Marrying the Master (25 page)

And
then she felt him
slowly,
slowly enter her to his full
length, stretching her in this position. She pulled against her ankle
restraints, wanting to wrap her legs around him and pull him even deeper, but
he only shook his head and thrust harder.

“First,
come,” he said.

He
held himself over her like that, looking at her so that she felt even more
naked than she in fact was—
how does
he do that
—and [drove] into her with unrelenting force until he pushed
her up and over one more time, looking into her eyes as she came screaming his
name.

She
was covered in sweat. Her body ached. Aftershocks raced through her with
unpredictable fury. She was starting to feel delirious.

It
felt…unfair.

“Please…”
she managed, rattling her restraints.

“Yes,”
he said. “Now. This time.”

And
he released her arms and legs, only to wrap them around his body.

This
time, they came together.

~ * ~ * ~

Roman
wasn’t dreaming. He just slowly became of aware of consciousness as sleep
receded in gentle, lapping waves.

What
he became aware of first was a warm, breathing, pulsing body under his.
The smell of peaches.
A fierce, sudden
attachment, wanting to reach out and hold her.

Lola.

But
there was something strange about that. No, not strange—nothing felt
strange—it felt right.

Something
new.

It
took him a few moments after that to realize what had happened.

He
had fallen asleep with her.
On her.
They slept
together, exhausted, drained,
physically
depleted.
He had slept
. And he had woken up,
knowing it was Lola, not thinking, even for a second, of Samantha, not until he
remembered there was something new about the whole experience.

He
rolled to his side, pushed himself off the bed, not totally sure that he
wasn’t
dreaming.

There
she was, her limbs still entangled with his, naked and glowing.
More beautiful than he’d ever seen her.

What
had he done now?

Slowly
at first, then faster, faster, that brief peace that he’d felt upon waking was
replaced with the dread certainty that this couldn’t be that simple. Roman had
tried over and over again to cure himself of what happened when he tried to
move on. And each and every time, without fail, he was wrong, and the result
was always the heartbreak of a woman he cared about.

He
had learned to be careful. Had guarded those women against
himself
.

And
this time…with
Lola
…he’d slipped.

With Lola.

The
only woman he cared for, looked out for, because her heart was his
own—he’d slipped, and now…

Now,
always supremely in control, Roman Casta had no idea what was happening.

He
looked down on Lola’s sleeping face and watched her reach for him, watched her
frown slightly when he wasn’t there. He couldn’t bear to make her unhappy even
now, when she was unconscious. What would he do when it inevitably came upon
him again and he screwed up for real? He had broken many hearts accidentally in
the years before he’d learned that his grief over Samantha would always, always
make itself known, always insinuate itself between him and the woman in his
bed.

But
he couldn’t bear the idea of breaking Lola’s heart.

Not
her.

Never
her.

He
lay
back down, pulling her to his chest, and lay awake the
rest of the night, thinking about what he had to do.

Lola
woke up certain that she was dreaming. Had dreamed. She rolled over to stretch
out and whimpered softly.
That
part
of the night had definitely not been a dream. She looked on the other side of
the bed and saw a Roman-shaped hollow, and thought,
Oh
my God, that part wasn’t a dream, either.

It
shouldn’t be such a strange thing, just sleeping with a man. But it wasn’t any
man, it was Roman—Roman, who she now, finally, had to admit she was
completely in love with, probably always had been in love with, almost
certainly would always be in love with—and it was Roman who avoided sleep
with a woman like it would kill him.

She
hadn’t
dreamed it. She really had
woken up in the middle of the night, his arms still wrapped around her, his
heart beating strong and steady under her cheek. She’d turned her head, brushed
her lips to his chest, and gone back to sleep smiling.

A
cold thread of panic wound its way through her: where was he?

Gone?

No:
she could hear someone in the kitchen. Clanking pots and pans—good Lord,
was he trying to cook? She almost shot out of bed just to catch that sight when
she saw the clock.

10:00 A.M.

The
reporter that Roman had arranged—what was her name? Denise something or
other
?—
she was going to arrive in an hour.

Shit. SHIT.

Roman
was probably getting ready, probably staging something. She should be up and
helping him; instead he let her sleep. She smiled.

She
winced when she swung her legs over the bed, still surprisingly sore, but then
she smiled even brighter.

It
was going to be a good day.

A good year.

Maybe a good life.

She
rose from the bed as delicately as she could and headed for the bathroom for a
quick shower. The bathroom had a vase full of fresh cut flowers—Roman’s
service must have been around in the evening, after they’d gone to the dinner.
The sight of flowers reminded her of Ben’s unknown “delivery,” and she felt a
twinge of guilt, remembering their texts the previous night.

How
could it seem so long ago?

She
showered in record time, eschewing her normal long, luxurious hot water
extravaganza, only because—and she knew this was a little nuts, but she
felt like she got to be a little nuts today—she wanted to see Roman. She
wanted to go help before the reporter arrived. She wanted to cook him
breakfast.

Too late
, she reminded herself. He was
probably trying to cook to impress the reporter. She could make lunch later and
make up for it.

She
threw on one of those low-maintenance yet stylish one-shoulder tops and some
skinny jeans, tousled her wet hair, and went out to find Roman.

She
felt damn sexy just being near him.

She
found him in the kitchen, a tower of copper cookware piled on the expansive
counter next to his workspace at the stove; the man was making crêpes, and had
apparently had to rummage through every expensive, unused piece of cookery to
get to his special crepe-making equipment.

The
crepes themselves actually looked amazing. There were bowls of strawberries,
sliced bananas, apples with cinnamon, chocolate sauce.

It
was literally the best breakfast Lola could have conceived of.

So
why wasn’t he looking at her?

“Chef
Roman,” she said, pulling herself up on one of the kitchen barstools, “You know
the reporter lady is coming by soon?”

Roman
looked up from the crêpe he was making, a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes.
Then it was gone, replaced by a cool mask of reservation. He said, “I’m aware,
yes.”

Maybe
she was just imagining it—maybe this was just the usual post-intimacy
craziness people talked about. Lola had never really fallen victim to it
before, but she figured that if it would happen with anyone, it would happen
with Roman.

She
tried again.

“So
do you have anything in particular you want to get across to her?” Lola said.

Immediately
she hated that she’d said that. Like she was getting all arch and prim and naggy
about some stupid interview that absolutely paled in comparison to the
importance that was Roman Casta holding her through the night. It wasn’t what
she really meant. It wasn’t even close. So why had she said it? What she really
wanted to say was, ‘
What
the hell is wrong with you?
Why are you being like this? Wasn’t last night special? Didn’t it mean
something?’

Roman
poured another crêpe onto the griddle.

Lola
watched Roman’s brow furrow in concentration or pain, she couldn’t tell which
one. Given the simplicity of making a crepe, she didn’t think it was probable
that the cooking was taking up so much of his brainpower, but the alternative…

“There
is something we need to talk about,” he said.

He
plated a strawberry-chocolate crepe and placed it in front of Lola, but she’d
lost her appetite.

“What?”
she asked.

She
forced herself to look up at him. He looked pained. Like he hadn’t slept at
all. There were lines on his face where she could never remember seeing them,
shadows under his eyes. Even his hair seemed in disarray, falling forward into
his face.

He
leaned on the other side of the table, his shoulders bunching and his forearms
roiling like twisted cables of rope. He stared at her intensely, his eyes
boring into her with some message she couldn’t interpret.

“I
said yesterday that we should continue,” he said. “And that is true. But not
without some modifications.”

“Modifications?”
she said weakly.

He
winced. “Yes. The exclusivity requirement seems onerous, under the
circumstances.”

“What
circumstances?” she said, almost reflexively. Then she actually processed what
he’d said. “The exclusivity requirement? What are you saying?”

He
looked her directly in the eye, his own eyes like sharp shards of obsidian. “If
this is to go on, you should be free to…see other people, no? You can leave at
any time after the ceremony, and the equity in Club Volare will still be
yours.” The crepe started to burn, and he quickly tended to it. “You deserve
happiness, Lola. You should look for it.”

Lola
held his gaze, but her body, as if of its own accord, went slowly cold.

“I
should?” she said. She didn’t even recognize her own voice.

She
would have wished that, at that moment, he couldn’t meet her gaze. But he did.
He looked terrible, pained, and tortured, but he did.

“Yes,”
he said.

It
seemed like they stood there for a long time, looking at each other. Like
Lola’s brain took too long to process the actual words that had come out of his
mouth. Like she had all the time in the world to think about every other failed
relationship she’d ever had, every other moment where she’d misjudged a man,
every other time when she’d felt like she’d left herself out and open, hopeful
and yet just waiting to be hurt.

And
then the doorbell rang.

Roman
dusted the flour off his hands, truly annoyed.

“She
is early,” he said, and looked back at Lola. “I wanted to have this
conversation finished before she arrived.”

“Finished?”
Lola said. “In what universe do you see that as possible in like, less than an
hour?”

Roman
frowned. The doorbell rang again. He looked at Lola, and she couldn’t believe
what she saw in his face: pain.

What
the hell? What right did he have to be at all pained? This was
his
doing.

“Please,
Lola,” he said, “Think about it.”

And
then he went for the goddamn door.

“So,”
Denise Nelson said, giving them both an arch
look
over
a mountain of untouched crêpes, “You’ve covered this slow burn romance pretty
well. My readers will love it. Every girl wants to get the guy she falls for
when she’s young,” she said, smiling at Lola.

Lola
did her best to smile back. Roman took her hand in his. She still felt cold.

“Now—and
I do hope this will be on the record, even though it wasn’t in the approved
questions,” Denise said with a sharp smile, Roman noticeably tensing,
“—but I just have to ask you about the second location. Our L.A. office
is going crazy with gossip.”

“Second
location?” Lola heard herself say.

Denise
gave her a coy smile. “Don’t try that with me. We’ve had people out to look at
the location in Venice. You know construction workers are just the worst
gossips?”

The
silence felt heavy. Lola was sure she could hear dust spinning in the air.
Roman sighed and ran his free hand over his face, like it could wipe the slate
clean.

Finally
Lola looked at Roman and cocked her head, like she was only teasing her new
husband. “Might as well tell her, hon,” she said.