Chapter 18
RAPHAEL
She fell asleep against me again without realizing she had done it.
One moment she was talking, and the next her breathing evened out against my chest. Her weight settled fully into me, trust without ceremony.
I did not move.
The movie continued playing in the background, some light, inconsequential storyline unfolding across the television, but I couldn’t have repeated a single detail of it. My attention had narrowed to the steady rhythm of her breath and the warmth of her body tucked against mine.
She smelled faintly of roses. The scent lingered in her hair where it brushed my jaw, and I found myself breathing it in without conscious thought.
This should bother me. For the second night in a row, I was trapped idly with nothing to do.
With Belle, it was different. I was increasingly fond of her.
Fond did not fully capture it. What I felt when she shifted in her sleep and tucked her face closer to my chest was something far more destabilizing.
I felt protective but not possessive, not in the way I was used to. This was more in the way one guards something unexpectedly precious.
I allowed myself one more quiet breath against her hair. I was filled with the intoxicating smell of roses.
Carefully, I slid my arm from beneath her shoulders, replacing it with a pillow before the absence of heat could wake her. She stirred slightly, lips parting, but did not open her eyes. I adjusted the blanket higher over her shoulder, making certain her knee remained supported before I stood.
The house was quiet as I stepped into my study and closed the door softly behind me.
I did not like leverage games, but I disliked incompetence more.
I pulled Tripp Whitaker’s number from recent calls and dialed.
He answered after two rings.
“Mr. Renault,” he said, tone already edged. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Is everything okay with Belle?”
“This is about her compensation.”
He exhaled through his nose, as if inconvenienced.
“I told her she could pick it up.”
“You will send it to the P.O. box from now on.”
“We don’t usually cut checks to—”
“You have previously.”
Silence. I continued before he could construct something flimsy.
“There is no corporate policy prohibiting mailing to a post office box. If there were, it would have surfaced prior to this week.”
Another pause.
“Accounting’s been tightening things,” he said, irritation slipping through.
“I am familiar with accounting,” I replied calmly. “I assure you, the postal designation of the recipient’s address is not the determining factor in disbursement.”
He did not like that.
“I’m just trying to run my company,” he snapped.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Is that all you're doing?”
The question hung deliberately.
A beat of silence stretched longer this time.
I knew his father. Alistair Whitaker did not tolerate inefficiency. The Renault Group had conducted business with Whitaker Industrial Manufacturing for years, with supply contracts, infrastructure components, and multi-property agreements.
Tripp knew that, or at least he should have.
“You’re making this bigger than it is,” he said finally.
“No,” I corrected. “I’m correcting your error.”
“She’s an employee.”
“An exceptional employee.”
His breath sharpened slightly on the line. “You’re awfully invested.”
“I am.”
I let that sit there, unembellished.
“I expect her next check to be sent to her previously stated designation,” I continued. “If there are further ‘accounting irregularities,’ I will address them directly with your father.”
There it was. Not a threat . . . exactly. A statement of an escalation pathway.
His tone shifted. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I agree.”
Silence again.
Then, begrudgingly, “I’ll send them in the future.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I ended the call before he could reclaim footing.
I remained seated for a moment, studying the quiet room.
It surprised me that Tripp had been insolent.
It surprised me more that he had underestimated the relational dynamics at play.
A man raised in proximity to wealth should have understood network consequences.
He should have known better than to antagonize a client with deeper pockets than his.
I rose from the desk and stepped back into the hallway.
Belle was still asleep on the couch, her breathing slow and even. The television cast soft, shifting light across her face. She had shifted slightly onto her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting loosely near the brace.
She looked younger when she slept. Less armored.
Tomorrow, I would take her to retrieve the check regardless. I preferred resolution in person. I preferred to observe the variables directly. And if Tripp Whitaker believed this was a minor inconvenience he could leverage, he was mistaken.
I turned off the television and returned to her side, lowering myself carefully onto the couch once more.
She stirred as I settled in. Her hand found my chest automatically. I allowed it. And I made a quiet promise to myself. This problem would be nipped in the bud.
The next morning began ordinarily, which should have warned me.
I was in the shower, steam curling along the tiled walls, water beating down over my shoulders in a steady rhythm that usually helped me order my thoughts. I had a meeting scheduled later in the day. A follow-up call with Columbus. A dozen small fires that required measured responses.
I was rinsing shampoo from my hair when I heard it.
A thud.
Followed by a sharp, breathless cry.
The sound of her startled voice sliced through the steam like a blade.
I shut the water off immediately, barely registering the chill as I stepped out and wrapped a towel around my waist. I didn’t bother drying fully. Water tracked down my chest and back as I moved.
“Belle?”
Another small, frustrated sound from the hallway. I reached the top of the staircase and saw her halfway down, crutches tangled awkwardly, one hand gripping the railing, the other braced against the step. Her brace had caught the edge of the stairs. She hadn’t fallen far, but far enough.
My pulse slammed once, hard.
“Do not move,” I said, already descending toward her.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she muttered, but her voice wavered.
She finally looked up, taking me in as I descended the stairs. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. A small gasp left her mouth, and I willed my dick not to twitch beneath this towel.
I crouched in front of her, hands hovering for half a second before settling carefully at her waist and beneath her arm.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“I thought I might dust the library.”
A low growl rumbled deep in my chest. “Have I asked you to return to your cleaning duties?”
“No but—”
“No buts, you are still injured.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. But when she tried to adjust herself, she winced.
“Belle.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.”
I slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back before she could protest further.
Her breath hitched. “Raphael—”
“You will not argue while positioned on a staircase.”
And then I lifted her.
She was warm. Warmer than the steam still clinging to my damp skin.
Her arms instinctively wrapped around my shoulders as I carried her down the remaining steps.
The contact was immediate and electric in a way I had not prepared for.
Her palm pressed against my bare shoulder.
Her fingers curled there, tentative and firm at once.
I was acutely aware that I was nearly naked. Water still traced slow paths down my chest. The towel was secure, but barely.
Her breath brushed my collarbone.
When I reached the floor, I didn’t set her down immediately.
She was staring at me. I had never seen her like that. Her gaze moved slowly and involuntarily down my chest before snapping back to my eyes. Color rose high on her cheeks.
“Are you—” she began, then stopped.
“Yes,” I said evenly.
“You’re naked.”
“I am aware.”
Her lips parted slightly.
The energy between us drew tight like a wire. My hand at her waist tightened fractionally without conscious instruction. Her fingers flexed at my shoulder in response.
“You’re . . . wet,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
“I was in the shower.”
Silence. Her pulse fluttered beneath my thumb where it rested against her side.
She swallowed.
“I can stand,” she said finally, though she made no move to detach herself.
I lowered her carefully, keeping one hand steady at her waist until I was certain she had balance.
Only then did I step back. Which was when I noticed we were no longer alone. Geoffrey stood at the end of the hallway with Chandler beside him. Both attempting and failing to suppress amusement.
Geoffrey cleared his throat delicately. “Sir.”
Chandler’s grin was less restrained. “Everything under control, I assume?”
Belle’s face went scarlet. I did not turn fully toward them.
“Yes,” I replied calmly. “It is.”
Geoffrey’s gaze flicked briefly from my still-damp torso to Belle’s flushed expression and back again.
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
Chandler leaned casually against the banister. “Should we . . . give you a moment?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Belle said at the same time.
I glanced at her. She was still looking at me the way she had on the staircase. She was flustered, curious, caught somewhere between embarrassment and something far more dangerous.
I tightened the towel slightly at my waist, willing my body and my desire to behave itself. But it was of no use. I knew from the moment I felt her hand on my bare skin that I was rock hard.
“This is concluded,” I informed them
“Clearly,” Chandler murmured.
Geoffrey inclined his head with the dignity of a man who would absolutely be recounting this to himself later.
“We’ll be in the study when you’re . . . appropriately attired.”
They retreated. Belle exhaled slowly.
“I am never recovering from that,” she muttered.
I looked down at her, at the flush still warming her skin.