself to his desire and took her mouth in a kiss.
Griffith slanted his lips across hers, swallowed her moan of pleasure. His hands moved over her, pressed against her back and urged her closer. Her fingers moved over his face, over his scars.
He tensed.
She grabbed his face in her hands. His own came up, covered hers, the intimacy of his palms on her fingers driving her wild.
He moved so quickly he startled a gasp from her as he eased her back onto the blanket.
“Griffith—”
He kissed her again, claimed her with deep, possessive strokes of his tongue. Her murmurs of delight, his answering moans of passion, fed her, slipped into her veins and heated her blood.
And then there was nothing but sensation, pure and unadulterated sensation as her head dropped back and he set his lips to her jaw. He kissed his way down to the hollow of her throat, laved the sensitive skin with his tongue as she moaned. His fingers undid the buttons on the bodice of her dress, pulled the material down and divested her of her bra with one quick move.
“Not fair.” She nodded at his shirt. “You’re overdressed.”
He grinned and stood, yanking his shirt, pants and briefs off, tossing the clothes somewhere onto the grass before he rejoined her on the blanket. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and stared at him in the sunlight. His well-defined muscles, from his toned arms to his chiseled abs, spoke to the physical discipline he held himself to.
And the scars that covered the left side of his body, trailing down over a muscular thigh all the way to his ankle, spoke to the trauma he had overcome, and survived.
Griffith, her heart cried out, do you not realize how incredible you are?
She stretched out a hand. He pressed her down onto the blanket as he kissed her again. His lips moved farther down, over the swells of her breasts and her taut nipples, sucking first one rosy peak and then another into his mouth. She cried out, arched against him as he drifted lower still, pulling the hem of her dress up and groaning when he realized she wore no underwear.
He placed his mouth where he had just a day ago. He coaxed her to new heights of pleasure with long, leisurely kisses that drugged her body and sent her spiraling toward pleasure.
She peaked, cried his name. Went limp.
Then came alive again as he moved up over her body. She felt his hardness probing her most intimate flesh. Instinct had her parting her thighs, running her hands up over his back as he pressed inside her. He moved, long strokes that built her up and made her soar. The warmth of the sun, the soft kiss of the wind on her bare skin, the sensualness of making love in broad daylight, all of it heightened the incredible pleasure of Griffith moving inside her, claiming her with every thrust. Sensation built, so bright it was almost painful as she reached her peak. She cried out his name, felt herself come apart as he groaned hers.
And knew as he cradled her close that she had lost her heart to the man who called himself a monster.