24. Roman
Ihad a while to reflect on how this lunch should go. And yes, I Googled it. The next chairman and president of the board was frantically exploring the internet to figure out what might be considered politesse on a romantic first date.
I was positive that nothing, absolutely nothing could shift my focus from conducting this date the way it should be done. With excellent champagne, stimulating conversation and proper decorum. Like Google suggested.
That was until Isabel walked into the library.
I was not prepared for this incandescent beauty who entered, shamelessly stealing my breath, an inherent grace in every step she took. “Isabel,” I uttered hoarsely, a humbled subject in reverence of his queen.
My intention of being a total gentleman slowly seeped from my skin, drip-drip-drip like sweat after a five-mile run. But as the fringes of my mind urgently dipped into my arsenal of intrusive thoughts, there was no preventing my imagination from running wild.
And nothing else mattered right then when Isabel stood in front of me, those wide green eyes burrowing into mine and blazing with desire.
“Happy Birthday, Roman,” she breathed.
And God help me if my first thought wasn’t about her bare perky breasts underneath that dress, the fabric barely able to cope with veiling those pebbled nipples straining against the delicate thread.
Behave, be a gentleman. Forget those bare, perfect breasts begging for your touch. You’re a 32-year-old man, not an 18-year-old boy.
“And what a happy birthday it is,” I replied. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?”
She held her mouth up for a kiss, and my hands clenched in my pockets, my restraint scarcely hanging on as I inhaled her. And fuck if that kiss didn’t send a Morse code to my groin to bolt the library door and forget all about lunch. But I bit down on the leather strap and dragged my reluctant mouth away from hers.
As we strolled to the south wing, it was suddenly a very real thing. Inviting a woman into my inner sanctum. Granted, Isabel wasn’t just any woman and my ultimate goal was for her to stay. But what really surprised me was that I felt no hesitation. Nor did I feel the need to bring any of this to a halt.
Wasn’t that supposed to be a thing, the lone wolf returning to his den, the only clue of a successful hunt the blood on his muzzle? And now this wolf was bringing the cuddly lamb back to his lair.
There was no fooling myself that I was somewhat nervous. What if Isabel hated my place? What if she couldn’t see herself ever living there? It felt like trying to coach a wild, exotic bird into a golden cage.
I knew her well enough by now to realize that Isabel would not be convinced to do anything that went against her will or character. Was our overwhelming connection enough for her to make allowances, however big, and slide perfectly into that missing part of my life?
To distract from my apprehension, small talk was in order. “So, tell me what’s so special about your ingredients that you can’t find them in our very well-stocked kitchens?” I asked, genuinely curious.
She didn’t hesitate to explain. “I make my own butter from the double cream I buy from a small, grass-fed dairy farm. My cheeses are pretty exotic and I get them from a cheese shop where I pay cents on the dollar for whatever small remnants of cheese they have left over on Sundays. And I’m very picky about the flour I use for my pasta. I prefer organic Italian #00 flour, which is a very fine powdery wheat flour that makes the perfect dough for my ravioli. And yes, I already took inventory of the pantries in the main kitchen here. Except for the herb and vegetable garden, there’s nothing there I would ever use to make a birthday lunch for you. You deserve only the best food today.”
“You’re spoiling me,” I said.
“Says the man who bought me a Valentino coat in the middle of the night because it was a little chilly outside. Not to mention the man who bought me a very costly cameo on a whim.”
I did feel the need to correct her. “That cameo wasn’t bought on a whim, just so you know.”
“It wasn’t?” she asked.
“Cyrill Peyton had that created for the woman he would have gone to the ends of the earth for. I never understood that kind of love or devotion to one human being. I do now. That cameo belongs with you, and one day you’ll be wearing it.”
I heard her breath hitch. And as feather-light as it was, the sound resonated in the perpetual hush that filled the corners of this house. Somehow I knew I’d already broken the first rule of a romantic rendezvous by splaying my defenseless heart wide open to an unsuspecting date.
Her glance brushed my profile. “You can’t say things like that and not expect me to be charmed, Roman,” she said earnestly.
Still, I didn’t regret saying it. “It wasn’t meant to charm you, Isabel. It’s a simple fact.”
The silence that followed had me reach for her hand, if only to bring it to my mouth, kissing it and allowing her scent to cling to my lips. A small sigh escaped her, as if she’d resigned herself to the inevitable: my undying devotion to her.
As we reached the ornate iron gate to my south wing quarters, Isabel raised a brow. “Now this is what I call an entrance.”
“Welcome to my den, honey badger.”
I punched the code into my phone to open the gate, and she smiled. “I must admit this entrance has me imagining a medieval troll popping up out of nowhere with a huge copper key to unlock the gate to the castle,” she said. “Who exactly are you trying to keep out?”
I laughed. “Or yet, the better question is, who do I want to try to keep inside?”
There was no missing the pink flush seeping up from that slender throat to her cheeks. My hand slipped around her waist, and she instinctively backed up against the gate.
“Are you blushing, Isabel? I didn’t think honey badgers were capable of blushing. I thought honey badgers didn’t give a shit.”
Her irresistible giggle reached that part of me willing to abandon all good intentions, and to make matters worse I was confronted with a smoldering Isabel staring at my mouth as if her carnal salvation was buried between my lips.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I begged. “Please. I’m trying to do the right thing here.”
“Right thing?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Making this a proper date with a beginning, a middle and an end.”
“An end!? That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
I almost smiled. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“So what’s stopping you from making this a proper date?”
“You,” I stumbled. “You’re making it extremely hard.”
And Christ if her fingers didn’t travel over my waistcoat and down my abdomen, lingering ever so slightly over my cock straining against my pants. Every muscle below my navel coiled into a raging ball of lust.
“Oh, I believe it’s already hard,” she murmured, and I recognized that glint in her eye. A glint that meant my plans were going to be derailed and the cheese was about to go bad, unless I pulled it together and escaped this hypnotic spell she so effortlessly managed to weave around me.
My mouth hovered mere inches from hers as I made my case. ‘What about the cheese?”
And then she had to lick her lips, as if she was seriously entertaining the thought of seducing me instead of saving the goddamn cheese. “A few minutes won’t make a difference,” she purred.
A few minutes?Which was all it took to yank sanity back into the equation. I swept my lips across her forehead and stepped back. “Well, that won’t do. Today we’re going to take our time.”
Isabel held my gaze, gritting her teeth and trying to emancipate herself from the searing desire my words inflicted on her. Then the smallest of smiles bloomed across her lips. “Yes, that’s probably a better idea. I have my own plan for your birthday anyway. Best not to spoil the surprise.”
I was tempted to ask what that surprise was but thought better of it. God only knew how little it took for my defensive measures to crumble in the face of this temptress. Judging by our night in the penthouse, Isabel’s plan would brook no resistance.
She gracefully uncoiled from the iron gate and lifted her chin defiantly. “So, Roman. Dazzle me. Show me your den.”