Chapter 6
Chapter Six
NO ONE IN KATE’S LIFE had ever really wanted her after her mother had died. None of the foster homes she’d been to, none of the friends she’d made in her short stints at various schools. Rejection wasn’t new to Kate, but she wasn’t sure it had ever stung quite like this.
Because she’d been sure about Roman.
Not that he wanted a relationship with her, but that he wanted her, if only on a purely physical level. Something had been sparking between them all day, and by the time it had reached a fever pitch, she’d been so sure he was ready to indulge it—as she was.
But instead, he’d gotten up and left her there, panting and desperate, and feeling like an absolute fool.
So the next morning, rather than call for Roman, she hobbled to the bathroom herself and got ready for the day.
It took a long time, and her ankle still hurt—though it was definitely starting to hurt less.
She felt proud afterwards. Proud that she’d asserted this independence, that she’d shown him she could do some things for herself.
Proud as she made her way down the corridor of his penthouse and into the enormous open-plan living area, looking around. It was immaculate, as always. No sign of champagne or Chinese, just an architecturally magnificent space.
And no sign of Roman.
She moved into the kitchen and propped herself carefully against the counter as she began to make a coffee, salivating for that wonder drug.
She ground the beans, and perhaps it was that noise that drew him to the lounge, because a moment later he was there, close enough to catch her should she need it, but not touching her.
“You’re up.”
His Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed.
Her smile felt forced. Heavy on her face. “Yes.”
“And showered.”
She lifted a brow. “Is that a problem?”
“You should have called me.”
“I’m starting to feel stronger. Better. More like myself. I can get out of your hair soon, Roman.”
“We said two weeks. It’s been two nights.”
“Two weeks is overkill,” she responded with an attempt at sounding casual. “You must want your space back.”
“If I wanted my space back, I’d take you to a damned hotel, Kate.” His voice was sharp, caustic. Cross. “Do not mistake what happened last night for me not wanting you here.”
She hadn’t expected him to go there this early. Perhaps not at all?
“I’m sorry about that,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I can’t believe how forward I was.”
Rejection tightened in her belly. Shame and regret following soon after.
“I like forward.”
She glanced up at him, frowning. “I put you in a difficult situation.”
“The difficulty was all in leaving, believe me. Nothing you asked for differed from what I wanted.”
“Then—why—”
“I’m not who you think I am,” he said, heavily, the words weighed down with a sense of grief. Anger. “And you’re exactly who I think you are,” he said, eyes skimming over her face as though reading every little part of her. “You are kind and good, innocent and trusting.”
“Believe me, I’m not. I told you, I don’t trust—”
“You trust me.”
Her eyes widened at the bald statement, at the fact that he was right. She did trust him. How had that happened?
“And I can’t risk hurting you.”
“You’re so sure you’re going to?”
“I don’t want to risk letting you down.”
“What am I missing, Roman?”
“I’m not interested in a relationship. I’m not interested in that happily ever after bullshit. White picket fence, two and a half kids, family car; that’s not for me.”
She pulled the coffee cup from the machine and placed it on the counter, then braced her palms so she could pull up to sit on the edge of it, glad to take any weight off her ankle.
“Don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself?” she said, simply, sipping her coffee.
“Am I?”
“I asked you to kiss me, not to marry me.”
He moved closer, stepping near enough that one more movement would bring him between her legs.
She held her breath, hoping, wanting that connection.
Instead, he reached out and took the coffee cup from her, and just like last night, he lifted it to his lips, taking a sip while watching her, taunting her with the sensual promise of that.
“The only relationships I have are consensual, and commercial.”
“Consensual, I understand. But what does commercial mean?”
“What do you think?”
“It makes it sound like you bang hookers,” she said with a frown. “I’m not—”
“I know you’re not.” The words breathed from his lips. “And I don’t mean hookers. In exchange for spending time with me, women are required to sign an NDA. The payment is for the NDA, not for anything else that follows.”
“I don’t want your money,” Kate snapped, shaking her head quickly. “I can’t believe you feel that’s necessary.”
“I’m private about my life,” he said, words gruff.
“If I were to say anything, to reveal more of myself than I’m comfortable with, I like to know I’m covered.
That I won’t see it printed in the papers in a week’s time.
So I pay whoever I’m spending time with enough to know that no other financial compensation will come close to competing. ”
“I’m not interested in sharing your secrets. Sheesh. What kind of women do you usually date?”
“Sleep with,” he corrected, and a tremble of jealousy made her whole body tingle and ache. “And believe it or not, women who have integrity. The NDA is a catch all. For my peace of mind.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t need that with me. I’m not going to tell anyone anything about you.”
“You say that now, but if a magazine offers you five hundred thousand dollars for all the sordid details?”
“I’d tell them to get stuffed,” she responded indignantly.
“No, you wouldn’t, and I’d be disappointed if you did. You’re a survivor, Kate, just like me. You’re someone who’ll do whatever it takes to make it. I recognise that part of you.”
She gasped at the way he said it—no anger or judgement. Just admiration.
“So if you want to stay here and get to know me better—whatever form that takes—let’s discuss it like a business proposition, and go from there.”
“But this isn’t business,” she denied hotly. “Nothing that I feel for you is commercial.”
“It’s for my peace of mind,” he reminded her.
“I’ve already told you, I have no intention of telling anyone anything…”
“And this makes sure of it.” He reached out and tilted her chin in that way he had. “It also means that I know you’re okay. That you’ll always be okay. It’s a way of helping you. Let me do that.”
“You already have,” she pointed out. “You saved me, you brought me here, you’ve done so much…”
“Not enough.” The words were heavy with self-recrimination; it made no sense.
“I’ll get the paperwork for you to look over. No pressure. But without it, we need to stop playing this game.”
The thing was, she didn’t want to stop. She didn’t consider they were playing a damned thing, but she did like how it felt to be near Roman, to spar with him, challenge him, to go toe to toe with him. To feel as though she were frustrating him and making him wonder about her.
Yes, she saw the inherent danger here, too.
She saw the risks. Because despite how readily she accepted rejection as an inevitability, she wasn’t na?ve enough to pretend it wouldn’t hurt.
Roman pushing her away would be one of the hardest things she’d ever experience, except if he prepared her for it from the beginning.
Which was exactly what the paperwork would do.
Signing a contract that built in an end-point and boundaries, safe words and limits, would protect them both.
It would give Roman the certainty that he could speak freely and be completely himself, and it would give Kate the freedom to enjoy this without letting herself want more.
Because he was making it abundantly clear that there was no more than this.
There was nothing on offer beyond a commercial arrangement.
Later that day, he placed three folders in front of where she was sitting on the sofa. Kate glanced up at him, her heart beating as she already had an inkling what they contained.
“This is from the immigration lawyers. Some forms for you to complete,” he said, tapping the first folder, which she now saw had a sticker on the front labelled with the name of a law firm. “This is from the police—photos of your assailants and a statement for you to look over.”
“Roman—” she said, shaking her head.
“My lawyers have ensured your confidentiality.”
She swallowed.
“And the third?”
His eyes seemed to swirl with heat and promise. “The paperwork we discussed. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
She wanted to look at the third folder first. She ached to read what was contained within, to see exactly what terms he propositioned his mistresses with.
But instead, she made herself go in order, starting with the immigration paperwork.
It was a visa extension application, back dated to when her original tourist visa expired.
“Will this work?”
“They seem to think so.”
“Because I can just keep flying under the radar…”
“Their job is to keep you safe.”
She placed the folder to the side. “I need to think about that.”
Her fingers trembled a little as she moved to the second folder. She took in a deep breath, not sure she wanted to see their photographs again. As if instinctively understanding that, Roman strode across to her and took a seat at her side, one hand on her knee for strength. Sparks flew through her.
“You need to ID them,” Roman said, softly. “This is the alternative we agreed upon, rather than you going to the station.”
She shivered at the very thought, her fingers trembling as she opened the folder.
Her eyes latched on the images. The faces of twelve men peered back at her.
She scanned them all and then shuddered, pointing first to one, then the other.
“I’ll never forget their faces. Their eyes. It was dark but—I remember them.”
Roman took a pen and circled the images Kate had indicated.
“The statement can wait,” he said firmly, putting the folder back with the others.
“I can do it.”