Marrying the Master (26 page)

Inside,
she was thinking:
Please let this be a
mistake. Please don’t say you lied to me, too.

Roman
squeezed her hand, squeezed it so hard it almost hurt, but kept his poker face
turned towards Denise, the busy journalist.

“That’s
not really for public consumption,” he said, “You understand, we will do a
proper announcement when it’s ready.
Through you, at your
magazine.
Since you’ve been so good to us.”

Even
Lola could hear the implicit threat there. She almost laughed—Roman
didn’t mess around. A morally crusading state senator like Harold Jeels was one
of the few things on the list of things Roman couldn’t buy, but he could damn
well buy Denise’s freaking magazine if he felt like it. But Roman wasn’t a
bully, and Lola knew he wouldn’t take that path.

He
was just a fucking heartbreaker.

“Ok!”
Denise said, breaking the silence with raised eyebrows. “I think I’ve got what
I need for the text to accompany the wedding layout. We’re coordinating with
Dagmar, so you don’t have to worry about any of that—we’ll just want our
photographer to get his shots in.”

“That’s
great,” Lola said, practically shooting up from her chair when the reporter
rose.

And
awkward pause followed. Lola moved so quickly it was hard not to notice. Both
Roman and Denise looked at her, one warily, the other with obvious curiosity.
Normally Lola would never make a scene, but she had suddenly hit her limit.
This was too much. She couldn’t—
couldn’t
—just sit and pretend anymore. She couldn’t continue with this charade in
the aftermath of the epic mindfuck Roman had just pulled on her.

She
should see other people?

She
deserved happiness?

He’d
been planning another Volare location?
On another coast?

He’d
lied to her. Or at the very least kept her out of the loop. She could only
think of a few reasons he might choose to do that, and every single one of them
made her feel even worse. Lola’s brain went into overdrive, turning over all
the different pieces of information, trying to find a way to fit them together
that didn’t make Roman a liar.
Someone who had used her,
presumably.
Who didn’t give a shit about the one rule she’d made: don’t
lie to me.

Who
didn’t care if she went and fucked someone
else.

Lola
had told herself she was handling it pretty well. Hell, she was proud of the
way she hadn’t fallen to pieces, the way she’d greeted Denise Whatsherface, the
way she’d handled the interview. She thought she’d achieved the exact mix of
sexy and sophisticated that Volare was going for, with just enough hint of mystery-type
stuff thrown in. She’d laughed coyly at Denise’s questions about how she and
Roman had met, about how they ran Volare together, about how they managed the
secrets of powerful people. She’d even looked at Roman with genuine compassion
when Denise had asked about Samantha.

She’d actually thought,
I
am superwoman.
I can handle anything
.

But
now Lola noticed that her hands were starting to shake, no matter what she did,
and her throat ran dry, so dry that she coughed, looking around for water. She
ran to the
kitchen island
, all decorum and composure
gone, and drained one glass, then another.

“Lola,
you all right?”

It
was Roman. She could hear him walking toward her. She thought of him touching
her, and she was suddenly desperate to be somewhere else, anywhere at all, when
her heart finally broke.

She
could feel it coming, like an impending storm.

“Lola,”
Roman said. He was so close.
Right behind her.
She
couldn’t even look at him.

“I’m
fine,” she said, pulling away from him. “Here, Denise, I’ll walk you out. I was
on my way anyway.”

And
Lola walked out of that apartment, and out of Volare, without looking back.

Roman
knew he had to let her go, but that did not make it easy.

That
was an understatement. On the outside he was a rigid, immovable statue, his
muscles tense and his fists clenching as he watched Lola leave; on the inside,
he raged and thrashed against restraints of his own devising, wanting nothing
more but to keep hold of her.
To keep her there.

He
stood still as she walked out the door, practically vibrating with the desire
to hold her back.

After
she was gone, he waited for all of that to pass. It didn’t.

He
waited through long moments while his chest ached, his stomach turned, and his lungs
couldn’t get enough air. Finally, he collapsed back on the couch, the cushion
still warm where she had been sitting, and forced himself to go over all of the
reasons why he could not continue this. Why she had to find somebody else. Why
he could not keep her forever.

After
he’d woken up and realized what had happened, he’d lain awake the rest of the
night, turning the situation over in his mind, but always coming back to the
same conclusion: he must stop this. He must stop it before it got worse. And nothing
had changed. The fact remained that Roman knew he couldn’t offer Lola what she
deserved, and, if he let this continue, he’d do her irreparable harm. Ever
since Samantha, it had been impossible.

He
still marveled that, when he’d woken up, he hadn’t gone through the usual sick
disorientation, thinking for just a moment that Samantha was still alive. He’d
really known it was Lola. Reveled in Lola. That was the first time that had
happened since Samantha’s death. He had not thought it possible. But his immediate
reaction had been fear and regret—fear for Lola, regret that he had
allowed himself to slip. Roman was more certain than ever that he would
inevitably end up hurting any woman unlucky enough to fall in love with him,
and Lola was the one woman in the world he could not bear to hurt, and he was
allowing it to happen.

He’d
been weak, and
look
what he had done already.

Inexcusable.

So
when Chance stormed in in a whirlwind of rage, Roman was actually glad. He
looked forward to getting what he deserved.

Chance
stopped himself just a few feet from where Roman still sat on the couch, his
hands threaded through his hair.

“What
the fuck is
wrong
with you?” Chance
demanded.

Roman
looked up. How long had he been sitting there? The long shadows and orange light
indicated that it had been much longer than he’d thought. Hours. She had left
hours ago.

“I
made a very grave mistake,” Roman said.

“Yeah,
no shit, asshole. Hey,
look
at me,”
Chance said, smacking Roman’s hand away from his face. “Stand up and tell me
what the fuck you think you’re doing.”

“I’m
protecting her,” Roman said.

He
was sure he had done the right thing.

He
was less sure the right thing was supposed to feel like this.

“I
said stand up,” Chance growled, “and say that to me with a straight face. Do
you seriously believe that? Have you gotten that fucking dumb?”

Roman
shook himself out of his daze of grief, and stood to his full height, looking
directly at Chance. An unlikely best friend, but the best man Roman had ever
known.
Unfailingly honest, even when the truth was
unpleasant, even when it would harm him.

Roman
liked that about him.

“I
understand if you want to hit me,” Roman said.

“You
are a fucking moron.”

“What
else could I do to protect her, Chance? It had already gone too far.”

Chance
just shook his head. “I take it back. You give morons a bad name. You really
think you were protecting her?”

“You
know I was.”

Chance
closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Very slowly, he said, “On
what planet does Lola need protecting?”

“Everyone
needs protection sometimes, Chance. From some things.”

“Lola
can handle herself, and you know it. She can handle you. This is about you,
Roman,” Chance said, stepping closer so his face was only inches from Roman’s.
“This is about you being a coward.”

Roman
gritted his teeth, welcoming the flash of anger. Being angry was better than
what he had been feeling, that was for damn sure.

“Watch
what you say, Chance.”

Chance
just laughed. “You’re in love with her, you unbelievable dumbass, and you just fucked
it up.”

Roman
blinked, but Chance didn’t let him speak. “I’m not blind, Roman. I haven’t seen
you like that with anyone since Samantha. Not even with Samantha. You’re
different now. We all are. Maybe ten years ago Lola wouldn’t have been right
for you, but now… I’ve never seen a man so obviously in love with a woman as
you are with Lola. And I saw it in one goddamn night.”

Roman
suddenly felt like he’d aged ten years. Maybe it would be best for Lola if he
went to L.A. Maybe that would give her the best chance to move on with her life
without having to cope with the stress that their relationship caused.

Even
as he thought it, Roman knew he’d never do it. The
idea of
being separated from her made him feel
sick.

He
said, “Since Samantha…”

Chance
exploded. “Jesus, Roman,
Samantha is dead
.
Do you honestly think she’d want this for you? Or do you think she’d want you
to be happy?”

Roman
snapped his head up, but Chance didn’t blink.

“You
know I’m right, Roman. But I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you sit there, you
dumb fuck, and you think about it. And if you can honest to God tell yourself
that you can go through life without my cousin, that you’ll be able to look at
her when she’s hurting because of what you just did and not do something about
it, then you’re not the Roman Casta I know. You’re just the dude who broke
Lola’s heart because he was afraid.”

Roman
shook, his fists balled up tight. He was furious, but not just at Chance.

“Yeah,”
Chance said, turning away from their standoff. He walked back to the door,
pausing just in front of it. “You think about it. And if you come up with the
wrong answer, I really am going to have to kick your ass for messing up the
lives of two people I care about.”

Lola
couldn’t sleep. Huge surprise.

She’d
found herself halfway to Stella and Bashir’s place before it had occurred to
her that maybe that wasn’t the best choice. Stella and Bashir were planning
their own wedding, and, truth be told, the last thing Lola wanted to see right
then was a happy couple. It would just make her feel like more of a fool.

So
she’d returned to her own apartment for the first time in weeks. She didn’t
know what to expect, exactly, but she was relieved to find no press hanging
around. Without a steady stream of gossip about the membership of Club Volare,
their attention had moved on to celebrity bed hopping and overdoses, so Lola
probably wouldn’t have to worry about getting photographed or having people go
through her trash until the glossy wedding special came out.

Right.
The big, flashy wedding ceremony to commemorate their sham
marriage.

She
was still supposed to go through with the wedding.

She
had
to. It was her own fault she’d
gotten her heart broken; she had actually known better, she’d just…made a
mistake. And even though it looked like Harold Jeels could be neutralized with
those photographs that Ben had sent her, that didn’t mean Volare wouldn’t be a
target in the future. Roman’s press strategy was still the right one.

Ugh.
The Harold Jeels photos—they made her feel awful just knowing she had
them in her possession; and, to top it off, they made her think about Ben. He
had only sent her those because he was trying to help. He’d gone through the
trouble of hunting them down because he’d thought they would protect her.

Or
because he thought they could help him win her back. Which was possibly a
little twisted, right there.

You have fantastic taste in men, Lola
.

She
wished she could sleep. She’d slept so well in Roman’s arms. It had been
perfect, or as close to perfect as she thought she was going to get, but then
it was as if someone had flipped a switch and Roman had gone from being caring
and understanding and tender, in his own macho way, to…whatever the hell that
was this morning.

She
had been willing to put up with anything. She had been willing to settle for
second best, knowing the ghost of Samantha would always be hanging around. And
he had thrown that in her face.

What
the hell had she been thinking?

Oh man, come on, get angry. Get
pissed off.
Anything
would be better than this aching hole in her chest. No matter where her
thoughts went, she always had to circle around to one thing: he didn’t want
her.