by Dani Collins
“And you didn’t speak up.”
She sighed, knees coming up so she could hug them, then set her chin on them. “Do you really want to help me with Mom? Like, would it help you?”
He dropped his gaze from the earnest softness in hers. He was still pulsing with the sort of discontent that came from smashing your own thumb with a hammer, sorry that he’d told her something so personal. It was the kind of intimate detail he never, ever gave up about himself. Especially if it was going to make someone look at him like that.
So did he expect that going through a memorial of some kind with her mother would help him? No. It would stir up this turmoil inside him that he’d spent years sublimating. Was he willing to put himself through it to keep Melodie with him?
Bizarrely, the answer was yes.
“Let me make that call,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
THREE DAYS LATER Roman flew Melodie by private jet to Paris. They discovered that rivers and streams were off-limits for scattering ashes, but found a special remembrance garden where they were able to spend a reflective hour settling Patience into the state of peace that had eluded her in her living years.
“Thank you,” Melodie said, reaching across the back of the limo to take Roman’s hand as they left the gated cemetery. She was hollowed out, eyelids stinging and swollen from crying, throat still scratchy, but she felt at ease for the first time in years. Maybe since the first time she had fully realized what sort of tortured existence her mother had led. “I couldn’t rest until I’d given her that. Nothing can hurt her now. This means a lot to me. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His distant, faintly wooden response might have struck her as disinterested if she hadn’t seen him struggle several times during the small ceremony she’d arranged. She remembered him calling himself emotionally inaccessible, and he certainly kept his cards close to his chest, but he wasn’t indifferent. As he’d cradled her against him when they’d been left alone to say their goodbyes, she suspected he’d offered a much-delayed farewell to his own mother.
Not that she would intrude to ask.
Instead, she twisted her head on the seat to look at him. “When you told me you try to meet the needs of your companions, did you ever see yourself doing something like this?”
That caught him by surprise, making him laugh. “No,” he pronounced drily, faint grin lingering.
“Well, I appreciate your making an exception,” she teased, leaning across to kiss his cheek.
He cupped the back of her head, keeping her close for a few short, sweet kisses on her lips.
“Where are we going now?” she drew back to ask. They’d flown overnight, arriving about six in the morning Virginia time, and had come straight to the cemetery for a midday ceremony. She wasn’t sure if she was tired or hungry or what.
“What do you want to do?” he asked easily.
“I’m not sure.” The sky had been low when they’d landed, but was brightening by the minute, and she kept seeing trees in blossom against rain-washed stone, tulips and cafés and smiling couples. “Could we walk around the city a bit?”
“Of course.” He had a word with the driver and they pulled over a moment later.
For the next two hours they wandered aimlessly past flower stalls and into shops for pastries. When she paused to examine the price tag on a newsboy cap in olive green with a cute floral band wrapped into a smart little buckle, he plopped it on her head and held out his credit card to the proprietress.
“I was only thinking about it,” she said, adjusting it in the mirror after the tag had been removed.
“It suits you.”
“Well, thank you,” she said cautiously. Accepting a gift from him was a slippery slope. She was already indebted to him for the flight, and he hadn’t been satisfied with making this a weekend trip, stating he had business to take care of later in the week.
Since they were staying at his apartment and he wasn’t footing the bill on a hotel, she had acquiesced. She fully intended to cook for him while they were here, but when she mentioned picking up a few groceries, he said, “I made reservations. For an early sitting since I knew we’d be tired. I’ve been steering us toward the club. It’s only another block over. We should change, though. I was going to leave you next door and walk across to the men’s shop.”
“Next door” was a boutique where the saleswomen greeted “Monsieur Killian” by name. One even pressed her cheek to his and said something warm in French that made Melodie’s toes curl in dismay. When he mentioned where they were going, the women began pulling out black cocktail dresses that didn’t have price tags at all.
“Roman,” Melodie started to protest.
“Take your time. I’ll come back when I’m finished and they’ll pour me a drink while I wait over there.” He nodded to a small but luxurious lounge area. “I know the drill.”
“Because you’ve done this before?” she guessed.
He heard the edge in her tone. His own cooled. “I have. Although never to this specific jazz club. They have a female blues singer there. You said your mother used to listen to French blues. I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Which sounded very thoughtful of him, but...
“I’d like to take you on a proper date, Melodie,” he added. “We haven’t had one yet.”
Yes, they had, but he didn’t stick around to hear her argue that dinner and a movie in Virginia was a perfectly acceptable date. Another night, she had cooked for him and he’d run out for a bottle of wine, bringing back flowers, as well.
“Mademoiselle?” the boutique owner prompted.
In the end, after their afternoon of walking, Melodie found herself grateful for a reason to sit down and sip a fortifying glass of champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice while dresses were brought to her for consideration. Crackers appeared with foie gras and caviar, salty and delicious.
As for the dresses, the sleek, modern designs with cut-outs and daring necklines were beautiful, but Melodie’s eye kept tracking back to something a bit more modest with a hint of flounce. The bodice was silk organza, fitted in the front and disappearing behind her shoulders into a backless pair of straps. The skirt was short and narrow, but had a fuller sheer overlay that added femininity and swung sassily. Beaded detailing at the waist gave the dress more of a figure-eight figure than her stalk-like build usually had.
The saleswomen made several admiring remarks about her jambes after she tried it on with a pair of deceptively simple black high heels with detailing down the tall, wickedly sharp heel. One suggested if she lost six or eight kilos, she could find work in Paris as a model.
“Kilos,” Melodie repeated. “Those are bigger than pounds, right?” Fifteen pounds? Really?
They weren’t being catty, though. They were actually very nice. Maybe Roman paid them to be, but Melodie still felt pampered and relaxed by the time she had her hair styled to cloud around her face and her eyes smokily made up so the blue of her irises popped.
Then a funny attack of nerves hit her as she walked out to greet Roman. Even as a teenager living off her generous allowance, she had never taken this much care with her appearance. Anton had always made her believe it was futile to try. She’d resigned herself to never affecting boys and had rarely wanted so badly to impress a man.
Roman was looking at his phone, a drink on the side table next to him, his arm stretched out to rest along the back of the sofa. His new white shirt fit him just this side of bursting its seams, hugging his muscles and pulling across his chest. The collar was turned up and his hair had been given a professional ruffle. He hadn’t shaved since just before they landed and the shadow on his cheeks and jaw gave him a rakish air.
He sat with his ankle crooked up to rest on his knee, straining the fabric of his black pants, which were tailored to showcase his toned
thighs. Argyle socks peeked between the cuff of his pants and his shiny shoes.
He was so casually hot she had to stop to catch her breath.
Then he looked up and stole her breath all over again.
Only his eyes moved as they leisurely traveled from her hair in its big, loose curls, to the glossy pink lips she tried not to ruin by pressing them together instead of licking them, to the ever-present pearls against her collarbone. Her shoulders twitched and her breasts prickled as she felt his gaze caress her there, then her stomach sucked in and her intimate muscles clenched when he stroked her bare legs with his gaze.
“Turn around,” he commanded huskily.
Swallowing, she suppressed the feminist in her that scolded her for letting herself be objectified, arguing that this was different. This was...
She turned her back, her entire body coming alive under the awareness that she had his complete attention. When she turned again to see him, he was rising in an easy flex of his strong frame. He came toward her, and she reminded herself, Breathe, idiot, breathe.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, lips grazing her brow as she dipped her chin self-consciously. His hands settled on her bare arms in a light, tantalizing caress while the starchy smell of new clothes came off him along with a fresh sample of cologne and his own masculine notes.
“I feel beautiful,” she said. It wasn’t just the dress and the makeup. It was the way he reacted to her every minute of every day. He complimented her whether she was coiffed and made-up or disheveled and wearing a housecoat. Today was simply the day she embraced his words as true. “I do,” she said sincerely. “Now. Thank you.”
“How could you ever doubt it?” he scoffed lightly.
She debated, not wanting to spoil the moment, but she wanted him to understand how much confidence he gave her.
“You already know my upbringing wasn’t the best. Anton hated that Dad had remarried and it didn’t matter that I was his half sister. No matter what I wore or said, he put me down. It’s taken a long time to get past it. But since I have so much more respect for your opinion than his,” she said ruefully, “I must be beautiful.”
His expression had grown sober as he’d listened, then he gently caressed her cheek. “There will be a correction, Melodie. Rest assured I’m taking note, and the extent of their crimes will not go unpunished.”
“Don’t— I didn’t say that so you’d stoop to their level.”
“I know. And I won’t. But I’m not as forgiving as you are. Mark my words, when the time is right they’ll receive their reckoning. But let’s not spoil our evening thinking about them.” He tugged her into his big frame.
Her hands went to his waist and splayed, taking in heat and firm, taut man. She could get used to leaning on him. Easily. Far too easily.
“Ready to go?” he asked, breath faintly scented with scotch.
“I don’t know how far I can walk in these shoes,” she said, lifting a foot so he could see the wicked spike.
“The car’s outside.”
The boutique owner carried out Melodie’s things in a bag and handed them to the chauffeur while Roman helped her into the backseat.
Moments later he helped her out again and they entered a nightclub lit only by candles and subtly recessed indigo bulbs. Glowing white tablecloths draped tiny tables surrounded by comfortable chairs. The glassware sparkled and the servers wore tuxedos. The place was already full, but they were shown to a reserved table in an elevated alcove that allowed them some privacy yet offered a perfect view of the stage.
The meal was served in a series of courses between sets, the food excellent, while the chanteuse created a warmly nostalgic mood that allowed Melodie to envision her mother as a young model in Paris, briefly happy.
Roman leaned his arm on the back of her chair and played with her hair. She set her hand on his thigh and wondered if this was a dream. They even danced, although it was more a prelude to what would come later. Like every other couple, they plastered themselves to each other and swayed lazily, using the music as an excuse to arouse each other.
Weakly tilting her head back so she could see him, she didn’t have to say a word.
“I’m ready, too,” he said hungrily, and tightened his arms on her so she could feel how hard he was. “I’ll call for the car.”
She was past the point of trying to understand it. Between New York and Virginia, they’d been making love every time they found a shred of privacy. She was shocked by how constant their desire was, but she’d stopped fighting it. She was only grateful the distance to his apartment was short.
Expecting a high-rise, she was surprised when the car halted outside an art gallery. A bright glow came through the windows and a chic crowd mingled inside.
“Are we going in?” she asked as they stepped onto the sidewalk.
“My flat is upstairs.” He walked her to a steel door next to the gallery entrance, slid open a panel and peeked inside.
The door cracked open. Inside was a small closet for coats and shoes, then a flight of stairs to an open-plan bachelor apartment. No sound from the crowd below penetrated, and the lighting was all indirect and moody.
Melodie took in exposed brickwork, high ceilings and elegant white furniture in a lounge containing ferns and colorful throws. A butcher-block island with copper cookware suspended above it separated the kitchen and its stainless-steel appliances from the rest of the apartment. Floating stairs led to a bedroom in a loft. The bedding looked sumptuous with its rich colors and tasseled pillows. Beneath the loft was a cozy library with bookshelves and a pretty antique desk that was probably strong enough to hold a laptop, but was more for looks than serviceability.
“This is not your apartment,” she said decidedly.
“Why do you say that? My iris is the one that opens the door. And the housekeeper’s,” he allowed. “She comes in once a week. Which reminds me. Open.”
He came toward her with his phone, holding it before one of her eyes, which widened in stern outrage.
“This is your love nest,” she accused as he clicked.
He didn’t respond to that immediately, taking his time tapping the screen before tucking his phone in his shirt pocket. “You saw how I slid open the reader. It’s painless. No flash or anything. Just look into it and the door will open.”
She folded her arms. “You’re not going to admit you bring women here?”
“I have an office here in Paris,” he said. “With accommodations attached. Very utilitarian. If I’m here strictly for work, I usually stay there.”
“But if you have a companion, you tuck her up here.”
“If it bothers you that you’re not the only woman who has stayed with me here, we can get a hotel.” He showed no emotion, completely matter-of-fact about it.
“It bothers me that you’re maneuvering me into being your companion,” she said. “This is nice,” she hurried to add, sweeping her hands to indicate the gorgeous outfit she wore and the beautiful flat. “But I can’t let you take over, Roman. I can’t—”
“Is that what it is? Melodie,” he cut in with gentle firmness. He came forward to take her flinging hand in both of his. “The first day we met you said there was only one way to get to know a person, and that was by spending time with them. I want to spend time with you.”
“I’d like to get to know you better, too, but—”
“I can’t sit in Virginia waiting for you to find a job that will keep you out all day. Listen, I understand not wanting to rely on people. I’m a foster kid. I was always a guest, always a burden. I hated that feeling. But now I’m someone who can pay and pay back. I want you to let me.”
He was taking all her arguments, defusing them and setting them aside like empty milk bottles.
“It seems wrong,” she mumbled weakly.
“You’re not taking advantage of me. This is my decision. Do you really want to go back to Virginia?” he asked, playing dirty by drawing her against him so she was surrounded by all things Roman: his warm strength and the animal scent that went straight into her brain and shorted it out. A streaking sensation of kindled desire followed the brush of his lips from her temple down her cheek to her nape.
“No,” she allowed, throwing back her head so he could nibble the sensitive skin in a way that softened her knees. “But you’re not playing fair,” she complained.
“And if you stay I will play unfair to you as often as you want me to,” he promised, biting lightly into her earlobe. “Would you like that?”
A shiver of acute need chased through her.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Here? Or somewhere else?”
She almost hated him in that moment, wishing she had the strength to insist on going somewhere that he hadn’t taken other women when he obviously had the capacity to hold off and she didn’t.
“Here,” she moaned weakly, chasing his mouth with her own.
“Good,” he growled. “Because I can’t wait.”
They didn’t even make it up the stairs, christening his Turkish rug instead.
CHAPTER TEN
THE WEEK IN Paris passed in a pleasant blur of lovemaking and walking tours of the old part of the city. And, when Roman had time to join her, they window-shopped and he bought her whatever she showed the least bit of interest in. He was too generous, buying her a new outfit for every dinner, cocktail party or gala cruise on the Seine. If he didn’t buy her something while they were out, he brought her flowers or, this morning, a fancy new mobile phone.
“Roman, I can’t.”
She was starting to feel as though all the spoiling was his way of compensating for the fact he didn’t offer much of himself. He was the most attentive lover she could ask for, but when it came to anything really personal, he was very adept at turning the conversation in another direction.