Chapter 11
11
Rowan
I sat in the Uber as it pulled up outside the TriBeCa address Charlotte had given me, my heart racing, my stomach a ball of nerves.
Today was the wedding day. My wedding day.
I’d been told to arrive at the address at least an hour before the ceremony to take care of any ‘formalities’, though what constituted ‘formalities’ wasn’t explained. So here I was, an hour before the ceremony.
Since that lunch at La Chouette — I refused to think about what had happened in the middle of it, in that bathroom — I’d received Charlotte’s contract. Atlas had sent me a message offering to get someone neutral to vet it for me, but I’d refused. There was no way I was accepting help from him, so I’d paid for my own lawyer to look it over.
All was in order so I signed it and sent it back. I knew I was going to have to tell my mother something eventually — when I got pregnant for example — but I’d tell her it was the result of a one-night-stand or something, and that I’d give it up for adoption. She didn’t need to know that the baby would be her ex-husband’s or that I’d married him.
The Uber driver glanced back at me, probably wondering why I hadn’t gotten out yet, so I took a silent breath, opened the door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and looked up at the huge red brick building in front of me.
It had obviously once been a factory, as evidenced by the faded lettering on the bricks, as well as the huge windows. Now, though, it had been turned into one giant industrial loft. Atlas’s loft.
I swallowed, trying to ignore my nerves. He was the one who’d told me that I come early to deal with the ‘formalities’. Charlotte had already informed me that he’d insisted on the ceremony being conducted at his home and since she hadn’t seen any reason why not, had agreed. I could have given her several reasons why not, but that would have been putting too much importance on what had happened between him and me in that bathroom so I hadn’t protested.
I hadn’t protested him wanting me to come early, either, because I didn’t want to give away how our meeting the previous week had disturbed me. How it had rattled me on a level I couldn’t begin to contemplate.
He wants you. You felt it. You saw it in his eyes.
A current of heat wound through me, heating my skin, the memory of him looking down at me, so intense, so demanding, stark in my head. God, the things that look could make me do….
I shoved that thought quickly back into the box it had sprung from. No, nothing like that would ever happen again, I’d make sure of it. I was not going to make my mother’s mistakes and get with obsessed with a man, I just wasn’t.
Anyway, since Charlotte had assured me that the ceremony would be quick, I’d decided that I wouldn’t bother taking the whole day off work. Instead, I’d taken a half day, so I’d come directly from the office still in my work clothes. Not that I cared since I’d also decided I wasn’t going to dress up for the occasion, most especially after what Charlotte had said about Mr Blackwood ‘appreciating it’.
I didn’t care about Mr. Blackwood or otherwise and in any case, this wedding was work. I’d be getting paid for it so why bother dressing up as a bride when the whole thing was fake anyway? I could have afforded to get myself a wedding gown, but I wasn’t going to spend money purely to look nice for Atlas goddamn Blackwood. I’d save it for when I got married for real.
This is for real, remember?
No. It might be legal, but it wasn’t real. Real included love and love had nothing to do with this.
I went to the front door, which opened automatically without me having to knock or press a buzzer. Clearly there must have been a camera somewhere, which I found a little creepy. Then again, Atlas was a billionaire, so it made sense he’d have cameras. They were no doubt part of some state-of-the-art security system.
I stepped through the front door, which closed automatically behind me, and into a massive open-plan space, the sun streaming down through a huge skylight in the ceiling above. The place was cavernous, with double-storied windows lining one side pouring more light through the glass, the rest of the walls left bare red brick. There were more skylights in the ceiling, bright sunlight pooling at intervals on the battered wooden floorboards polished to a satiny sheen.
Near the door was an industrial staircase that led up to a second floor, with wooden steps and an oddly graceful iron banister. Plants in huge pots were scattered around, giving the space the feel of a garden, while furniture had been grouped in different areas, marking space for different activities. A long, scrubbed wooden table with refectory benches. A huge, squashy sectional sofa covered in faded red velvet. A long galley kitchen, all steel and stone.
And a man standing in one of the pools of light near the door, positioned as if God himself had put him there.
Atlas, the gilt strands in his dark tawny hair gleaming in sunlight that also accentuated the perfect bone structure of his face. High forehead, straight nose, sharp cheekbones and all limned in gold.
He wore a black business shirt and beautifully tailored black trousers, and I realized with a sudden hard jolt, that while I hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion, he had.
He literally took my breath away.
My head emptied and for a second all I could do was stare dumbly at him. Which was a mistake because the moment his eyes met mine, the air between us leapt, crackling with electricity. I’m sure if a naked flame had been anywhere in our vicinity, all the oxygen in the room would have ignited.
I tried to swallow, my throat a desert, my heartbeat a drum.
Apart from that one text about the contract, I hadn’t heard from him the entire week and I’d decided to go forward as if those moments in the bathroom hadn’t happened. Treat the entire episode as a mistake and not mention it, because once the wedding was done, I’d never have to see him again.
Except I knew in that moment pretending the bathroom episode hadn’t happened was going to be difficult, if not impossible. Not when his very presence reminded me so acutely of it. Not with this burning, crackling energy between us.
My gut clenched, anger winding through me at the intensity of my own response to him. That was his fault, too. He was the one who’d crossed the line in La Chouette , not me. He was the one who’d changed things between us and made this situation even worse.
Liar. You loved how he made you feel, just like you loved how you made him want…
I forced the thoughts away, struggling to pull myself together as the door shut behind me. “Is…C-Charlotte here?” I managed, hating the hesitant sound of my own voice.
“No,” Atlas said. “She won’t be here until the ceremony.”
He and I were here alone? My heart began to race even faster.
His golden stare held mine, steady and sure. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last week.” His deep voice was very level. “I shouldn’t have laid a hand on you and I’m sorry for any distress I caused you.”
Shock momentarily eclipsed my anger. It was the very last thing I’d expected him to say and all I could do was gape at him.
“I wanted you to come early for a reason,” he continued. “First, to apologize without Charlotte listening in on our conversation. Second, to ask you once again if you’re sure that this is what you really want.”
The shock rapidly dissipated. God, not this again.
Immediately I lifted my chin. “Haven’t we had this discussion?”
“Sure,” he said. “But there’s no harm asking again.”
“Of course I’m sure.” I kept my tone flat. “That’s why I’m here.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, staring at me with his wolf’s eyes, the expression on his face utterly unreadable. I thought he might argue, but he only nodded then held out a hand to where the sectional sofa was. “Come and sit down. I want to show you something.”
I didn’t want to sit down, but protesting seemed ridiculous, so I walked over to the sofa, the low heels of my black pumps echoing on the wooden floor boards. I sat down, bolt upright, on the very edge of the sofa cushions and put my purse on the floor. Every guard I had was up and locked. Whatever ‘thing’ he was going to show me, I was braced for it.
“Wait there,” Atlas said, then vanished up the stairs for a few minutes. When he came down again, he was carrying a garment bag and a bouquet of beautiful white peonies with the most perfect fluffy nest of petals.
I stared as he carried the flowers and the garment bag over to the sofa. He put the bouquet carefully down on the table then unzipped the garment bag. Silky white fabric spilled from inside it, and I stiffened, conscious of what that might mean, especially in conjunction with the flowers.
“Atlas,” I began.
“Wait,” he ordered.
Much to my own surprise, I fell silent as he drew a beautiful gown from the bag. It had lots of flowing draperies, Grecian in style, and with it was a gossamer fine white veil.
Atlas had bought me a wedding dress. God.
“You….You didn’t.” Shock had almost robbed me of breath. “It’s…It’s…”
“It’s what? If you’re worried about the fit, don’t worry. It’ll fit.”
“But…how? I haven’t tried it on or?—”
“I’ve had twenty years of knowing women’s bodies,” he said with the kind of confidence that should have made him sound insufferable yet didn’t. “I know how to buy a woman a dress that will fit her.”
I wanted to argue with him, because how could he know? But all I did was sit there, staring at the lovely gown and delicate bouquet, a complicated mix of feelings all roiling inside me.
No one had ever bought me things, not even my own mom. Oh, she’d fed and clothed me when I’d been a kid, but she never remembered my birthday, and since Christmas was usually when her mental health got worse, we almost never celebrated it. Presents didn’t happen. If I needed or wanted something, I had to buy it for myself.
That’s not strictly true, though, is it?
I swallowed, remembering the only other I time I’d been given a gift. It had been him then too. He’d bought a necklace that spelled my name when I’d turned sixteen. I’d never worn it, my feelings about both it and him far too complicated, but I’d never gotten rid of it either. It was still in my jewelry box all wrapped up in tissue.
This dress was the same, and my feelings about it and him were too complicated and too confusing to accept it.
“I can’t wear that,” I said. “It’s lovely, but I can’t.”
He didn’t look offended, merely arching a brow. “Why not?”
“This wedding isn’t real. It’s just a formality so why bother?”
“Why not bother?” he said, infuriatingly calm. “It might be just a formality, but it’s your first wedding, Rowan. Why shouldn’t you wear a lovely gown and carry a pretty bouquet?”
A lump rose in my throat, my heart aching unexpectedly.
I’d never wanted to get married. I had Mom to look after and work to do, and I didn’t have time or the emotional bandwidth for relationships. Also, tying myself to some asshole of a man seemed a stupid thing to do. Men sucked you in with lies, made you dependent on them, and then when you needed them they abandoned you, so no, I was in no hurry to marry.
Even if I had wanted to, I’d never waste money on a dress I’d only wear once. Same with the veil. As for flowers, well, I’d never bother with those either.
Yet, despite all of that, looking at the beautiful gown and the gorgeous bouquet, I was bitterly conscious of that ache in my heart. As if something in me wanted the gown and the flowers, and the veil too. Wanted to walk down the aisle. Wanted to marry a man I loved and who loved me…
Much to my horror, my eyes prickled with unexpected tears, and I had to look away, blinking furiously and hoping like hell Atlas hadn’t noticed.
I couldn’t understand where the tears had come from, or why the sight of a stupid wedding gown and flowers made me feel so sad. It was appalling enough to feel upset, let alone be crying in front of him.
Just then strong fingers took hold of my chin and my face was being tilted up, Atlas’s golden gaze searching mine. “What is it?” he asked, frowning. “And don’t say nothing.”
Dammit. He’d noticed, the bastard.
I tried to shake my head, but he was holding me too tightly, the press of his fingers making me feel hot and restless. “Just something in my eye,” I said shortly. “Let go of me, please.”
He didn’t. “Why are you doing this, Rowan?”
“‘This’?” I tried not to breathe in his heady scent. “What do you mean this?”
“I mean Charlotte’s fucked up plan.” His tawny brows drew down, his gaze sharpening. “You never answered my question last week.”
“There was a reason for that,” I snapped without thinking.
The bright gold of his eyes glittered suddenly, and just like that we were back in the bathroom of La Chouette again, with him pressing me up against the vanity, holding my chin the way he was doing now, the air taut and electric between us.
“Is it because of Cait?” he asked. “Are you doing all of this for her?”
I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t want to give him a damn thing, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to let me go until he had an answer, and arguing with him would only make things worse.
But I couldn’t help myself. Unable to keep the intensity from my voice, I said, “Everyone left her, Atlas. Everyone. And she needs help. No one can do that for her except me, so yes, she’s why I’m doing it.”
His gaze narrowed. “No, I offered to help you, Rowan. I offered so you didn’t have to do all the marriage and baby bullshit. So why are you insisting on climbing on the pyre now? You don’t get prizes for being the biggest martyr, beauty.”
His nearness was making it difficult to think, difficult to breathe. In fact, it seemed as if everything was harder when he was around. Everything he said got under my skin irritating me, confusing me, and every time he looked at me I seemed to lose myself.
It stoked the fury that simmered away inside me. The fury I thought I’d left behind years ago, but clearly hadn’t. Fury at him for leaving Mom and I. For never getting in touch with us after he left. For being in that room in Arcadia at the same time I was. For buying me a wedding dress and a bouquet. And last but certainly not least, for stripping away some of the harmless little lies I told myself to keep from wanting things I couldn’t have and never would, exposing my stupid weakness for him, that was making everything ten million times harder than it needed to be.
“What do you care?” I burst out, the fury getting the better of me. “You walked away, Atlas. Which means this has got nothing whatsoever to do with you.”
The look in his eyes flared, but his grip on my jaw was unyielding. He said nothing, leaving space for me to hear my own desperate voice echoing around the cavernous interior of the room.
It was too much. I couldn’t bear it anymore, the dense electricity that seemed to crackle between us, the way my heart raced when he was near, and how he seemed to see right through every layer of protection I had. Right down to the same desperate, attention-starved girl I’d been all those years ago. When all I’d wanted was for him to stay and not walk out the door, leaving Mom and I alone.
I tried to jerk my chin from his grip, but he wouldn’t let me. “No,” he said roughly, holding me tight. “I might have walked away back then, but I’ll be fucked if I walk away now.”
He wasn’t going to let me go, that was clear, so I did the first thing that entered my head. I leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his.
I didn’t know what I was thinking. Perhaps some part of me was hoping he’d recoil in shock and finally release me, but of course that’s not what happened. Because as soon as my mouth touched his, a desperate, wild hunger rose in me. A hunger that felt too big, an impossible, terrifying need I couldn’t hide or contain, that was much too powerful to control.
So it was me who recoiled and tried to pull away, afraid not of him but the sheer depth of the feelings inside me. But his fingers were pressed hard to my jaw and I couldn’t.
“Shh,” he murmured against my mouth. “Breathe.”
I sucked a trembling breath in through my nose, the feel of his lips, so warm against mine, almost too much. I trembled, terrified of the battle for self-control going on inside me. And that self-control was slipping, a rope falling through my fingers that I had no hope of catching.
An unconscious sound tore from my throat, a cross between a whimper and a groan, every sense focused utterly on him and where he was touching me, those bright points of contact.
His mouth on mine. His fingers against my skin.
Everything I’d ever wanted since I was sixteen years old, and everything I’d fought so hard to deny.
My resistance was slipping too, draining out of my body, sucked away by the force of my hunger for him. I wasn’t strong enough to stop it, not now. I’d spent too long fighting it, too long denying it and now I was tired of the battle.
I reached for him, grabbing his shirt, wanting to pull him to me or pull myself up into him, I wasn’t sure which. But his other hand was somehow at the back of my head, his fingers digging into my hair, taking it in his fist and gripping me hard, holding me where I was.
“Keep still,” he ordered.
There was a hard edge to his tone that I’d never heard before and it made me tremble, made my desperation even worse. I had no control over it anymore. It was too big, too intense. I wanted him so badly I couldn’t breathe, and I didn’t know what to do. I was an empty pit of need, desperate for him to fill it.
He lifted his mouth from mine, staying only a breath away. “I know what you want, beauty,” he murmured. “Believe me, I know. But we’re getting married in just under an hour and we don’t have a lot of time to discuss this.”
“Please…” I gasped out, barely conscious of what I was saying, aware of nothing but the hunger that was eating me alive. “Please…” I tried to close the gap between us, to press my mouth to his, but his grip on my hair tightened, pain prickling all over my scalp.
“No.” The word was a growl. “Do as you’re told.”
I shuddered. Whatever he was going to give me, I wanted it. I’d gotten beyond self-control now, beyond fear, beyond shame. I was simply a creature made of desire and desire for him.
He lifted his head, looking down at me, golden eyes molten. “Another question you never answered last week. You know the one.”
Oh yes, I knew. The one about me wanting him. The words he wanted me to say out loud and yet I never did.
“You have to tell me, Rowan,” he went on, implacable. “Because I’m not playing these fucking guessing games with you. Not when I’m much too old for you and you’re much too inexperienced for me.”
My breathing had become short and fast, my mouth sensitized, the ache between my thighs almost unbearable. I was tired of fighting and not just Atlas, but fighting all my desires. Telling myself I didn’t want the things I wanted. Telling myself I didn’t need them, that I didn’t have time for them, that they were wrong or frivolous, or too expensive.
“I want you,” I said huskily. “And I don’t care if you’re too old for me. I don’t care that I’m too inexperienced. I don’t care that you were my step-father. I don’t care.”
His hand in my hair tightened fractionally, a muscle leaping in the side of his strong jaw, his relentless gaze searching my face. “You need me to touch you, don’t you? Because if you want that, you’re going to have to ask for it.”