Chapter Ten #2
The answer was so quiet and matter-of-fact that heat moved beneath her skin before she could prepare for it.
“That's not very gentlemanly.”
“I kidnapped you. I think gentleman became difficult several days ago.”
A laugh escaped before she could stop it.
Taddeo looked almost surprised.
That irritated her enough to make the next decision easier.
Isolde crossed the space between them.
Not all the way.
Enough.
Taddeo didn't move.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
His expression changed instantly.
Not surprise.
Restraint.
“Yes.”
The word came without hesitation.
Isolde's pulse climbed. “You've thought about it.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough that this conversation is becoming unhelpful.”
There was something so grounded in the answer, so distinctly Taddeo, that her mouth curved despite herself. “Do I make it difficult for you to concentrate?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His eyes narrowed. “You seem pleased.”
“A little.”
“That is not a victory.”
“It feels like one.”
Taddeo looked at her for a long moment. “You're playing with something you don't fully understand.”
The warning cooled some of the humor without extinguishing the heat beneath it.
“Meaning you?”
“Meaning this.”
His gaze moved once between them.
Isolde understood what he meant.
The house.
The gates.
The fact that she could stand here and tease him because she wanted to while still having no right to get into her car and leave afterward.
“I understand more than you think.”
“I don't doubt that.”
“Then don't talk to me like I'm doing this because I forgot where I am.”
Something hard passed through his expression.
“I don't think you've forgotten.”
“Good.” Isolde stepped closer. “Because I haven't. It doesn't mean I approve of what you do, and it definitely doesn't mean I've forgotten that I'm still here because you won't let me leave.”
“I understand.”
She gave him a look.
Taddeo corrected himself. “I heard you.”
“Better.”
She was close enough now to touch him.
Taddeo still hadn't moved.
That became its own provocation.
Isolde raised one hand and hooked two fingers lightly into the front of his shirt.
His breathing changed.
Barely.
She noticed anyway.
“Taddeo.”
“Yes.”
She kissed him.
For half a second, he did nothing.
Then Isolde pressed closer and kissed him again, deliberately enough that the choice could not be mistaken for an accident, and Taddeo's hands came to her waist. Even then he didn't pull. His palms settled against her as if he were waiting to see what she did next.
Isolde slid one arm around his neck.
The tension in him sharpened.
“Still yes?” he asked against her mouth.
She almost answered by kissing him again.
Taddeo drew back an inch. “Words.”
The roughness in his voice sent warmth low through her body, but the insistence itself affected her more.
“Yes.”
That was enough.
His restraint loosened without disappearing.
Taddeo kissed her properly then, deeper and slower than she expected, one hand tightening at her waist only after she leaned into him.
Isolde had been kissed by men who treated confidence like speed, who seemed to believe desire required urgency to prove itself.
Taddeo was not hesitant, but he paid attention in a way that made every change deliberate.
When her fingers moved into his hair, his hand slid farther around her back.
When she opened her mouth beneath his, the kiss deepened.
When her body pressed closer, his thumb moved beneath the edge of her blouse at her waist and stopped against bare skin.
He could overpower her.
The knowledge remained present.
So did the fact that he wasn't.
Isolde broke the kiss because she needed air more than distance.
Taddeo's forehead rested briefly against hers.
Neither spoke immediately.
Her heart was beating too hard. His wasn't much better.
“Well,” Isolde murmured eventually.
A faint breath that might have been a laugh left him. “Useful observation.”
“I wasn't prepared.”
“I noticed.”
“That sounds smug.”
“I'm trying very hard not to be.”
She looked at him.
His hands were still at her waist.
The sight brought back the drive, Cesare's dinner, the gun locked in the drawer, Mercer Street.
The contradiction should have driven her backward.
Instead, she kissed him again.
This time Taddeo's hand moved up her back, and Isolde let herself feel what she'd been refusing to name since the kitchen.
Wanting him was not abstract anymore. It was physical and specific: the roughness of his jaw beneath her fingertips, the controlled pressure of his mouth, the way his body went tense whenever she moved closer as though holding still required effort.
Taddeo turned with her until the back of her thighs met the edge of the sofa.
Then he stopped.
Completely.
Isolde blinked and looked up at him. “What?”
His breathing was uneven enough that she knew the decision had cost him something.
“We're stopping.”
The first response that reached her was embarrassment. It vanished quickly beneath irritation. “I didn't ask you to.”
“No.”
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Taddeo released her waist.
The loss of his hands felt immediate.
He stepped back just enough to create space without making the retreat feel like rejection. “Because I believe you want this.”
“That doesn't sound like a reason to stop.”
“It isn't the only thing that matters.”
Isolde's brows pulled together.
Taddeo looked toward the dark windows, then back at her.
“You can tell me yes in this room and mean it.
I believe that. But you're still here because I decided you stay here.
You can't walk out the front door tonight, go home, think about this for two days, and decide whether you want to see me again.”
Her irritation weakened.
Not because she liked the point.
Because she understood it.
“I know the difference between wanting you and wanting to be kidnapped.”
“I know you do.”
She almost warned him about the phrase again, but his expression stopped her.
Taddeo wasn't using understanding to dismiss her.
He looked genuinely unhappy with the situation.
“If we keep going,” he said, “I need to know I'm not benefiting from a choice I took away somewhere else.”
Isolde folded her arms loosely, more to gather herself than defend. “You already are.”
“Yes.”
The answer came quietly.
That mattered.
“You don't get points for recognizing that.”
“I wasn't asking for any.”
“No.” Isolde studied him. “You really aren't.”
Taddeo's mouth tightened. “That seems to disappoint you.”
“It would be easier if you were worse.”
Something almost amused entered his face. “I can make an effort.”
“Don't.”
The word came too quickly.
They both heard it.
Taddeo did not comment.
That was somehow worse.
Isolde picked up her water and took a drink mostly because her mouth had gone dry. “So what now?”
“You go upstairs.”
“That sounded suspiciously like an order.”
“Then I recommend you go upstairs.”
“Marginal improvement.”
“And I stay here until I stop wanting to follow you.”
Heat moved through her again, inconvenient and immediate.
She set down the glass. “How long will that take?”
“I'll let you know.”
This time she smiled fully.
Taddeo looked at her mouth and immediately seemed to regret whatever restraint remained.
“Good night, Isolde.”
“You're dismissing me because you don't trust yourself?”
“I trust myself.”
“Then what's the problem?”
“I don't trust you not to deliberately make this more difficult.”
“That seems fair.”
She left the library before either of them could change their minds.
Sleep should have been impossible after that.
Instead, exhaustion eventually took her, although the last thing Isolde remembered before drifting off was the way Taddeo had stepped back when continuing would have been easier.
The next morning she woke irritated by how much that mattered.
By ten-thirty, irritation had turned into something more entertaining.
Taddeo had locked his office.
Isolde discovered that when she tried the handle on her way back from the library.
“Finally,” she murmured.
The door opened from the inside.
She stepped back.
Taddeo stood there in dark trousers and a charcoal shirt with the sleeves folded neatly to his forearms, looking as though he'd been working for hours. His eyes dropped briefly to her hand still near the handle.
“Were you testing the lock?”
“Obviously.”
“And?”
“It works.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Not really. If it hadn't, I'd have started questioning your professional standards.”
He stepped aside. “Did you need something?”
Isolde hadn't.
That did not seem like a useful answer.
She walked into the office.
The room had changed subtly since the first morning. Nothing confidential sat faceup on the desk anymore, the cabinets were locked, and several folders had migrated to a side table beneath the windows. A half-finished cup of coffee sat near Taddeo's laptop.
“You shouldn't leave coffee beside archival material.”
“These aren't archival materials.”
“Paper doesn't become immune to liquids because you don't care about it historically.”
Taddeo moved the coffee farther away.
Isolde smiled.
He noticed. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That expression you get when you've successfully annoyed someone.”
“I thought my face was subtle.”
“It isn't.”
“You've known me less than a week.”
“It has been a productive week.”
She leaned against the edge of his desk.
Taddeo's gaze dropped to where she had positioned herself.
There were two perfectly good chairs opposite him.
Isolde ignored them.
“You're doing that intentionally.”
“Doing what?”
“Sitting on my desk.”
“I hadn't realized desks were emotionally important to you.”
“Get off.”
“No.”
His eyes lifted slowly to hers.
The heat from the previous night returned between them so quickly that Isolde nearly laughed.
“You told me last night you trusted yourself,” she said.
“I do.”
“So this shouldn't be a problem.”
“I also said I don't trust you not to make it one.”
“That sounds less flattering.”
“It was meant to.”
Isolde settled more comfortably on the edge of the desk. “Do I make it difficult for you to concentrate?”
Taddeo gave her a look. “You already asked me that.”