25. Isabel
With his hand on the small of my back, we entered through the gate and walked down the very short hallway toward imposing double doors, equal to those on the library.
Roman was right behind me when I stepped inside his sanctuary, a cavernous room with an exposed brick wall and giant French windows.
It took a few seconds for me to grasp the scope of it all. Eclectic was one way to describe it. The place had modern touches rivaling the antiques, the aesthetic blending in perfectly with comfort and most surprisingly of all, warmth.
Roman put the picnic basket on a small table by the entrance and I could feel his eyes on me as I took in my surroundings.
Not far from the entrance, a massive Chesterfield couch and overstuffed club chairs half-circled a fireplace. A well-used plush dog bed sat beside the couch, and my heart leapt at the thought that Roman held onto his beloved Duke’s bed.
Past the sitting room, it was as if state-of-the-art tech completely dominated the office area. Paper-thin, life-sized screens were hoisted up to the rafters, and I supposed it took the mere flick of a button to sink those things down to eye level when Roman had his meetings.
One side of the big desk displayed two huge computer screens, and I recognized the quill pen he bought at the auction, having taken its rightful place next to a framed photo of Roman graduating from Brown University, with Emily at his side.
“Shouldn’t Henry be in this photo too?” I asked curiously. I had hundreds of pictures where my mom celebrated every little milestone I reached, from my first step to doing my first solo as a ballet dancer.
“My father was in Brazil on business at the time.” Roman’s tone suggested I shouldn’t delve into it too much. At a guess it was a sore point, which I respected.
And then there was the desk.
Nothing about it was ornate, just incredibly imposing even in this enormous space. I ran my fingers over the smooth edge.
He joined me beside the desk, his fingers grazing mine as I trailed the wood, sparking a tingle that caused tiny goosebumps to bloom all over my arm. “It was a gift from my father for my twenty-first birthday,” he said. “It was the same day he told me to find a place in this house and make it mine. I chose this corner of the south wing, and it took six months to get it exactly the way I wanted it. To expose these bricks apparently required fine chisels and not sledgehammers. This house was built in a time when bricks were a thing, and not the anomaly they are today.”
And then I noticed something. The little nervous tick in Roman’s jaw. He really wanted me to like where he lived. It was important to him that it be a place where I’d feel comfortable. I soothed him with a soft kiss on the cheek to ease his nerves. I mean who wouldn’t adore this place?
“Why the south wing?” I asked.
“It has the best views of the ocean.”
“Yet you sit at your desk with your back to those incredible ocean views.”
“It’s a deliberate choice. If I stared at the ocean all day long, nothing would get done. But when I need to think, I can’t ask for a better view to contemplate.”
My attention was summoned by a framed picture on the wall beside the desk. “You’re not going to believe it, but I have the exact same Monet on my bedroom wall.”
“That’s it then,” he teased. “I’m completely convinced. This was meant to be.”
I continued to swoon. “I love Claude Monet’s work. You know what they say about his paintings. Beautiful from afar, but close-up it’s a mess. Which is why he was such a genius.”
But something about the picture drew me closer. And then a reality I’d never considered hit me and I felt the smile sliding off my face. There was a prickle in the air, and I was barely able to breathe. “Wait… This is a real Monet?”
“If it’s not, Sotheby’s definitely took me for a ride,” Roman said lightly.
My breath caught in my throat and I was absolutely entranced by the physical presence of an original masterpiece a few feet away from where I was standing.
It took a supreme effort for me to tear my gaze away from the painting and latch it onto Roman, my incredulity soaking the air. “How does it feel to have an original painting by Claude Monet? To have something that he painted and be able to look at it every day?”
Suddenly the divide between our two worlds was a glaring testament to the uphill battle we faced, albeit for completely different reasons.
In the one world, there was a printed Monet I found at a flea market one Sunday afternoon and quibbled down a few dollars. And in the other world was the man who had the original masterpiece hanging on a wall next to his imposing desk, and at a fair bet there’d been no splitting hairs about the price with S0theby’s.
Even if I was pulled into Roman’s world, there was no disputing the fact that my belonging there was a different issue altogether.
Roman’s voice was gentle when he explained, as if he wanted to convince me it was all just part of everyday life. “I bought it because it’s very rare for any original work of Claude Monet’s to become available. It was an opportunity to make a good investment, and there’s something to be said for having a painting by the master himself, don’t you think?”
Not the passionate answer I’d craved, and Roman realized it immediately. And he wouldn’t be the man he was if he didn’t know exactly how to mold his follow-up into something a little more pleasing to me.
He smiled. “Perhaps I was waiting for you all these years to teach me how to really feel about it.”
I ignored his smooth quip. “Is this why you have the impressive iron gate? To keep the Monet safe?”
“No, the Monet has its own security system.”
Of course it did. It would be funny, if it wasn’t so incredibly real. My effort to make light of it came out strained. “Knowing that will make me sleep better at night. Just so you know.”
He held my gaze captive, and there was a warning plea in his tone. “There are a few valuable things in here. Please tell me I’m not getting grilled over each and every one.”
I smiled, never breaking our stare. “You mean like asking where you got the ancient kilim I’m standing on, which is probably a thousand knots per square inch? Which places it in the highest order of valuable kilims if you take into consideration that a kilim is deemed pretty good quality at a knot count of a mere hundred knots per square inch.”
For the longest few moments Roman contemplated me, and then he laughed. “God, you’re something else, you know that… So, to answer you, I found both kilims in this room in a small antique shop in Istanbul, ten years ago.”
“You were shopping for antique kilims in Istanbul at twenty-two?”
He laughed again. “What did I say about grilling me?”
“Fine. But it’s worth it to note that while you were shopping for antique kilims in Istanbul, I was a flourishing fifteen-year-old who was listening to One Direction and Taylor Swift between countless ballet recitals.”
“And I’ll bet you were a handful back then, because you’re definitely a handful now.”
“Is that a complaint by any chance, mister?”
Roman’s eyes raked over me. “Oh God no. There’s absolutely nothing I would change about you. Except perhaps being so damn perfect. It’s exhausting trying to resist you.”
It was my turn to laugh. “And you think you’re easy to resist?”
Roman’s ardent stare was a stark reminder of my weakness for his charms. I folded my arms in defiance. I wasn’t going to let those cheeses perish because I couldn’t muster a smidgen of self-control.
My discovery continued and I wandered past the huge French windows where Belmont Manor’s rocky shore sprang to life. And another fireplace, one more ancient kilim and a sword on the wall that rivaled Excalibur, the mystical weapon of King Arthur.
I finally ended up on the far side of the vast room where a very comfortable, very plush sectional couch strategically faced the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of the North Atlantic. This would not be the most difficult view to get used to.
When I finally turned back, Roman was watching me expectantly. “Consider me dazzled, Roman. It’s all beyond amazing.”
I could see him relax. “Well, I’m glad it meets with your approval.”
But I was missing something. “I have to ask where’s this chef’s kitchen you were boasting about, though. Or your bedroom for that matter?”
He stifled a smile. “This is just the office. The apartment is upstairs.”
“You mean there’s more?” I asked.
He held out his hand, and I took it. “There’s so much more. Let me show you…before the cheeses spoil.”
We made the long trek back through the room, passing the small entrance table where Roman hooked the picnic basket. Then he led the way to the spiral staircase by the first fireplace.
As we climbed the stairs I couldn’t help but cast one last look back at the Monet. If the painter only knew at the time he was painting that, how it would divide two lovers’ worlds.
* * *
If I thoughtthe office was quite something, it didn’t hold a candle to Roman’s apartment. The huge place was mostly open-plan, with more exposed brick walls and French windows and sweeping ocean views.
All of it was complimented by deep comfortable couches, a long rustic dining room table with provincial chairs, a fireplace befitting a castle, and floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes, hems pooling on the floor.
Light poured in from the windows and splashed over this enchanting display of never-ending splendor, and at the same time it was all wonderfully warm and comfortable. At the far end was a bedroom with a king-size bed walled off by glass, the roaring North Atlantic the only audience to whatever might happen on that bed.
And then there was the grand bouquet of calla lilies, perfectly placed where it could be seen from anywhere in the apartment. I might have gasped.
‘Turns out I have a garden full of calla lilies right here at the south wing,” Roman said, watching my reaction to the place he called home. And I swear to God I tried, I really tried to be nonchalant and classy about it all but there was no ignoring the feeling of being a little overwhelmed.
When I turned back to Roman, my tongue was tied. He drew me close. “You belong here, you know that? It’s as if all those years ago when I planned this, it was with you in mind.”
His words soaked up my unease and I tilted my head back, looking up at him. “Roman, you really need to try being a little more romantic,” I teased. “These cold dispassionate declarations of yours do nothing for me.”
The smile that stole over Roman’s features rushed the tremble chasing up my spine. “And here I thought I was doing so well,” he said with dramatic flair. “I suppose now I’ll just have to pull out all the stops.”
With that, he slid his phone out of his pocket. Next thing a sentimental song seeped into the air out of nowhere, filling every corner of the place.
“Would you like to dance, my sweet?” But Roman didn’t wait for an answer before he swept me into a dancing pose. “I was saving this for later, but you know what, if it’s chivalry my honey badger wants right now, it’s chivalry she gets.”
I laughed as my hand curled around the back of his neck, my fingertips lacing into his thick black hair. As I breathed in Roman’s smell, all the festering uncertainties ebbed away like neap tides under a quarter moon.
There was just Roman and his ruthless adoration, begging me to accept his world. I couldn’t even fathom why I felt so overwhelmed by all of this. Everything was perfect, and all I knew was that right now wild horses couldn’t drag me away from this moment, this place, or this man.
When I offered my mouth for a kiss, he didn’t hesitate to wrap me in his arms, kissing me. “And to think,” he muttered into my mouth. “You haven’t even seen the kitchen yet.”
“Well, why don’t you show me this kitchen then?” I said breathlessly. “All this splendor needs at least one blemish to balance the scales.”
We reluctantly broke away from the kiss and Roman led me to the kitchen, which turned out not to be a blemish at all. It was as close to perfection as one could imagine.
He leaned against the doorway, watching me explore every square inch of what could only be described as any chef’s dream. My only thought was, what a waste a kitchen like this was in a place where no one cooked.
It took a moment for me to find the words. “Wow.”
Eloquent, I know, but I did say it with flair.
“Well, now that you’ve been sufficiently dazzled, why don’t I pour us some champagne?” Roman said. “Do you mind if I take my jacket off?”
“Of course I don’t mind, please do.” I was checking out the cupboards and pantries, familiarizing myself with the kitchen and envisioning all the culinary delights I could create here. A brand-new pasta maker gleamed in the afternoon sun streaming through the French kitchen window.
I put on my white frilly apron and started to unpack the picnic basket with all the ingredients I’d need to make the birthday lunch. And when Roman returned to the kitchen, he held two champagne flutes and a chilled bottle of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle.
Not only had he removed his jacket, but he had also ditched the waistcoat, his tie and he unbuttoned the two top buttons of his dress shirt. For some reason, the small bit of exposed skin captivated me, and tendrils of swirling need curled around me.
Roman caught me staring and for a long lazy second, we just looked at each other, his talking vein throbbing and I realized that this consuming need we had for one another was as new and invasive for him as it was for me.
And then there was something else. I recognized, in a moment of clarity, that despite any misgivings I may have entertained, I might already have fallen hopelessly in love with Roman Belmont.