by Nalini Singh
His darkly beautiful face was suddenly a mask. “You’ve made yourself very clear. I’m sorry I bothered you.” He stepped back, that lithely muscled body held fiercely in check. “Lock the door.”
This time, she didn’t argue. Maybe she was a coward, but was it cowardice to want to avoid humiliation of the kind which would result when Alexandre realized she wasn’t woman enough for him?
Alexandre pulled out of the Ashton Estate in his rental car, a low-slung black Ferrari, a sleek and powerful machine. Instead of letting frustration take him on an aimless drive, he headed toward San Pablo Bay.
Charlotte had asked him to leave. Had told him that he “couldn’t be the man” she needed. A woman couldn’t find a much clearer way to reject a man—it felt like she’d reached into his body and clawed his heart, an emotional mauling he could barely comprehend.
For the first time in his life, his shield of emotional distance had not only cracked, it had broken into pieces. And he hadn’t even been aware of it happening.
How had one small woman come to mean so much to him in so short a time? Even after her blunt rebuff, he craved her. Until now, he’d sincerely believed that the attraction he felt wasn’t one-sided. Obviously, he’d been fooling himself, something he despised.
Ever since he’d been a child, truth had been the most important thing in his life because he’d been asked to tell lies from too early an age. They may have been lies of omission, but they’d marked him. He’d never allowed himself the comfort of falseness.
Shifting gears, he rose up an incline. How could she not feel the fire that burned him every time he thought of her, of those big brown eyes so full of passion and so unawakened? He hated the thought that some other man would be the one to awaken the slumbering sensuality he sensed in her, hated it in a way that made a mockery of anything he’d ever before felt for a woman.
His eye landed on the speedometer as he turned a corner. He swore sharply and reduced his dangerous speed. It was tempting to keep pushing the machine to the limit, but he knew he’d never forgive himself if he caused someone else an injury because he was in a temper. Ruling out a long drive, he searched for a place to stop and calm down.
A few minutes later, he noticed a small hill. Cruising up, he parked but left the engine running. Unclipping his safety belt, he opened the door and walked out to stand in the cool night air. When he went to put his hands in his pants pockets, he frowned. Something was weighing down one side of his jacket. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a slim volume.
The scent of Charlotte rose from the book—frangipani and moonlight. Gut clenching, he moved into the light thrown by the car’s headlights and flipped open the book, curious as to what Charlotte wrote about her plants. In all honesty, he felt compelled to learn everything he could about this woman who haunted him.
All these years, women had come easily to him but he’d never taken them for granted, well aware of their fickle nature. Not letting one of them become too important to him had been a simple matter. Yet, somehow, Charlotte was making him break those rules. And the irony was, she didn’t want him at all.
The first page was filled with writing characterized by curves and roundness, displaying the writer’s inherently giving nature. He found himself tracing the words with his fingers, as if he could feel Charlotte. Unable to read what they said in the low-slung lights, he moved into the car and flicked on the overhead switch.
Lover Mine,
The words slammed into him like a two arm punch. If he’d still been standing, he might’ve doubled over. His sweet, innocent Charlotte had a lover? A lover she wrote letters to? Was this her copy of those letters?
He knew he should stop reading, but couldn’t—not when the possessive beast inside him was growling in outrage. In less than two days, she’d become his and he didn’t share.
Lover Mine,
Will you be gentle with me the first time we make love? Will you be tender? Will you understand that for me, this act is more than bodies meeting, more than simple pleasure, more than just the physical?
I’d never lie with you if I didn’t adore you.
Do I love you? I’ve seen so much pain and betrayal in this family—I’m not even sure I know what love is. But, I do know that for me to lie with you means that I care…deeply.
Fists clenched, Alexandre checked the date of the entry. Almost six months ago. Surely Charlotte and her lover had consummated their relationship by now. He turned the page.
Lover Mine,
I’ve always been a good girl.
Except in my fantasies. Of course you know that. How could you not? You know that in those fantasies, I’m another person, another Charlotte, one who’s wild and wicked and just a little bit dangerous. In my fantasies, I do things that I can’t speak of in the daylight or even in the moonlight.
In my fantasies, I’m a woman of bone-deep sensuality, as alluring and enticing as the Sirens of old, a woman who draws men not to their doom…but to their absolute pleasure.
There was nothing overtly sexual about her words, but his arousal pounded low and deep. The last words lingered on his retinas, as if burned on them.
Once more, he accepted that he was invading her privacy in a way he could never justify, that he should stop. But the need to brand the unpalatable truth into his soul compelled him to continue.
The truth that Charlotte belonged to another man.
Jealousy shot through his nerve endings—who the hell had dared touch her? Touch the only woman who’d succeeded in reaching Alexandre’s long jaded soul, succeeded in waking him up to passion again. Reaching out a tanned hand, he flipped the page.
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to give you such complete trust that I’d do anything you asked, without question…without hesitation. I can almost see you, lover mine—see your strength, your searing sexuality, your dominant tendencies.
In my fantasies, you’re strong enough to treat my submission as the gift it is, to give me commands laced with rough tenderness, to openly adore my body without seeing it as a weakness. And, you’re strong enough to understand and accept that by doing what I ask, you have surrendered to me and my desires.
I’ve never met a man capable of fulfilling this most sinful fantasy. Will you be the only lover I ever know?
Alexandre felt understanding start to awaken, but it remained tantalizingly out of reach, buried under jealousy such as he’d never thought himself capable of. Unable to bear reading more about Charlotte’s sexual awakening with another man, he almost shut the book, but some inexplicable need made him flip through to the last entry.
He had to know—had he made any impact on her? Or had he been nothing to her, adoring as she was of this lover of hers. He opened the page to an entry dated two days ago, the day they’d met.
Lover mine,
Until today, you’ve never had a face…
Alexandre’s eyes widened.
…never had a name. You’ve just been the lover I needed in every way. You were my creation so I could shape you, mold you, delete the parts of you that I didn’t like. You were my ultimate fantasy, a man created for me alone, a man for whom my pleasure was his only goal and my cries as I shattered under his loving reward enough.
“Of course it would be, ma chérie,” Alexandre murmured, “why would you think otherwise?”
But today, you suddenly have a face and a voice. You could seduce me with that slow, seductive accent alone. I can imagine you whispering to me as we lie tangled in the most intimate of embraces, that voice of yours rippling along my spine, turning my insides to hot honey.
Alexandre felt excitement begin to flicker through his nerves. Surely he couldn’t be mistaken as to whose voice gave Charlotte such erotic pleasure? That would be far too cruel. Taking a deep breath, he read on.
And then I look up into your eyes and I’m lost, utterly yours. You’re so tempting, so seductive, so masculinely beautiful that you take my breath away. I know I can’t be the woman you need
but I ache to try.
When you look at me with heat in your eyes, I can almost believe that I’m the woman you think me to be. I can almost be the woman I fantasize about being, a woman who embraces passion without fear.
Tenderness gripped him, tight and powerful. It shocked him that Charlotte was unsure of her lovely sensuality when she had no reason to be.
Even now, I hesitate to write your name for fear that I’ll tempt the Fates and they’ll take even the fleeting pleasure of your presence from me. I long to see you, touch you, listen to you.
And yet when you come near, I can’t help but run, for part of me recognizes the hunter in you. I’m not sure I’m ready to be your prey…Alexandre.
His breath punched out of him as adrenaline rushed through every pore. Sweat trickled down his spine. Who would’ve guessed that his prim and proper Charlotte had such heated fantasies?
Even more shocking was the urgent desire he had to fulfill each and every one of them, in any way she chose. Control came easily to him. It would be no hardship to play her games in bed, even to give her the surrender she needed. The gift of her trust would be compensation enough. But would she give him that gift?
In her fantasies, he was the lover she ached for. But, as she’d written, when he came near her in reality, she ran. Tonight, she’d backed away from him so completely that had he not read this journal, he would’ve believed that she felt nothing for him.
Why such a difference between reality and fantasy? Frowning, he decided he’d have to read the whole journal. Perhaps a gentleman might’ve returned it without perusing the rest of its contents, but when it came to Charlotte, Alexandre found he was no gentleman.
The autocratic tyrant in him had finally woken up after years of silence, and he was intent on claiming and branding sweet Charlotte Ashton as his very own. Any worries Alexandre might’ve harbored about the chains of commitment and desire, crumbled under the force of the hunger and possessiveness raging through him.
Four
Charlotte was frantic. She couldn’t find her journal. She’d turned the cottage upside down without success. Panic had her almost hyperventilating. What if someone read what she’d written?
Suddenly, like a ray of light on a cloudy day, she remembered scribbling in it madly the night after Alexandre’s first visit to the greenhouse. Breath whooshing out of her, she ran to the greenhouse…only to come to a skidding halt. Her gaze fell on the long, muscular form of the male who’d spent the night tormenting her in her dreams, lounging against a glass wall.
“You are in a hurry, Charlotte.”
Her eyes couldn’t look away from the inherent sensuality of his mouth. She swallowed. Hard. “I need to check something in my, um, gardening journal.”
His eyes glinted for a moment, but then those sinful lips curved into a smile. “Of course.” Reaching out, he pushed open the door.
Unable to avoid it, she ducked under his arm and walked inside. She found her journal exactly where she remembered leaving it. Alexandre prowled in behind her. She thanked God he hadn’t come in earlier. What if he’d read the things she’d written? Her face flushed. He’d probably have laughed his head off at her fantasies, at the things she believed herself capable of when it was only dreams and not reality.
“Did you want something?” She turned, aware her voice had become husky and soft.
As always, his presence shattered the calm she’d worked so hard to achieve, the peace she’d tried to create in this world where she didn’t quite fit in. Despite that, her eyes drank in the sight of him, her traitorous body sighing with relief.
He hadn’t walked away as she’d asked him to do, something she’d spent the night dreading. Her inability to stick to her decision to keep him at a distance unsettled her, but what terrified her was that no man had ever compared to her fantasy lover. No man but Alexandre Dupree.
“Yes, I have a commission for you.” Dressed in sand-colored slacks teamed with a simple white shirt, he looked very elegant, very worldly. And yet, he didn’t seem the least out of place in her haven of jungle-wild plants and delicate rosebuds, as if he were some wild, elemental creature himself.
It took a moment for his words to penetrate. “A commission? Are you throwing a party?” Even as she spoke, she was reaching for the pad in the back pocket of her jeans, her hand pulling out the pen clipped to the spine. She placed her journal on the workbench.
“Why don’t you write in your gardening notebook?” Alexandre’s eyes were suspiciously blank, his tone as smooth as melted caramel.
For a moment, she froze, wondering if he’d read her fantasies after all. Then he blinked and the impression was gone, leaving her feeling paranoid. “It’s…um, for the notations about the plants, not commissions. So, what did you want and when?” Well aware of the possible double entrende in her last sentence, she waited for him to tease her with a little sensual byplay, as he’d done in the vineyard.
“I need a single arrangement, for a private gift.” There was nothing but business in his tone. “By tonight. I’m prepared to pay double your usual fee for the short notice.” He had his checkbook in his hands.
She looked up, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t do private arrangements.”
“For a friend of the family, surely you can make an exception?”
Charlotte was shocked by the calm question. Not an ounce of the charm he’d been dosing her with so liberally for the past two days was visible. It was apparent that he’d taken her back-off signal very seriously. There would be no more sensual overtures from this wild wolf of a man who’d been stalking her.
“Tonight?” she asked, trying to fight her overwhelming sense of loss. How could he have become so important to her in mere days? “I have so much work.”
“Please? It’s very important.” His voice was rich chocolate, sinful and tempting.
Her resistance to him was nil. “All right. Is it for a business associate, a friend…?”
“A lover,” he said softly.
Her back stiffened, but she could hardly refuse the request now that she’d accepted. It would betray too much. “You want roses?” A bouquet of roses would be easy enough to prepare, she thought, trying to submerge her sudden hurt in a flood of practicality.
“Non, roses are too common for one such as she. I want something unique, beautiful, elegant and utterly lovely, just like her.”
A surge of jealousy almost overwhelmed Charlotte. She wanted to slap his handsome face. All this time he’d been flirting with her, charming her, when he’d had a lover tucked away, a lover who was everything she wasn’t.
“The arrangement must be alluring, but not overpowering.” Alexandre’s dark eyes gentled. “She is a bud of perfect beauty and my gift must show that I understand her need to go slow, to take pleasure in every moment of her awakening. It must convey my apology for pushing her too fast, rushing her in my desire for her.”
Charlotte was clutching her pen so hard, she thought she might break it. There was no need to write down a single word. Every syllable was emblazoned into her brain. “Come back at seven.” The words were clipped.
There was just so much she could take. Right now, she wanted to throw something at him. She’d give him his arrangement all right—she’d give him something so perfectly awful that his lover would never even speak to him again.
But when she finally forced herself to work on the creation, she made it delicate and beautiful, fragrant but not too lush—colored for freshness in creamy white and golden yellow, with the merest hints of red for passion. For Alexandre’s lover would have passion. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have spoken of her with such intense hunger.
Because his lover was unique, she used rare hothouse orchids in shades of gold, offsetting their sophistication with white pansies so delicate they’d bruise if stroked too hard, for Alexandre’s lover required gentle handling. To add the touch of red, the touch of passion, she used leaves; tiny, perfectly shaped leaves of such vibrant be
auty that they were almost flowers in themselves.
The centerpiece was, of course, a pure white rosebud of perfect beauty, carefully hidden amongst the confident orchids, shy but compelling the eye to look its way.
And then it was finished.
She felt a moment of complete joy. This was her art and she was good at what she did. A second later, her happiness crumbled as she realized that this arrangement was one she would’ve died to receive herself. All those instructions that Alexandre had given her, they were too much like the woman she wanted to be.
Looking at her watch, she saw that it was close to seven. She’d spent hours longer on this piece than she should have. But at least she had the satisfaction of knowing that Alexandre had paid through the nose. It was too little to compensate her for her pain, but she focused on it in an effort to control her emotions.
A soft footfall sounded behind her. Without turning, she said, “It’s done.”
Coming to stand just behind her, Alexandre reached out to touch a pansy with exquisite care. “You’re truly talented, ma petite.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. The way he said it, it was an endearment, a lover’s caress, and she knew she was no lover of his.
“As you wish.” There was a smile in his voice.
But when she turned, his eyes were solemn. “I’m sure she’ll treasure it. Thank you, Charlotte.”
And just that quickly, he was gone, taking her creation. For another woman.
As had happened the night before, the phone rang just as she was stepping out of the shower. Dressed only in a big towel tucked haphazardly around her, her hair piled up on her head out of the way, she grabbed the receiver. “Charlotte speaking.”