Modern Romance Collection July 2024 Books 1-4

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SUNLIGHTWOKEHIM. Rosalind’s warmth pressed against his side, one arm thrown across his chest and her curls spilling over his shoulder.

He breathed in her scent, allowed himself the luxury of running his fingers through her hair, gently gliding down her back. She murmured in her sleep and her arm tightened around him. The gesture struck him squarely in the heart.

He’d awoken next to lovers before of course. But never had he looked down at their sleeping faces and felt such contentment.

Rosalind’s lashes lay dark against her cheek. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing heavy and even. Satisfaction curled through him. Given how many times they had made love the day before, exploring each other’s bodies, indulging the desires they’d both fought for days, he was surprised that he had awoken refreshed and alert.

Especially after their final interlude on the balcony in his room as night had fallen. They’d spent the rest of the day lounging on the blanket, dozing beneath the sun and engaging in another round of lovemaking. By the time they’d returned, the sun had been setting.

As they’d eaten, she’d asked about the third floor of the chateau. He’d taken her up and given her a tour of the sectioned-off attic, along with his office and his private chamber. He’d shown her the incredible view from his balcony and left her there to go downstairs for another bottle of wine. He’d returned and gone hard at the sight of her naked as she leaned against the railing. The smile she’d shot him as he’d walked out had been daring with a touch of shyness. The intoxicating mix had pulled him in. Instead of leading her back inside, he’d slid his fingers into her curls and anchored her head as he’d plundered her mouth, drinking her moans like a man dying of thirst.

Then he’d turned her around, placed his hands on her hips, and slid inside her. He’d nearly come right then as she’d pushed back, taking him deeper and embracing the wildness of their lovemaking beneath the moon.

Just as he had embraced the connection between them, surrendered to the temptation to show his feelings of tenderness.

When she’d started to roll away, he’d reached out, grabbed her wrist and pulled her back against him. Wide-eyed, she’d stared at him as he’d cupped her face.

“Stay.”

He couldn’t think of a more beautiful sight than the sweet smile she’d given him before sinking back down against him as he’d pulled the sheet over their naked bodies.

Now she stirred again, murmured something in her sleep, and curled tighter against him. He smiled slightly as he leaned over to kiss her forehead before climbing out of bed. As he walked toward the bathroom, he glanced back over his shoulder. She had already moved to the middle of the bed, arms and legs splayed with her face buried into a pillow. His body stirred at the curve of her bare back, the slope of one naked thigh tangled in the sheets. With the glow of morning lighting the room and her soft snores, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this content. The last time everything had seemed perfect.

He froze.

She did look perfect. Here, in his room, in his bed. In all his years of sleeping with women, he had never brought one back to his bedroom. He’d made do with guest rooms, the sofa, even a hotel room. But his bedroom had been his private sanctuary.

Yet he’d brought Rosalind up last night without a second thought. Because he had wanted her to see the view from the balcony. Had wanted to worship her body in the space he felt most comfortable. Safe.

Had wanted more than just sex.

He took a quick shower, turning the water to arctic. The cold momentarily knocked some sense into him, long enough to get dressed and slip out instead of sliding back into bed with Rosalind and pulling her into his arms.

At first, he wandered down the drive aimlessly, eyes roaming over the estate. When his parents had first bought it, he’d enjoyed coming here, watching the house evolve under his mother’s dedicated care and his father’s bottomless bank account. It hadn’t been his style; even though he hadn’t fully descended into his hedonistic lifestyle, he’d preferred modern and contemporary.

And after his mother’s death...anything that reminded him of her had been too painful. Looking ahead, to the future, had kept him from delving too deeply into what had been.

Yet now, as seashells crunched softly underfoot, he felt a new appreciation for the chateau. That the estate had withstood the tests of time—war, human capriciousness and greed—touched him in a way it never had before.

Because of Rosalind.

He blinked and glanced back at the house. The suite he’d taken as his was on the back side of the house. He wouldn’t see Rosalind in one of the many windows, wouldn’t see the balcony where she’d arched against him and cried out his name as he’d shuddered and come apart inside her.

With her, he felt freer than he had in years. Even when he’d indulged his wants and vices to excess, when he’d wallowed in his precious possessions, there had been a chain about his neck. With each purchase, the satisfaction had been fleeting. If he waited too long to go out and seek the next best thing, the ache would start. Dull at first, but quickly growing until grief flirted at the edges of his mind and threatened to pull him under.

So he’d bought more, each purchase delaying the inevitable reckoning of his mother’s death.

After his father’s death, his desire for things had evaporated. The one thing he had desired above all else—to see his father again—was out of reach.

But now, when he asked himself what he wanted above all else, the answer was immediate and clear.

Rosalind.

As he neared the entrance to the lane of oaks, he scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d known her less than a week. Had spent the first two days avoiding her entirely. Their sexual chemistry was explosive, their conversations engaging. And she was an incredibly beautiful woman.

It’s more than that.

Impossible as it seemed, he had developed something that went far deeper than simple affection for Rosalind. A woman who challenged him, pushed him, yet also supported him in ways no other woman in his past had.

He cared about her. He cared very much.

You care for her too deeply.

He was in too deep. He’d overstepped a boundary of his own last night by bringing her to his room. Had told himself he could keep his emotions back, that sleeping with her would get this obsession out of his system.

Except it hadn’t. The longer he was stranded here, the more time he spent with her, the more he risked wanting what he couldn’t have. At some point, he would falter. Would make a mistake and drag her down. His track record when it came to managing and processing grief was abysmal at best.

He hadn’t tried to lift himself out of his misery for his own father. Why did he want to now? Because his connection with Rosalind went beyond sex, because he truly cared about Rosalind? Or was he tired of living in his self-imposed state of isolation?

Could he even answer that question? Did he want to? He’d spent a lifetime punishing himself, eschewing emotion and connection. He didn’t know how to sustain either. And he knew he couldn’t have Rosalind without those, it wouldn’t be fair to her. Wouldn’t be fair to a woman who craved both.

The sound of a saw cut into his thoughts. His head snapped up. Realization hit him hard in the chest before he rounded the corner and entered the shadow of the oak trees. At the end of the lane, a crew worked diligently to cut up the once mighty tree that had been felled by the storm.

Chateau du Bellerose would soon rejoin the outside world.

He didn’t know how long he watched. But as a path was finally made for a smaller truck to drive through, he started walking toward the bridge. Each step reverberated through him, pushed the thoughts and possibilities that he’d been considering back as reality set in.

Cocooned out here in their own slice of heaven, it had been easy to enjoy her, to indulge her, to allow vulnerabilities to show and secrets to be shared. To imagine himself the kind of man she dreamed about. The kind of man he wanted to be, both for her and for himself.

But that was here. Not London, not the everyday where the demands of life would tug and pull at them. How many people had he known who had jetted off to a romantic getaway, convinced they’d saved their relationship on the white sands of the Caribbean or the lush forests of Bali, only to return to reality and realize that there wasn’t really anything left to save?

We could give it a little time.

He could hear Rosalind’s voice in his head, picture her wide, hopeful eyes. A part of him wanted to do just that. Give whatever they’d started here some time and see if perhaps he was ready for something more.

The image in his head altered, changed to Rosalind with tears glistening on her cheeks. At some point, his selfishness would rear its head again. He’d revert back to his old ways when things got hard. That was just who he was. He couldn’t contemplate dragging out what they’d started here when he knew he couldn’t give her what she wanted.

He knew what he had to do. Knew what the right decision was.

Knowing that didn’t lessen the pain that clenched around his heart and twisted as he turned to walk back toward the chateau. But he would harden his heart to it, it’s what he always did. He was a master at it.

He had to say goodbye to Rosalind Sutton, once and for all.

Rosalind awoke to the soft creak of a door. She opened her eyes just in time to see Griffith closing the door.

“Good morning.”

She smiled at him as she brushed her curls out of her face. The sheet fell to her waist as she sat up and bared her breasts to his gaze. A touch of shyness still persisted. But the pleasant drowsiness that lingered in her limbs made her confident as she threw back the covers and walked to him.

“You’re up early.”

She went up on her toes and brushed a kiss across his lips. He didn’t reciprocate.

He grabbed her by her arms and held her away from him.

She blinked as she saw the reservation in his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“I have something for you.”

She smiled and let one hand drift down his chest. “If it’s what I’m thinking—”

He caught her wrist, stopped her exploration. “It’s not.”

Stung by his dismissal, she took a step back. Worry pooled in her stomach.

“Griffith, what’s wrong?”

He picked up an envelope from a nearby table. He’d clearly brought it into the room with him. Cold slithered up her spine as her fingers closed over the packet.

“I signed it this morning.”

“I thought...”

She stared down at the envelope, at his name written at the top and the date she’d received her assignment. Over a month and a half ago. How had she gone from despising the man in front of her to...

To what? Sleeping with him?

“I thought you weren’t ready.”

“I’ll never be ready. You helped me see that.”

Alarm bells still clanged. He wasn’t the same Griffith Lykaois she’d met when she’d first ended up stranded at the chateau. But the camaraderie they had developed over the past week, not to mention the intimacy they’d shared over the past couple of days, had disappeared.

“There’s a crew working on the bridge.”

He said it so casually it took a moment to penetrate. When it did, the relief and happiness she’d expected didn’t surface. No, it was disappointment.

“Oh.”

“Beatrice tried to come up this morning and saw the tree blocking the bridge. She sent a crew from the village to remove the tree.”

“And the bridge?”

“So far it looks all right. I was able to make a call. An inspector is arriving this afternoon and will confirm if it’s safe to drive on.” His expression remained placid. “But given that half a dozen men were on it this morning, it appears safe to walk across.”

She forced a smile. “That’s great.”

“I’ve arranged for you to fly back to London on my private jet. There’s an airfield near here—”

“Wait.” Her head spun. She held up a hand. “You just...you made all of these plans? Without even talking to me?”

“Your boss will be pleased.” He gestured to the envelope. “The documents are signed. You can go back to London and present this to your superiors. It’s what you wanted.”

“It was. It is.” She stood. Suddenly conscious of her nudity, she moved to the bed and grabbed a shirt he’d thrown on the footstool the night before, hastily buttoning it up to cover herself before she turned to face him again. “But what about us?”

The sigh he released tied her stomach into knots so tight she could barely breathe.

“Rosalind.”

He said her name so gently, as if he were talking to a child. Before he could continue, she turned away.

“I see.”

She’d known this was a risk. Had accepted it when she’d decided to take the leap and share her body with Griffith. How many times had she fought her attraction, told herself that she shouldn’t let herself get carried away?

The sight of the ocean waves rising and falling drew her to the windows. She crossed her arms over her chest, watched the familiar sight with a desperation that made her feel weak, fanciful.

Foolish.

She’d let her body rule, let her heart take the lead, instead of listening to her brain, to her instincts warning that while she might thoroughly enjoy her time with Griffith, he would ultimately break her heart.

“Rosalind,” he said again. “We talked about this. About the differences between us and what we want.”

“I know.” She sucked in a steadying breath, reached for an inner strength that eluded her. “I just...” No matter what he’d said, she knew something had shifted between them. Knew what had started as pure sex, pure hedonistic enjoyment, had morphed into something else.

Her voice trailed off as her mind raced. Did she tell him what was in her heart? What she had realized last night as they’d made love under the stars?

That she had fallen in love?

It was too much too soon, she knew. Especially to be in love with a man who believed himself incapable it. A man who hid behind this monster persona to keep himself protected from the grief life inevitably threw in one’s path.

Yet hadn’t she dealt with her own grief in an unhealthy way? Pursuing a career that, from the beginning, she’d had misgivings about? All in some misguided way of honoring her mother’s memory when she knew, deep in her heart, that her mother would have been devastated if she would have realized how unhappy her daughter had become.

Yes, Griffith had work to do. So did she. Didn’t everyone? But behind the hurt was the man she’d glimpsed, the one who had cared for her, loved her body, taken her on a walk to calm her mind, encouraged her to follow her dreams...

“Will we see each other again?” One hand fluttered in the air between them. “Obviously I don’t have much to go on, but this, what happened between us...that meant something to me.”

“It meant something to me, too.”

He said the words, but the lack of inflection, the flat tone, said differently, twisted the knife in her heart.

“We could—”

“I can’t give you what you want, Rosalind.” Suddenly Griffith stood before her, eyes glittering with pain and anger. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. I will inevitably mess up. If I couldn’t be the kind of son my father deserved, what makes you think I could even come close to being the kind of man worthy of you?”

“Do you even believe half the things you tell yourself?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You told me you weren’t the same after your mother’s passing. Everyone responds to grief differently. Would it have wrecked you so much if you hadn’t cared about her? What about your father? Would you be this upset, this wrecked, if you didn’t love him? The company you work so hard for, the one you never let down even when you were spending like crazy and dating slews of women?”

“Obviously I didn’t care enough. If I had, I wouldn’t have kept my father at a distance until it was too late.”

The words hung in the air between them, wiped away her moment of anger as pain surged forth. She started forward, to lay a comforting hand on his arm, to soothe away his anger and fears.

But once again he moved out of her reach, quelled her motion with a single glare that gave her a glimpse of the reputation that had supposedly made grown men quake in the boardroom.

“I know that I can’t offer you what you want, Rosalind. We can’t all live our lives with such an overly optimistic outlook. Us. Your career.”

“My career?”

“Yes, your career. You’re continuing with this charade that you want to reach the next level with a prestigious firm instead of examining your life and deciding what you really want.”

Anger punched through the hurt.

At a loss for words, she turned away, ran her hands through her hair as she tried to think, tried to make sense of the jumble of thoughts clamoring for space inside her head. Pain took front and center, that he would be so dismissive of her feelings, of what they had shared. Yet hadn’t he told her, repeatedly, he was too selfish to engage in anything beyond what little time they had been given? Had she been so captivated by their physical chemistry that she had let herself mistake attraction for something more?

Doubt hovered at the edges of her pain. She wondered if she had let herself be swept up in the romance of her first lover, in the novelty of their glamorous seclusion, instead of seeing things for what they were.

And now doubt that she was even capable of separating fantasy from reality. Even before she’d set foot inside Chateau du Bellerose, she’d questioned her future with Nettleton Thompson. But she’d brushed aside her misgivings, focusing on living as much as she could, on achieving the loftiest goals, to do her mother proud.

She swallowed hard before turning back to face Griffith.

“You make a good point.” He blinked, as if she’d surprised him. “And that is something I’ll have to deal with. Sometimes people don’t respond the way that they should to loss,” she added quietly. “I don’t think either of us dealt with our grief in a good way. It doesn’t mean that’s the way we have to stay.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

He let out a shuddering breath. Closed his eyes. When he opened them, she saw his answer in his eyes.

And it broke her heart.

She moved then, walking toward him with an outward confidence she didn’t feel. She reached up, ignoring the barely perceptible flinch as she laid her hands on his cheeks.

“I do sometimes look at things unrealistically. With too much optimism. Sometimes I do exactly as you suggest and turn a situation into a positive when actually it sucks and needs to be fixed. Sometimes I avoid discomfort.” She blinked rapidly, willed herself not to cry. “But isn’t that better than embracing misery. Not allowing yourself to feel anything else.”

He tried to step back. She held on for just a moment, leaned up on her toes and gently kissed the scar that cut over his cheekbone. His sharp intake of breath nearly undid her as she pulled away.

“I think what’s truly the saddest of all,” she said as she moved to the door, “is that you can’t see yourself as I do.”

“With rose-colored glasses?”

“No.” She glanced back over her shoulder. He stood, framed in the morning light, body tense and poised as if he would run away at any moment. “As someone who made mistakes, realized he made mistakes and is trying not to repeat them. You’re not perfect, Griffith, and you never will be. And maybe you will never want what I want out of life. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be someone you could be proud of. Someone who does good with all of his money and influence.”

“Or perhaps,” he said, his voice low and bordering on a growl, “I’m exactly the man I told you I am and you’re just not listening.”

She nodded toward the gilded mirror on the wall, the one they’d stood in front of last night as he’d undressed her, worshipping her body with such care it had warmed both her body and her soul.

“Take a good long look at yourself, Griffith. I hope one day you’ll realize you’re the only one who sees yourself as a monster.”

With that final pronouncement, she grabbed the signed contract that she’d come here for all those days ago, stepped out into the hall and closed the door.