Chapter 5 - Belle #2
I dry off and dig through the closet, finding jeans that fit perfectly and a soft burgundy sweater. I leave my hair down, apply minimal makeup from the supplies that are somehow also stocked in the bathroom, and take a deep breath before heading downstairs.
The house is even more impressive in daylight. All clean lines and expensive art and views of the forest that go on forever. I wander through rooms trying to orient myself, looking for any sign of life.
"Can I help you find something, dear?"
I spin around to find an older woman with kind eyes and graying hair pulled into a neat bun. She's wearing an apron and holding a dish towel.
"I'm looking for Richard," I say. "Mr. Kane, I mean."
"He's in the gym. Third door on your left down that hallway." She points. "Can I get you some breakfast?"
"I—maybe later? Thank you, Mrs. Annie."
She smiles warmly and disappears back toward what I assume is the kitchen, and I head in the direction she indicated.
A home gym. Of course Richard has a home gym. Probably state-of-the-art equipment, personal trainer quality, the works. I find the door and pause with my hand on the handle. Should I knock? Just walk in? This is his house, his private space. Maybe I should wait and find him later when—
The decision is made for me when I accidentally lean on the handle and the door swings open.
And I get my first look at a shirtless Richard Kane.
Oh. Oh!
He's on some kind of weight machine, his back to me, and I freeze in the doorway unable to form a coherent thought. Because Richard Kane at forty-five is... Jesus Christ.
His back is broad, tapering to a narrow waist, and I watch muscles flex and shift under tanned skin as he pulls the weights. Sweat gleams on his shoulders, drips down his spine, and I have the sudden insane urge to lick the path it traces.
He sets the weights down and reaches for a towel, and that's when I see his chest. Defined pectorals, visible abs that would put men half his age to shame, a dusting of dark hair that trails down past the waistband of his workout shorts.
I'm staring. Openly gaping like I've never seen a man's torso before.
But I haven't seen one like this. Nathan was built fine. Gym-rat muscles that were more for show than function, but this is different. This is a mature man's body, and it's doing things to me that are absolutely inappropriate given our situation.
Richard turns, finally sensing my presence, and our eyes meet.
"Belle." My name comes out slightly breathless, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I was looking for you," I manage to get out, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. "Mrs. Annie said you were here, but I had no idea you were... working out."
One corner of his mouth quirks up. Not quite a smile, but close. "That's generally what people do in gyms."
He lifts the towel to his hair, rubbing it roughly, and I watch water droplets scatter. Some land on his chest, trailing down through that dark hair, and I have to physically force myself not to track their path with my eyes.
When he lowers the towel, his hair is gorgeously messy, strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, more approachable. Less like the intimidating billionaire and more like just... a man.
A devastatingly handsome man who's currently shirtless and sweaty in front of me.
I should say something. Anything. But my brain has apparently short-circuited, all coherent thought replaced by the overwhelming awareness of his body, his proximity, the way his chest is still rising and falling from exertion.
He clears his throat. "I was planning to swim after this. The indoor pool—" Of course there's an indoor pool. "It's heated, very relaxing. Would you like to join me?"
My mouth goes dry. Swimming. With Richard. Which means... swimsuits. Which means seeing even more of his body, which I'm not sure I can handle without spontaneously combusting.
Which also means him seeing me in a swimsuit.
My body isn't pool-ready. Isn't magazine-perfect. I'm soft where I should be firm, thick where I should be thin, covered in fading bruises that tell a story I don't want Richard to see written on my skin.
"I don't have a swimsuit," I say, seizing on the excuse.
"There's a selection in the pool house. Multiple sizes." His voice is neutral. "Everything's new, tags still on. Part of the guest amenities."
Of course there are guest swimsuits. Because this is Richard Kane's house, and he thinks of everything.
"I'm not sure..." I trail off, uncertainty warring with desire. Because God, do I want to go. Want to spend more time with him, want to see him in the water, want to take this opportunity I've been given.
But do I want him to see me? My body, barely covered, all my flaws on display?
Nathan's voice echoes in my head: *You should cover up more. Nobody wants to see all that.*
Except Richard isn't Nathan. Richard looks at me like I'm beautiful, not something to be hidden away. Richard had clothes purchased in my exact size, stocked a guest room for me, stayed up half the night making sure I was okay.
Richard, despite what I keep telling myself, might actually see something worth looking at when he looks at me. And God, I've wasted so much time suffering. Two years of being told I wasn't enough, wasn't attractive, wasn't worth the effort. Two years of being controlled and isolated and hurt.
I'm free now. Maybe not completely. Nathan will come looking, there are still legal complications to sort out, but I'm free enough to make this choice. To say yes to swimming with a man who makes my heart race and my body ache and my brain forget why this is supposed to be inappropriate.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'd like that."
"Good." He turns toward a door on the far wall. "Let me show you the pool house. You can change there. It's got private changing rooms, full bathroom facilities."
I follow him through the gym, trying desperately not to stare at his back, at the way his muscles shift as he moves. He pushes open a door and suddenly we're in a glass-enclosed walkway, the forest visible on all sides.
"I wanted the pool separate from the main house," Richard explains as we walk. "Somewhere I could swim without tracking water through the entire place. Plus, it gave Marcus another structure to fortify, which made him happy."
The mention of his head of security makes me curious. "Does Marcus really enjoy fortifying things?"
"It's his love language." There's dry humor in Richard's voice. "Some people give gifts. Marcus installs security cameras and runs threat assessments."
The walkway opens into another building. Smaller than the main house but still impressive. And there, taking up most of the space, is the pool.
It's stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, the fourth wall made of natural stone with water cascading down it. The pool itself is large, the water a perfect blue-green, steam rising from the surface.
"The changing rooms are through there." Richard points to a door. "Like I said, there should be suits that fit. Take your time. I'll be in the water."
He disappears through another door, presumably the men's changing room, and I'm left alone with my racing thoughts.
I can do this. I can put on a swimsuit and get in a pool with Richard Kane and act like a normal human being instead of a lust-addled mess.
The women's changing room is spa-like: lockers, benches, and another full bathroom. And there, neatly arranged on shelves, are swimsuits. Multiple styles, multiple sizes, all high-end brands with tags still attached.
I find my size and sort through the options. There's a modest one-piece, practical and coverage-providing. Safe.
Then there's a bikini. Burgundy, the same color as the sweater I'm wearing. High-waisted bottoms that would actually be flattering on my curves, and a top that would provide adequate support while still being... attractive.
I reach for the one-piece, then stop.
Fuck it.
I grab the bikini and change quickly before I can second-guess myself. The bottoms fit perfectly, sitting high on my waist and actually accentuating my curves instead of trying to hide them. The top... God, my breasts look good in this. Full and soft, cleavage visible but not obscene.
There are bruises still, yellow-green fingerprints on my ribs, a fading mark on my hip. But they're old enough now that they don't scream "abuse victim" quite so loudly. They just look like I bruise easily.
I look at myself in the full-length mirror and try to see what Richard might see.
Try to find the beauty he seems to think is there.
I see curves. Stomach rolls, thick thighs, full hips.
I see breasts that are probably too large, an ass that's definitely too big.
I see all the things Nathan criticized, all the reasons he said he had to look elsewhere.
But I also see... potential? Maybe? I see a woman who survived hell and came out the other side. A woman who's still standing, still fighting, still brave enough to put on a bikini and get in a pool with a man who makes her feel things she shouldn't feel.
That woman deserves a chance. Deserves to stop hiding.
I wrap a towel around myself, not covering the suit, just loosely around my shoulders, and head back to the pool.