6. Isabel
This was not happening again.
I barely reached the second floor in the library when the oak doors opened below. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was. But instead of my stomach twisting in knots, heated pleasure engulfed my entire being.
I soundlessly moved into my hiding spot behind a bookcase. My thoughts whirled incoherently, tumbling into each other, and eventually abandoned me altogether, leaving behind a complete void as I dealt with my scorching insides.
As I looked down to the first floor, a small gasp almost escaped my lips. Seeing Roman left me completely breathless. He looked like a man at peace with himself, his torment soooo yesterday, as if some sudden happening had given him a new lease on life.
Well, good for him. And here I was, still a blubbering mess.
I wanted to tear down the spiral stairs and offer myself to him on that oak table unequivocally and allow him to do whatever he wanted to with me.
This was the man who abandoned you and left you to fend for yourself, I chided my inner self.
But it didn’t help. My inside voices were yelling over each other. One was all about abandoning ship and leaving the house faster than you can say Belmont Manor. Another was daring me to simply announce myself to Roman and take it from there. And then the third more rational voice centered me with the idea that there was more to this scenario than the naked eye could possibly detect.
How did the haunted man I saw yesterday turn into this contented specimen overnight? My teeth gritted at the possibility that he was simply over whatever agony he caused me, and that to him I was yesterday’s news.
But a sliver of denial seeped unattended into my head, settling in very comfortably and not easily evicted. No way could he so quickly forget our night in the penthouse.
Below, Roman found his two books unmolested, still edged up perfectly to the table’s side. He glided his fingers over them as if relishing the touch. By now I was fully invested in watching his every move. If only to serve as fodder for my dreams tonight.
The mere notion that I would never again be able to touch him, smell him or feel that mouth devour me, was slowly nibbling away at my sanity.
He stood at the table, casually paging through one of the books, and naturally my focus shifted to those long, beautiful fingers. The very fingers that have been the source of a great deal of my pleasure. Mapping every curve and mound on my body, discovering secret places to probe and caress until they were glazed with my essence.
And then there were those hands molding into my back’s arch as I curled into him, pleading with him to go deeper inside of me. A plea with which he happily complied.
Suddenly Roman looked up, a soft edge to his otherwise inscrutable features, the vein throbbing in his temple, and a small twitch in his jaw betraying his casual composure.
He was worried about something.
My heart skipped a multitude of beats. Why was this man staring up as if he knew I was there? What if this time Roman actually came to the second floor? I was trapped and there was nothing I could do if he decided to head up that spiral staircase. There was also a small part of me that wished he would.
And then, just as quickly, Roman shifted his gaze back to the book.
I suppressed a quiver, my breathing shallow and my hands trembling. It only emphasized my fear, and I knew there was no way I could stay a secret from him in this house.
Perhaps the sooner the cat was out of the bag, the better. And since there was no putting that damn cat back in the bag once it was out, I might as well make sure I kept my job at Le Petit Chateau.
My only mission now should be to convince Emily that Henry was in there, but that he was simply taking his time to wake up, and that those machines could under no circumstances be switched off.
There was the familiar quiet beep from Roman’s phone. He removed the phone from his pocket, placed it on the table, and put it on speaker.
“Nelson.”
“Sir, you asked me to call you.”
“Yes, I’ve decided to take my morning coffee in the library for the next few days. I could do with fifteen minutes of peace before my day continues.”
“That sounds like a terrific plan, sir. Would that be the usual time?”
Roman paced to the window, staring out like a lord assessing his vast lands. “Well, that depends now. When do those French pastries get here.”
“Every morning at eight-thirty, sir.”
“Then I’ll be in the library from eight-forty-five to nine o’clock.”
“So I trust you enjoyed the pastries this morning?” Nelson asked, and I detected a little pride in his voice.
“The profiteroles? Oh God yes, they brought back an exquisite memory for me. I hope we get them again in the future.”
“Very good, sir. Anything else?”
“That’s all, Nelson, thank you.”
Roman slipped the phone back in his pocket and continued to enjoy the view out of the window, his features once again impenetrable.
I was frozen, and barely breathing. Did Roman just say what I thought he said?
“The profiteroles? Oh God yes, they brought back an exquisite memory for me.”
When I was finally able to breathe again, I took a step back and leaned against a bookcase, a desperate attempt to analyze Roman’s statement dispassionately and distinctly.
I had questions.
Why would he say something like that to Nelson? It seemed so off-brand for Roman. Unless he said that knowing he had a secret audience. I shook the thought from my head, it was too absurd to contemplate. He wouldn’t even know I was here right now.
More importantly, why make a point of giving the exact time he’d be in the library every morning? Unless he was relaying that information for someone else’s benefit. Again, totally presumptuous on my part.
Which made me wonder if I’d be blatantly tempting fate by coming here every morning, to enjoy the fifteen minutes of peace and quiet with him? Risking the chance of being discovered and thus jeopardizing Henry’s recovery.
These imaginary whims spiraling inside my head seemed proof enough that I really was losing my grip on reality. I wanted to get back to the safety of Henry’s room where I had a very real situation to deal with—and knew how to deal with it. Well, sort of.
Roman turned from the window and went back to the books on the oak table. But instead of continuing to read, he closed the open book and lined both books up to the edge of the table.
Methodically. Precisely.
As only Roman would. Reminding me of the way he hung his jacket and my dress and neatly put away my shoes, everything just-so. It sent an unimaginable longing for this man to course through me until it settled below my belly in a pool of fire that nothing but his touch could extinguish.
I realized there was simply no way I could come here every morning to spend those fifteen minutes with him. It would drive me insane, watching him from a distance while being unable to quench this perpetual craving.
I drank in the sight of Roman, as if etching him in my mind. That vein throbbing in his temple when his patience was stretched, or when he had to temper his desire. His stylish elegance whether he was standing at the table in his library or fucking me slowly and deliberately, his gentle intensity sending rivulets of heat from the crown of my head to the end of my toes.
And then. Without warning. Roman removed a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his mouth, as if kissing it, suspending the moment for an eternity. He placed the handkerchief on top of one book on the table. Then he left the library in his long, elegant strides, closing the door behind him so softly I never heard the latch snap into place.
My eyes were instantly drawn to the handkerchief, perched innocently atop a book on contract law. Suddenly my entire being was crumpled inside that silk fabric. I climbed down the spiral staircase, abandoning all care of being discovered.
I didn’t have to unfold the handkerchief to see the familiar RHB monogram. My first instinct was to put it to my nose and inhale. And then an incredible thought sprouted in the part of my mind where I collected fanciful ideas.
He put that handkerchief here on purpose.
But Roman wasn’t a man who would do something as wildly romantic as that. This was the man who’d sent Steven in to deal with me after our incredible night in the penthouse.
He held the handkerchief to his mouth before putting it down. As if he was kissing it.
I nurtured that thought for a paralyzing heartbeat and remembered my time in the penthouse when, slightly tipsy from the champagne and after hours of passion, I told Roman about burying the handkerchief he’d given me at the bookshop in my underwear drawer.
The library seemed eerily quiet as I held the pristine white silk in my hands. and in the deafening silence, a realization was born out of a tangle of incomprehensible thoughts. And once again I was left breathless, intoxicated by one single idea.
Roman was telling me he knew I was here.