34. Roman
Of course Isabel fell asleep while we were talking, hard as she tried not to. And as if I didn’t have a bastard of a day coming tomorrow, I watched her sleep, with all this new knowledge of her that I had roaming around in my head.
Her mother was a nun, and my honey badger had nearly answered that call herself and entered the sacred world of the nunnery. I was blown away, and even now every time the thought crossed my mind, I felt immense relief that none of that had come to pass.
If I’d never met Isabel, I would have missed her my entire life.
Besides, living the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience might not have worked entirely in tandem with Isabel’s boundless spirit. Or her fierce sense of independence.
Poverty was the only vow I could see her living freely. I doubt many women would hesitate to leave their old lives behind and start a new one here at Belmont Manor, surrounded by this kind of luxury and excess.
But I was reminded so many times today that it was Isabel who’d returned a very expensive piece of jewelry because her lifestyle didn’t afford her the opportunity to wear it. And more likely because she was pissed off at the man who bought it for her. Money wasn’t a persuasion for her. Status even less so. I was at the mercy of her affections for me, and of the magnificent view of the moody North Atlantic from my windows, to swing the pendulum in my favor.
Obedience would definitely have been a challenge for her, because as luck would have it, the only place Isabel showed any sign of obedience was when she submitted to me in the bedroom. Oh, and how those emerald eyes glittered with desire when my tone became a little demanding and I told her what to do.
The vow of chastity would have been problematic too. This sensual creature was made to love and be loved, and not necessarily in a holy sense. I couldn’t imagine how lost all that passion would have been to the world, or more importantly me, had she taken the vows.
Even after the day we’d had, none of what I felt was diminished in any way. All it did was emphasize how unprepared I was for someone like her coming into my life. I stole a quick glance at the Monet on the wall, remembering our earlier conversation.
Anyone else would have been curious about the value of the painting, how many millions I paid for it or how high I was willing to bid to get it. Not Isabel. To her, the magic was in how it felt to have a masterpiece painted by Claude Monet himself on my wall, where I could admire it every day. Which, to my shame, I hardly ever did.
The moment slipped away when I could have lied and told her it was a wonderful feeling, and how privileged I was to own this piece of incredible art. Whatever it took to stay in her good graces. At the same time, I knew she wouldn’t have been fooled. And once again she chipped away at the mask I’d so carefully constructed around myself over the years.
By now I could in all honesty say the nymph knew me better than anyone else in the world.
It seemed that once she and I were carefully spun into our own private cocoon, I opened up like a goddamn moonflower at night. Her most innocent questions would have me digging deep into my own soul, a place I’d barely visited before in my life.
As I watched Isabel sleep, I took pride in how happy she looked, how sated, like a kitten that’s been fed a saucer of warm milk. She emitted a soft, contented sigh, her mouth all pouty with that perfect Cupid’s bow gracing her upper lip.
Under normal circumstances, any such sappy thoughts galavanting around in my head would be dismissed without further ado. But nothing about this could be considered normal circumstances. I couldn’t even imagine how foreign all of it was to Isabel.
And of course I couldn’t help but wonder if the Russian watched her sleep too. Despite my determination to be reasonable, jealousy gnawed mercilessly at my insides.
I didn’t dare entertain the thought of them ever having had sex, because it would drive me completely insane. And let’s not talk about the fact that he used to wake up with her in the mornings, a privilege I wanted to belong to me alone.
And now the fool seemed adamant to win her back. I wanted to relieve him of that hope quickly and quietly, but something told me Isabel might have a problem with that. It pained me that I allowed jealousy to suddenly override my lifelong sensibilities. For all I knew he was a great guy, even if he sounded like a whiny wimp by running to Meg.
Just as the nymph’s lips curved into a sleepy little smile, I allowed myself one last look at her. What was she dreaming about? I hoped to God it was me. All I wanted to do was scrape her into my arms, hold her warm, supple body against mine and listen to her breathe.
My sentimental state of mind was pulverized when the desk phone rang. I scrambled to end the call with Isabel before the sound woke her up. It was Byron. God only knew why he’d call so late. I considered sending it to voicemail, but then decided to answer.
“Byron.”
His face appeared on my phone screen, a glitzy party raging in the background. Byron was all smiles and at least a few cocktails deep.
“I know it’s late,” he yelled over the music, “but it’s still before midnight, and I knew you were still working. Let me just say Happy Birthday.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Come on over, at least have a drink to celebrate.”
“It’s late. I have to get up at 4. But I appreciate the thought.”
Byron ignored my excuse, grabbed a pretty blonde by her hand and yanked her into view. “You might even get lucky with Tiffany here.”
The woman giggled. “I’m Chelsea. Geez Byron, it’s not like we haven’t—
Before she could finish a sentence that was undoubtedly headed toward confessing a sexual encounter with Byron, he let go of her and rolled his eyes at me. “Chelsea…Tiffany… Hard to keep straight after a few drinks. Not that you would know, Mr. Straight-and-Narrow.”
“You’re drunk,” I said. “I hope you’re not driving.”
“Listen to you being all concerned for your little brother.”
“I’m serious, Byron.”
“Relax, I have a driver. But while you’re being so charitable with your concern tonight…”
And here was the real reason Byron called during his drunken stupor. “No, I’m not lifting the veto on your expense account,” I sighed. “You get more than enough from the trust.”
“Is that so? Last I heard you said you were thinking about it.”
The incredulity in his voice almost made me laugh. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t gone down this road a million times before, and yet Byron’s main objective when he opened his eyes in the morning, or rather late in the day, was imagining how he’d been shortchanged by me.
As if he’d ever had to lift a finger to earn a cent.
“And I thought about it,” I said, as evenly as possible. “I’m not lifting the veto.”
“Well, this is awkward,” Byron said, derision tingeing his voice. “One minute we’re having a fun chat and the next minute you’re kicking me in the balls. I’ll say this for you, at least you’re consistent.”
“Can’t say I care for your tone.”
“That’s the tone I have when there’s a knife in my back.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Byron was out for blood, his usual approach to avenge whatever imagined injustice he felt.
“Byron, are we done?”
“I guess so. But one day you’re going to realize how much you’re becoming just like the old man.”
“Have fun convincing yourself of that. I have to go. Get home safe.”
I ended the call. And for a fleeting second I wondered how was I going to explain Byron to Isabel. The brother who was acting out and left only misery in his wake, even with all this money at his disposal. To someone like her, that had to sound like drama she didn’t need in her life. Neither did I, to be honest, but Byron was family.
I was already questioning myself about revealing so much of the Belmont family’s dynamic to her today. This family couldn’t have appeared less idyllic, and adding Byron to the mix wouldn’t help with my great plan to paint Belmont Manor as the ideal place for her to live.
I decided then and there that I wanted Isabel’s feelings for me to be secured before laying all this underlying turmoil at her feet. So there was definitely no point in telling her about Byron now.
Since I had to be up in four hours, I decided to take refuge on the Chesterfield. Going back to my bed upstairs, which was still smelling of Isabel, would only make me ache for her more. At least here in the office, I had a big screen with her latest image on it. The one where she was biting into a pastry and posing with a playful smile.
The one I planned on taking to my dreams tonight.