Chapter 26 Daniel
DANIEL
On the one hand, I’m spent. My muscles ache, my bones weigh heavily, and my mind is exhausted.
But on the other hand, my body craves.
I crave something deep, something I’ve never truly longed for before.
Connection.
Connection with this woman who listened, who didn’t judge.
I’ve always imagined that telling someone the truth of my shattered family would send them running. After all, who would want to be with a person who could destroy a heart, a passion, a home?
But that’s not how Scarlett looks at me. She regards me as she always has, with open eyes and a willing heart.
Like that, we make our way back to the hotel quietly.
Her wigs are gone, our pretend names tossed aside. Once in the lift, I whisper a kiss behind her ear, saying her name. “Scarlett.”
Not Mrs. Dickens or Mrs. Rousseau. Not Mrs. Monet or Mrs. Brahms.
She’s Scarlett, and that’s all I want her to be. A woman who understands and accepts.
Is that what I’ve been looking for all along?
I shake the notion away.
I haven’t been looking. I’ve never been looking. But somehow I’ve been found.
And I want to hold her tight, never let her go.
As I kiss her gently, a sense of déjà vu washes over me. I have felt this way before.
This intensity. This rush.
I felt it when I was younger, felt it for the violin. Now I feel it for a person. It’s terrifying and wonderful at the same damn time to feel something deep in your soul.
In the room, the door shuts behind us. I cup her cheeks, look into her eyes, and whisper, “Thank you.”
It’s hardly enough, but it’s a start.
She slides her hand up my chest, spreading her fingers open. “No, thank you for trusting me. I know that wasn’t easy for you.”
“You made it possible,” I say, letting her see inside me, letting her in.
But this is unfamiliar terrain, and I don’t want to linger on these rocky shores for too long.
I bring my lips back to her ear, tugging her earlobe between my teeth.
“I want to make you feel good,” I say, leaning on the familiar. Pleasure should do the trick.
Pleasure’s been my MO for the last fifteen years. I’ve been seeking bliss. Endless bliss. Mountains of it to blot out the pain from the past, to numb all that was lost.
That drive has dissipated. It’s been replaced with something else entirely.
A desire to be real.
Genuine.
Honest.
I long to tell her how different she is. I do my best, pulling back to meet her green-eyed gaze. “I want to make you feel good. Because of what you do to me. Because of who you are,” I say, trying that on for size, feeling like I’m starting all over again, stumbling and falling.
She runs her thumb along my jaw. “You do, Daniel. You make me feel so good.” She slides her hands up the back of my neck, threading her fingers through my hair, drawing me close as she presses her soft, lush lips to mine. “I want you to make love to me now. That’s what I want it to be.”
Those words.
My head spins from them. My skin, my God, it tingles. I barely know what to do with the way my heart slams in my chest, beating for her.
But I don’t have to say “I’m falling in love with you” for either one of us to know what this is.
We both know. We know without words.
I take her to bed, undress her, and put a condom on. When I slide inside her, her knees rise up, and she ropes her hands around my neck.
When I look into her eyes, more truths fall free. “I’m going to make love to you, because that’s exactly what this is.”
There.
That’s as close as I can get right now to saying how I feel.
I move in her, slow and luxurious, passionate and deep. She cries out, murmuring and moaning, arching and writhing as I bury my face in her neck, my cock in her body. Giving her my heart as I make love to her and hoping she won’t smash it to pieces.
We spend the next day together in Lyon, exploring the city, savoring each other, then tangling up together once more.
For the first time in years, love starts to feel possible, especially when she murmurs my name in the happiest sigh before she falls asleep curled up in my arms.
The next morning, I wake to find her on the phone.
In and of itself, that’s not odd. I’ve heard her on the phone plenty of times. She’s chatting with Cole, by the sound of it, as I swing my legs over the side of the bed then pull on boxer briefs.
“This place is fabulous. They all are,” she says, her voice drifting in from the living room of the suite.
I peer through the open doorway, watching her for a moment, savoring the scene in front of me.
With her back to me, she’s perched on a chair, already dressed, wearing a cranberry blouse, a black skirt, and her silver flats.
She’s Scarlett, through and through.
Scarlett Slade. The businesswoman. The financier.
The woman I’ve fallen for.
I sigh contentedly.
Perhaps we could make a go of this. Last beyond this week.
Carry on in Paris, enjoying nights in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, visits to the Musée d’Orsay, strolls through the Tuileries.
I could take her to Le Marais, wander through Montmartre on weekends, dance with her at clubs in Oberkampf, and fuck her and make love to her all night long.
We could have that life. Work together all day, play together all night. Like we’ve done for the last several nights.
“This is what I’ve been longing for. A deal like this. A chance like this,” she says into the phone. “And I would love to take the lead on it. It could be my first big acquisition for our company since I’ve been with you and Daniel.”
She pauses, and I listen more.
“I’ll have to ask him. I doubt he’ll mind.”
I step into the living room. “Ask me what?”
She beams at me, tossing a smile in my direction. “Cole wants to know if you’re okay with me taking the lead on the acquisition of these properties. It’s only been my greatest dream.”
I smile. “Of course. You should.”
She squeals, a victory sound. It’s a delightful noise. She punctuates it with more words to Cole. “I’m so happy. This is everything I wanted to see come to fruition when I partnered with the two of you.”
She takes a beat as Cole speaks, then she laughs, meeting my gaze. “Well, you know I need business to go swimmingly. It’s my superpower. It’s where all my strength comes from.”
Another pause, and her words tug at the back of my mind, worrying me. Reminding me of what she said when she told me about her husband. How business was her saving grace, what pulled her out of her grief.
That’s . . . concerning.
More than I expected.
Her words worm their way through me.
I’m so happy.
It’s only been my greatest dream.
I’m so damn close to her dreams. Maybe too close?
“Yes. Take it away, and you’ve got Scarlett Kryptonite.” She laughs, waving a hand airily, then she calls out to me. “Cole says I’m addicted. That I need deals and profit-and-loss statements to be happy.”
I fasten on a smile that I don’t truly feel as I say, “And Paris too. Don’t forget Paris.”
Her eyes glitter like diamonds. “Of course. Paris is my heart. It’s a prerequisite.”
I know that. That’s the problem. That’s why my gut is telling me something, why my mind is flashing warning signs.
You’ll hurt her. That’s all you ever do. You’re too close, and you’ll destroy her dreams because that’s what you do.
I try to fight off those words, but they’re digging into me, clawing into my heart. I damage everything.
And I’d hate to do that to her.
Scarlett does need Paris. She does need business. She craves deals. She eats them up.
She doesn’t need them simply for nine-to-five sustenance. She needs them for air, for life, for happiness.
Paris and work, work and Paris.
They helped her heal from her pain. They were the twin supports she needed.
What if I hurt them?
My mind spins at a rapid pace.
I could ruin something she loves.
Worse. I could destroy it.
If we don’t work out—and we won’t, because how could we?—I’ll taint business for her. And then I’ll taint the thing she needs most.
Her city.
As I imagine a life with her beyond this tryst on the road, a life spilling over into Paris, the dire consequences smack me in the face.
Paris is her happy place.
Her comfort.
Her soul mate.
When we fall apart, what will happen to the things she loves, the things she needs?
I don’t want to kill Paris for her.
I don’t want to cause her more pain.
To scar the city she cares so deeply for, or the work she cherishes.
Surely that’s all I’d do.
She’s already recovered from her pain. She made her way to the other side. She found her violin, and she found it in business, she found it in Paris.
Am I truly selfish enough to risk that just for a few more moments with her?
Even if I want more than this week, even if I am dying to tell her that I’m madly in love with her, chances are I’d eventually ruin us.
I head to the shower.
Once I’m in the bathroom, I turn on the tap, step under the water, and blast it on high. I wash off the night, washing away my confessions. As I scrub soap over my body, I stare at my scar—the reminder that everything beautiful can be broken.
All the images I’ve kept locked up, haven’t revisited in ages, pound through my mind again.
The kitchen, the knife, the ambulance, the mistrial, the wall.
What if everything precious shatters once again?
Screw what if.
There is no what if.
Everything wonderful does die.
The only question is how it will happen.
And when.