“I’m surprised she ate any knowing you made them.” He pulled her into his arms. “I am sorry, mon amour.”
She tightened her arms around him. “Do you want to talk about last night?”
“Not yet. I don’t think I am ready. Can I do anything for you?”
She pulled back and shook her head. “Then I’d better get going.”
“Stay here tonight. With me.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please.” He kissed her softly on her lips. “I just want to hold you.”
Chapter 13
After unloading the rest of the books in his study, Roman led her to his bedroom. He handed her a t-shirt, and she went to the bathroom to change. He got ready for bed, and settled between the sheets.
A short time later, she left the bathroom, and turned the light off. Her eyes flicked nervously to him, and she quickly looked away.
He had the sheet pulled up to his waist, but he had not put a t-shirt on. His eyes tracked her as she walked across the room.
She hurried to get under the covers, kept her eyes averted. She laid on her side, her back to him.
He turned the lights off, and rolled onto his side, pulling her close to curve around her. He shifted against her, and he could have sworn she sighed in relief when his pajama-clad legs brushed hers.
“I missed this, missed holding you,” he murmured, feeling for the first time in a long time he might sleep through the night.
With her in his bed.
Where she belongs.
That woke him up.
“Good night,” she whispered.
He soon heard her breath deepen, and she relaxed against him.
Of all the times for her to come back into his life, just when he had decided it was time to marry and have a family. Would he be a good father? He wanted to be a good one, something he had certainly never had, especially after his mamán had left him and his father.
He’d been thinking about asking her to stay, but her revelations the night before changed everything. She couldn’t have children.
His children.
He pulled her tighter, and she nestled closer to him. She felt right in his arms, in his bed . . . in his life.
She was not the same carefree young woman he had fallen for so long ago. She had matured . . . how could she not, considering the trials and tribulations she had faced at such a young age?
He clenched his teeth to keep from raging at the pain filling him. He should have been with her, should have refused to leave on the trip to Milan that he now understood had been fabricated to get him away from Genevieve. Then he could have gone to help her tend to her father, and she wouldn’t have lost their baby.
He stroked her hair gently, and she sighed. He lifted his head and propped it on his arm so he could watch her sleep. With her face relaxed in sleep, she who was so strong looked so vulnerable now.
Yes, she had matured—she was capable, loyal, and so fiercely determined to be dependent on no one. She had taken him aback earlier this evening when she defended herself. He was so used to people asking him for handouts. Patrice’s poisonous words hadn’t helped.
Guilt and regret left him exhausted, and he was sorry he’d jumped to conclusions. He knew this woman better than that, shouldn’t have assumed she wanted anything from him.
He laid his head back on the cool pillow, and tried to formulate a plan, but sleep finally beckoned, and he yawned.
He jerked awake sometime later. The mattress dipped as Genevieve sat up. His heart sank, and he hoped she wasn’t leaving.
She walked across the room and closed the bathroom door. A few minutes later he heard the water running, and she opened the door. She walked back across the room and got back into bed. Relief swept through him. She wasn’t leaving him. At least not yet.
She turned on her side to face him, and he smiled at her.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, her voice quiet.
“It is of no matter. I would rather lie awake all night with you by my side, than sleep without you.”
She traced a finger over his lips, and he pressed a kiss to it. Her fingers gently brushed his chin.
“When did you grow a beard?”
He tried to remember. “It was about five years ago, I think. Do you hate it? I can shave it off, right now.”
She laughed. “No, it makes you look very distinguished.”
“Now you are calling me old?” He grinned.
“Not at all. I meant distinguished, but in a bad-boy sort of way.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then pulled away. “Is that better?”
He moved closer to her, and rubbed his cheek against her soft skin. “Do you still like it now?”
“Mhmm,” she said, her voice low and sexy. “Feels dangerous against my skin.”
“I don’t want to be a hazard to your skin. I can change it for you.”
“It’s your beard, your face. You shouldn’t change it just for me.”
He didn’t think they were speaking of his beard any longer.
She was close to getting in over her head. But, oh, how she wanted him. He’d been a perfect gentleman, even holding her as close as he had when she’d drifted off to sleep. The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted him to ask her to stay. But she couldn’t. She would only become lost in his world.
Her mother had been lost in her dad’s world. He didn’t want her to work, or have friends, or join clubs. She was there to take care of him and their daughter. Yes, her mom had loved them both, but there were times, even as a child, she could see her mother’s sadness, her yearning for more.
The full moon shone through the window, lending just enough light to see the way he stared at her with his intense gaze.
It made her breathless the way he focused on her.
When he looked at her that way, with such pure male arousal . . . her heart fluttered, then raced. He made her feel as if she were the only person in the world who mattered to him. Her blood pumped thick and hot. His mouth was a magnet, pulling her closer until she ached to taste him.
Closing the short distance, she molded herself to him, her soft curves to his hard body. He groaned, and she felt it rumble through his chest. His body was like an oven, and she remembered she’d never been cold when they slept together.
His hand stroked her back, then moved around to cup her hip, snugging her closer to his erection. A tide of fire coursed through her, made her sex pulse. The need swamped her, drugging her senses, until her entire being was focused on him.
It was stupid of her to continue this. It would only make it harder for her to leave him. And she would leave. She had to. But why not take the pleasure she could? Why not give him the pleasure he wanted from her.
She had no doubt he would find someone else as soon as she was home.
But for now, he was hers.
Rising up on one elbow, she leaned over him, and kissed him, hungry and hard. Her lips glided over his warm ones, and she tangled her tongue with his. She pushed the sheet off and turned to straddle his hips.
His fingers tightened on her hips, and her restraint broke loose inside her.
She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, tracing the muscles and contours of his body. She slowly circled a male nipple, and he growled deep in his throat. She smiled, stroking lower across his ribs. He flinched just enough to make her remember he was ticklish.
“Genevieve,” he said in a stern voice, warning her not to tickle him.
Now wasn’t the time for fun and games, however. This was a time for heat and passion. Sighs and moans. And she wanted to wring every last sound out of him.
So she bent and licked a path across his chest, reveling in the
textures of his skin. He tasted so . . . male. And like the finest chocolate, she craved the taste of him, the scent of him.
“Genevieve . . .” This time he sighed her name, and it touched her inside, made her smile.
His hard ridge pressed against the ache in her, and she slid back and forth slowly, teasing them both. But it wasn’t enough—between his pajamas and her panties, there was too much material. He needed to be naked. She rose to her knees and slowly peeled the pajama bottoms from him until she could toss them away. Pulling the t-shirt up and over her head, she dropped it on his pajamas. She leaned forward and kissed him, brushing the tips of her breasts against his chest, tantalizing him, and herself, at the same time.
His fingers toyed with her nipples, tweaking them until they were stiff peaks. He slid lower down the bed until he could take one into his mouth. He sucked hard, and her sex contracted in response. She grew wetter, hotter. Every pull of his lips sent a trail of sparks through her body.
Still on her hands and knees over him, she tried to lower herself so she could feel his hardness where she wanted it so desperately.
But he held her still, continuing to touch only her hips and her breasts, laving first one nipple, then the next.
This was it. She was going to combust, or die waiting for him to touch her where she needed him.
“Roman, I need . . . I need . . . touch me, please,” she whimpered, almost incoherent from pleasure.
He skimmed a hand to her panties, caressed her, sliding against the silk. But it still wasn’t enough.
Finally, finally, his fingers slipped beneath the elastic. She waited for him to touch her where she ached the most. But a moment later she heard fabric rip. She gasped as her panties fell away, and started to protest.
“They were in my way. I’ll buy you twenty more pairs . . . a hundred. I need to touch you. Now.” His fingers stroked through her slick heat, and she almost wept in relief.
Sensations built, one after the other, consuming her, filling her every breath, every thought, until her world narrowed down to him. To Roman.
“Now, please, God, now. I need you inside me. Don’t make me beg.”
He gripped her hips, pulling her down onto his erection, and she slid home easily this time, no pain. He filled her, soothing and arousing all over again, and the pressure continued to build as she reached for what only he could give her.
“Má Cherie,” he murmured, even as he swelled and pulsed inside her.
She tried to slow her frantic pace, wanting him to feel the ecstasy as well, to give him what he was giving so selflessly to her.
But he would not slow, thrusting up even as she slid down.
He fisted his hand in her hair and met her for a kiss, fusing their mouths together.
Her climax broke, sending wave after wave of joy cascading through her limbs. The desperate urgency left her as a calm descended, and she ground down on him as his own pleasure peaked. He arched up toward her, and she held him close as he spilled into her, calling her name.
Boneless, she moved off him to curl at his side, and he tucked her close. She drifted to sleep, secure in his arms.
“I meant to leave so much earlier than this. Now I have to do the walk of shame in this blasted cocktail dress.”
He laughed. “I think you should come back to bed.”
Just the sound of his deep voice rumbling was enough to turn her to mush. She glanced at him as she sat down to put her strappy sandals on.
He lay on his massive bed, arms folded beneath his head. He looked like well over six feet of satisfied man. His hair was mussed from her fingers, and he grinned lazily at her. The sheet had slipped to his hips.
They’d made love several times during the night, and God help her, she was tempted to twitch the sheet away, take him up on his offer. She wanted him again.
Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, she blanched. “It’s well after eight in the morning! I’ve got so much to do to prep the wedding cake. I need to get going.” She walked over to the bed and bent over him, brushed a kiss against his lips.
He grabbed her wrist, held her still, and deepened the kiss.
Her heartbeat accelerated, and she forced herself to step back, tugged on her hand. “I have to go.”
“At least let me make some coffee for you.”
He flung the sheet off and a thrill raced through her as he got out of bed and pulled on a black silk robe. She hated to see him cover his body—it was solid and strong. A sculptor would have a field day with the planes and angles of him.
He opened his closet and slipped a white dress shirt off the hangar, handed it to her. “Here, wear this over your dress if it would make you more comfortable.”
Gratefully, she shrugged into it, covering the sparkling beads. She tied the long shirt tails in a knot at her waist, and rolled up the cuffs. “Thanks.” His scent lingered in the fabric of the shirt . . . maybe he’d forget he gave it to her, and she could smuggle it home with her. To remember . . .
She followed him to the kitchen and sat at the table, marveling at his precise movements as he prepared the espresso. It was going to be a long day, and she needed the jolt of caffeine to keep her going. She glanced at the folded newspaper on the table and caught sight of a picture of Roman. So devastatingly suave and sophisticated.
She picked up the paper and unfolded it, realized it was a picture of both of them on the red carpet walking into the banquet the evening they spent in Paris.
Her French was very rusty, so she couldn’t quite translate what the caption said. She held it up. “What does this say?”
He glanced at the paper in her hand, and his lip curled. “It is nothing. Just a rag. Pay it no attention.”
Worried now, she stood up. “What. Does. It. Say.”
He went still and turned around to face her. “I tell you it is of no consequence. There are always photographers at these events.”
She held the paper out to him, silently insisting he read it to her.
He sighed and picked up the paper from her now-shaking hand. “The caption asks who my new ‘flavor of the week’ is, and how long you’ll be around.”
Her heart dropped. She wanted to bang her head against the cabinet door at her stupidity.
He slapped the paper on the counter and walked around to her. “I’m sorry. I do not have the best reputation when it comes to women. I admit I have dated many women over the years, but it is because I was looking for a special woman.”
He cupped her chin in his big hand and tilted her face up to his. “I was looking for you,” he said, and kissed her.
His kiss weakened her resolve, and his hands pressed her tighter to his body. Desire warred with dismay over the newspaper captions.
She fisted her hands in his robe, felt his warm skin beneath. She leaned into him for a moment, then pushed away. She licked her lips, still tasting him, tried to catch her breath.
“I have to go.”
“Please do not let this come between us. I have only just found you again.”
“If the paper is just a rag, as you say, why do you have it?”
“Because it has a picture of you and me, together again after so many years.”
See? How could she stay strong, keep her resolve, when he said sweet things like that?
Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked to clear them. I am so tempted to stay here, but my dreams are at home. And what kind of life would I have if I did stay? He’s the sun, shining bright, and I’d be just another planet orbiting him—another in a long string of women.
She shook her head. “I can’t talk about this now. There’s a lot to do before the wedding.” She hurried to the door and left.
Chapter 14
“Stupid . . . stupid . . . stupid . . . stupid.” The mumbled wor
ds kept time with the beat of the mixer as she made the icing for the cake.
“Who’s stupid, Sugar?”
She jerked her head up and saw Daniel leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a shopping bag.
“Oh, nothing. Never mind. Been shopping? Did you bring me anything?” She turned her back to him and reached for the vanilla. She measured it out, poured it in the mixture, and risked a glance behind her. Dammit, still standing there staring at her.
She turned toward him, and rummaged in the drawer for a clean spatula. “What are you up to? I didn’t see you earlier.”
He walked into the kitchen and tossed several newspapers on the counter. They landed with a thud, face-up, a photo of Roman kissing her on the red carpet on top of the stack. “I went down to the village to explore the shops and passed a newsstand. Imagine my shock when I passed by row after row of pictures of you and Frenchie. I picked up a few for your scrapbook.” He folded his arms, his jaw clenched.
She slammed the drawer closed and snatched the top newspaper from the counter. Great. Just great. More pictures. “So? It was a kiss. A very nice one.”
“I thought you weren’t going to get involved with him.”
“I’m not,” she protested. Hated lying to him.
“Suuure you’re not,” he drawled. “Is that why you spent the night with him again last night?”
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