He turned his head reluctantly and met my gaze, as if he was expecting a slap-down. “Say something.”
“Thank you.” I sucked in a slow, steady breath. “I can’t imagine how I would feel if Marcus died, but it helps me to know where you stand.”
“So you understand I’m not propositioning you in advance? Because that would be ugly.”
And he wasn’t ugly. Not in any context. In fact, when he spoke to me so gently, and gazed at me with such obvious tenderness, I felt something shift inside my chest, as if his consideration had unlocked something long forgotten. “I understand what you’re doing,” I said, “And why. You’re offering me any comfort I need.”
He let out a breath and nodded. “I know this attraction between us has been weird for you from the start because I’m technically your employee. But to me…” He frowned. “It isn’t weird at all. It’s…important. So I don’t want it to be some affair that you have, some ‘bit of rough’ on the side while you’re waiting to get divorced and begin your real life.”
He took both my hands in his and met my gaze, his own looking strangely reluctant. “I feel like I’m taking an oyster knife and slitting myself up the belly, but I have to say this. I have to tell you. I’m… in love with you. And I have been for some time.”
The place in my chest that had shifted, now fluttered, as if something had been liberated and was dancing, madly. As a young woman I’d experienced professions of love before and they’d felt like success, like achievements. This was so different. As I stared into his worried eyes, I felt as if I’d stepped into an alternate universe that was light and shimmering with potential. It was astonishing, and confusing.
When I didn’t make an immediate response, he went on with, “And I understand that this is all much newer to you than it is to me, but I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.”
His thumbs started stroking my palms again, and whether or not it was appropriate, I began to feel aroused.
“Maybe…” He shrugged. “This is all about sex for you. I don’t know.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. When he touched me like that, I could think of little else. But I also knew that I liked him as a person. I liked his gentleness, his sense of humor, his professionalism, and although it had thwarted my desires, I very much liked his moral compass.
But love…?
Despite the tension between us, he managed to smile. “And so…now that I’ve cut my chest open and laid my heart out for you to inspect, I’m very much hoping you don’t stomp on it with one of those terrifying Louboutin heels you wear.”
I was surprised enough by the reference to be distracted. “How do you know shoes?”
“Gisel. She noticed you were wearing them and rubbed my nose in it.” His smile grew self-deprecating. “She thinks I have no class.”
“She has a lot of opinions for a colleague,” I said, with more irritation than I would have liked.
He gazed at me for a couple of seconds before he said, “You know she’s gay, right?”
The surprise of that must have shown on my face and he shook his head. “You have no gay-dar at all, do you?”
“Obviously not.” I felt embarrassed, and somehow belittled, so I withdrew my hands and fished my phone out of my handbag to check it, buying time for my emotions to settle down.
When it was back in my bag, he said, “Were you jealous of Gisel?”
Tell the truth. He has.
I shrugged. “I thought she was someone you’d had a relationship with.”
“And that made you jealous.” He wasn’t leaving this alone.
“Yes,” I said reluctantly. But that doesn’t mean I love you.
He said nothing then, and after almost a full minute, I glanced at him sideways, expecting a smirk, but he was staring at the landscape painting again.
For some reason, I didn’t want to leave it alone then. “Does it please you to know I was jealous?”
“Absolutely. I was just thinking Thank fuck, but I didn’t want to say that out loud.”
I blinked several times and had no immediate reaction to that beyond surprise.
“…because you’re so mysterious it makes my head hurt.” He glanced at me. “And maybe you don’t mean to be. But unless I’m touching you, unless you’re unravelling in front of me, I’ve got no clue what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling.”
“I’m sorry.”
He waved that away. “I don’t want you different. I’m sure there’s some part of me that loves the challenge. The puzzle. But the closer I get to the end of this job and the thought that I might have to walk away…” He glanced back to the painting, and though I waited, he said nothing more.
“I don’t know about the future,” I said, because that was the honest truth. “I’m used to having total control of my life, of planning, of knowing. But lately…I’ve realized I can’t go on the way I have been.”
Saying that aloud gave the idea power, and I suddenly grasped the fact that I could change my life. Dramatically.
“I don’t know yet…” I went on as he turned to face me, “…what those changes might be. But when your employment with me is ended…” I took a deep calming breath, pressed my hands together in my lap and forced myself on, “…I’d like us to…” Date? Hadn’t we moved past that? “…keep in touch.”
The moment the words were out, I could see from his reaction that he’d misinterpreted them.
“Okay.” He nodded. “That’s letting me down graciously.”
“No, that’s me being inexperienced with…attraction.” My heart was starting to pound faster in my chest and I had no idea why these things were so hard to discuss. But they were. “I want to develop our friendship and our…intimate relationship.”
We stared at each other and my awkward confession was rewarded by a slow and completely breathtaking smile breaking across his face. It lit his eyes and seemed to make them sparkle.
“You are such a sweet talker.” He leant forward and kissed me briefly on the lips, enough to infuse me with his masculine taste and to send shivers skittering through my body with the promise of what could be between us—what would be. Then he pulled back to look at me from close range and whispered, “And yes, I want that. I want to explore our intimate relationship in great and glorious detail. In fact, I want to be so conversant with your body, I can make you come with your clothes on.”
I couldn’t stop myself gasping softly.
He raised an eyebrow, all cocky, confident male, and that really warmed me up inside, which was completely inappropriate in a hospital waiting room. So I gathered some composure and said, “I need a coffee.”
I actually wanted one. In times of stress, I found it a great comfort, and I knew from experience that Nicholas knew practically every company that delivered coffee across the metropolitan area. It appeared to be some bodyguard intel.
“Sure.” He stood and buttoned his jacket, still smiling. “Anything to break the sexual tension,” he added softly, and pulled out his phone to send a text, presumably to order the beverage.
He was smiling to himself, and I could see that the dynamic between us had changed. That single admission on my part had unleashed a devastatingly sexy persona I hadn’t seen in him before, even while we’d been lying together naked.
When he finished and looked back at me, I realized that the transformation had changed him from a handsome man to a completely irresistible one, everything from the look in his eyes that said, You know what I want to do to you, to the glistening white teeth that I suddenly wanted to lick, those soft kissable lips, and the hard-muscled chest under that jacket that had throbbed under my hands when we’d been making love.
Previously he’d been coveting territory, and now he clearly understood it was his alone, so as he smiled at me between phone calls he clearly needed to make, I could almost smell pheromones coming off his skin. He still had to wait. I wouldn’t be divorced for several months, but now he knew I wanted the same th
ing that he did, to explore us. And that had shredded the last of his bodyguard reserve—at least while we were alone.
When the coffee arrived, however, Nicholas wiped the smile off his face and slipped back into his ‘bodyguard’ persona, and I liked that. It would take time to get used to the idea of having ‘a boyfriend’, so while he was forced to be my bodyguard, I would have the breathing space I needed to acclimatize.
I was relaxed as he stepped between me and the young woman with two takeaway coffees on a cardboard tray. I heard him say, “Which one is the latte?” then the transaction was finalized, the young woman walked out and when he’d seen her go, Nicholas turned to me and said, “This one’s yours,” angling one closer to me.
I took it and asked, “Is there sugar?” I didn’t always want it, but when I was tired or overstressed, it helped give me a boost.
“Sure.” He put the tray down on the coffee table to retrieve the sachets, so his back was toward me as I held the cup away from my body—in case it spilt—and lifted the lid.
Then my mouth fell open in shock. A note had been stuck inside the lid that said $20M tomorrow. But in the seconds after I noticed that, I saw a section of pink froth at the top of my latte, and the cup fell out of my nerveless fingers.
Nicholas heard the sound and turned as coffee splashed my ankles and his boots, but neither of us said anything because we were both staring at the headless mouse that now lay in a puddle of coffee on the carpet.
“Drop it,” he said sharply, and the lid fell out of my hands as well. Then he lifted me out of the chair and moved me to the other side of the room, where I couldn’t see the horrible dismembered animal. A minute later he had an icepack and said, “Hold this on your ankle.”
I did as I was told but my ears felt hot and dizziness battered at my eardrums like droning bees. I wanted to be incredulous, or outraged, or angry. But I was sickened to the pit of my stomach, as if what I’d seen had infected me with the poison of terror.
And it was too much.
I fainted.
Chapter Thirteen
“Louella?”
I licked my dry lips and opened my eyes to find Nicholas crouched beside me, frowning. I was on my back on the floor, still in the waiting room.
“Yes.” I swallowed again. My throat was dry.
“We’re going.”
I took his arm and let him help me back up onto a chair, then he stood back and I realized his whole body was stiff, as if he was holding something in. His eyes were still pointed in my direction, but he didn’t seem to be looking at me anymore. He was looking through me.
Finally, he said, “Are you ready to leave?”
He wasn’t asking me if I wanted to leave, so I knew I needed to obey, but I didn’t think my legs would support me. “May I have a minute?” He nodded and went to stand with his back to me, facing the doorway of the waiting room. A quick glance at the floor showed the horrible decapitated mouse was no longer on view.
He put phone to his hear, and a moment later I heard him say, “I need you at the airport. Mr. Knight’s sister is flying in.” He listened to something, then said, “My client was just threatened while I was in the room.” Tension throbbed in his voice and, despite the fact that he was only a few steps away, I could feel an impenetrable barrier between us.
More silence, then he said, “Thank you. Her name is Adele Knight, arriving on a flight from Paris. Take her to the sanctuary. We’ll meet you there.”
He disconnected the call, then made another. “This is Nicholas Aston. I need a security escort down to the carpark.”
He gave details of our position and the final call was to the valet service to bring around my Bentley. Then he turned to me. “Hospital security will escort us to the car, but if we see any police, I don’t want to tell them about this.”
“Very well.” I frankly didn’t know what to do, and in my shaky state, it was a relief to have someone taking charge. He said nothing more then, just sent a few text messages, his gaze flicking up to the doorway every three seconds.
When two hospital security officers arrived in their conspicuous uniforms, Nicholas nodded for me to follow them.
I stood on wobbling legs and had to walk past the spilt coffee. Some of my fear trickled back, so my hand wasn’t steady as I picked up my handbag. But the hulking security men made no comment, and in any case I wasn’t interested in what people thought of me. I just wanted to get away, so I walked silently behind them, with Nicholas at my back, down corridors and elevators, retracing our steps to the Bentley where Nicholas checked over the car and then opened the back door for me, his expression stony.
I got in the back and silently buckled my seatbelt while he thanked the officers and got in the front. Then he drove, out into night-time traffic, but it wasn’t a companionable silence such as I’d experienced before with him. This was tense, as if the air between us vibrated with the anger he’d so obviously turned inwards.
My client was just threatened while I was in the room.
I knew any effort on my behalf to deflect blame onto someone else would be ignored, so I didn’t try. The horrible men who had borrowed money off Marcus were clever, and I was very glad that there would be guards around him from now on.
I didn’t want to think about what could have happened if I hadn’t asked for sugar—if I hadn’t lifted the lid of the takeaway container. It would make me vomit. Besides, I was almost certain Nicholas was doing just that, torturing himself with images of how badly things could have gone. For all I knew, the coffee itself could have been poisoned.
The fact that I was safe was clearly no consolation to him, and as I sat wondering what might be, I realized that the best thing I could do for him was to act normally, as if nothing had happened. Yes, I’d been terrified, but that was over now and I was safe.
So I swallowed a few times to ensure my voice would emerge normally, then I said, “Should I call Adele to tell her she’s being picked up, so she knows I organized it.”
It took several seconds for him to reply, and when he did, his voice was unnaturally low, as if he was having difficulty stopping himself from growling. “Please. And drop something into the conversation that only you would know, so she’s confident this is your idea. Otherwise she might balk at not going to the hospital.”
It wasn’t my idea, but I said, “Certainly,” and pulled out my phone. I caught her message-bank service so I left a voice message telling her Marcus had been moved and that I was sending a pickup to bring her to me, promising we’d go to him together—which was actually the last thing I wanted—then I asked if she’d brought the mint green boots she’d worn on her last visit that Marcus had teased her about. It was a detail that no-one else would know.
When I ended the call, I expected Nicholas to say something, but he just drove. I looked out the window and recognized a well-lit street corner. We’d driven past Rose Bay where I lived and were headed up the peninsular that sat at the outer edge of Sydney Harbor into even more exclusive housing territory: Vaucluse and Watsons Bay.
Luxury cruise ships passed the lighthouse at the tip of the peninsular on their way into Sydney harbor, and homes with ocean or harbor views in those suburbs could be double the price of mine.
This sanctuary he was taking me to was in an extremely high rent area, and although I trusted Nicholas implicitly, I felt unnerved, not knowing where I was going. But I said nothing, because I was quite sure that questions would only wind him up further. Better to let him do this his way. He was the expert.
So I sat silently in the back of the car, channeling comfort amid the plush cream leather and woodgrain trim of my Bentley. It had soothed me so often in the past, and as we drove down leafy tree-lined streets, it did so again.
When we finally pulled into a driveway, it was to a house surrounded by trees so dense it was difficult to make out any detail beyond the fact that it was double story. The automatic garage doors opened in front of us and we drove into a well-lit and spacious
garage that was populated with a shiny black motorcycle and an equally shiny silver Mercedes sports car.
“This will take a moment,” he said as he turned the ignition off and I listened to the soft grumble of the roller door closing behind us. He had his phone out and was scrolling through security views, presumably of this house.
I breathed evenly and tried to ignore the discomfort of my cut that had started to throb. I had painkillers in my handbag. I’d retrieve one when we were inside.
“Okay,” he said at last, and I heard the click of the Bentley doors unlocking. Then he was out and opening my door.
This time he didn’t offer his hand, and that was telling. He stood back, waiting for me to exit, then he said, “I go first.”
It was against the ingrained manners I was used to from Nicholas, but he’d explained early in our acquaintance that there would be times when he must precede me—for safety sake—and that he’d let me know when.
This was clearly such a time. So I followed him out of the garage into a wide corridor that ran the length of the house to a huge plate glass wall at the end.
As we walked, I looked into the rooms at each side, bedrooms, a media room, gymnasium, children’s playroom, kitchen, dining room, several living rooms, a library—all empty. And this was only one level. It was easily as large as my home, but ultra-modern with lots of silver-grey marble, decorated in a minimalist style which didn’t disguise the quality of the furniture and fittings. I couldn’t guess how much this home would cost in this area of Sydney. Twenty million? Thirty?
When we reached the plate glass windows at the end, Nicholas gestured to the low leather couch that faced Harbor view between sheltering trees. I suddenly realized the positioning of the house was incredibly private, and in my current shaky state, that was exactly what I wanted.
Husband Heel (Husband #3) Page 17