Marrying the Master (20 page)

Well,
no, not the whole inkling. The fact was that he didn’t think it were possible
that he could ever love another woman the way he loved Samantha, and that
seemed tragically unfair to any woman who might attract his interest.

That,
he would never say.

He
didn’t know how long he stood there, watching Lola’s chest rise and fall while
the sunlight slowly seeped in. She looked so happy. Blissful. His desire for
her never left him, but still he found he couldn’t disturb her. What sort of
bastard would? Instead he collapsed into an overstuffed armchair and contented
himself with watching her sleep—for now.

And,
of course, thinking about the things he would do to her when she woke up.

It
was hours later when he finally woke up, totally unaware that he’d passed out
in that chair. Lola was gone from the bed. He smelled bacon. She’d woken up to
find him in that chair, and now she was cooking breakfast.

It
wasn’t until he left the room, now with a few hours of sleep and his brain
functioning at something approaching normal, that he noticed that someone had
moved the
fully-made
bed outside of the door to the
bedroom; it took the place of the couch where he had spent so many nights
lately.

It
took his sleep-deprived brain a few moments to catch up.
Lola
.
Making a statement.

Brat.

He
had every intention of disciplining her that morning, but he walked into his
airy, light-filled kitchen to find Lola sizzling bacon and ham and a Spanish
omelet, and for just a moment—just long enough—his stomach
superseded his brain.

“Oh,
good, sleepyhead is awake,” she said, flashing him a grin. “Just in time. We
have an appointment.”

“What?”
he said. His mouth was watering. Lola was cooking in just one of his shirts.

She
plated the food and placed it in front of him.

“I
left you a voicemail. We’re going to look at a special location today at Dagmar’s
recommendation.”

She
hadn’t buttoned the shirt all the way. He could see the outline of her breasts.

“What?”

“Roman,”
she said sharply. “A location for the wedding—that huge publicity thing
that is happening in just a few weeks. The Cloisters. There was a cancellation;
this is a big deal. Be ready to go in thirty minutes.”

And
she walked off toward the bedroom.

If
he hadn’t been famished, he would have spanked her right there.

Later
, he thought, and he devoured his
breakfast, feeling strangely content.

~ * ~ * ~

Lola
did her best to act normal.

Two.
Days.

Three,
if you counted mornings.

All
that time had passed since the last time they’d had sex. And not just
sex—she had to be honest with herself about that; what had followed the
highly constructed scene had been anything but formal, or controlled, or safe.
It had been all about crossing boundaries, not drawing them. “No hiding,” he’d
said.

It
had felt so raw.

And
then, of course, he’d gone and slept in that chair. He hadn’t said anything
about the bed she’d had delivered and made for him; she had figured that he’d
have a sense of humor about it, but then she’d found him passed out in a chair,
right across from where she’d been sleeping.

She
wished he’d gotten into bed with her. Well, maybe it was better that he
hadn’t—maybe that would have only made things worse.

She’d
spent those two days wishing for things she mostly knew to be impossible, and
it hadn’t helped. Now, sitting in the back of another hired car with Roman, she
did her best to lower her expectations.

Roman
cleared his throat. The poor man hadn’t gotten much sleep, but he wasn’t
letting it show. Lola found herself wishing she could have taken better care of
him.

“So
where is this place that we are going?” he asked, smiling at her.

She
couldn’t help but smile back. Even sleep deprived, the man was gorgeous.

“The
Cloisters,” she answered. “It’s way uptown. It’s a satellite of the
Metropolitan Museum of Art for some of the medieval stuff. It’s built to look
like a castle or an abbey, I think. Dagmar thinks it might be properly dramatic
for the press, if they let her have full run of the place, which might not
happen.”

Roman
raised an eyebrow. “An abbey? For nuns?”

“There
are no nuns, Roman,” she said, smiling. “No one for you to defrock.”

He
merely looked at her. She shivered.

There
was a silent moment that was somehow awkward, and then he took her hand. They
spent the rest of the ride in silence, which suited Lola, as she had plenty of
freaking out to do in the privacy of her own head.

She
had missed him incredibly over the course of the last two days. Granted, it had
not just been any two days—it was the two days after what she could only
describe as a transformative sexual experience. Well, for her, anyway
;
she had no way of knowing what it had been for him,
because, as always, Roman didn’t say.

“I
am sorry that I have not been as helpful with the wedding preparations as I
should have been,” he said as their car turned into one of the many small
parking lots nestled in the park surrounding the Cloisters.

“Yeah,
how’d your business trip go?” She tried to sound casual. She knew Roman still
had some non-Volare concerns, but it always came as surprise to be reminded
that Volare was not his whole life, especially because, well, it was her whole
life. It made her feel insecure, which she hated.

“Fine.”
Roman clipped the word as he helped her out of the car; this was clearly not
something he wanted to talk about, which was fine with her. She smiled as she
felt his hand at her back, and he stepped to the “street” side of her, even
though there was no real street to speak of.

“I
am sorry, Lola, that I have left this business to you. I should have been more
helpful, dealing with the publicity and the arrangements, but I have had other
concerns. I promise I will be more available,” he said gravely.

Lola
was almost shocked. He seemed genuinely regretful.

“Well,
there is this reporter who keeps saying we’re supposed to give an interview,”
Lola said. “You kind of need to be here for that.”

“I
will schedule it today,” he said.

Lola
took a deep breath and fought off the queasy feeling in her stomach. They were
right outside the entrance, on a stone platform, temporarily alone. She wanted
to get this out of the way before they entered such a reverential building.

“One
more thing,” Lola said. “About that.”

Roman
turned, and the sun hit him full on. He was breathtaking, his bronzed skin
accentuated by his white shirt, a slight smile on his face, bright eyes
sparkling.

Shit
.

“I
got some information about Harold Jeels,” she said. “Some photographs.”

Roman
immediately came closer, his expression intense. “Tell me.”

“Harold
Jeels was into the fetish scene. Is, probably. But there are photos, is the
thing.”

Roman
narrowed his eyes. “That is…what you call insurance. But something like that is
dangerous, and…” He seemed to struggle for the right English word, something
she hardly ever saw him do. “It is wrong,” he finally said. He seemed angry.

“I
know,” she said. She almost wished she hadn’t brought it up. “I don’t like
having them, either.”

“Who
sent these to you?”

Now
she
really
wished she hadn’t brought
it up. But what choice did she have?

“Ben,”
she said, and forced herself to look up at Roman.

Roman
stiffened, drawing himself up to his full height, and his expression darkened,
something that seemed unaccountably sad to Lola on this beautiful day. She
watched him closely, aware of a growing tangle of nervous tension in her chest,
trying to divine what was going on in his head.

“You
have been in contact with Benjamin Mara?” he said.

“Yes,”
she said, maybe a little defensively.

“Why?”
He barked out it out like an order. Lola felt herself getting angry.

“Why
is that any of your business?” she countered.

She
started to walk off into the Cloisters, but Roman stopped her—his hand
around her arm was enough physical contact to completely scramble her emotions
and her thoughts. She wished he didn’t have that sort of hold on her; it was
incredibly unfair. She was always trying to figure out what Roman
thought—meanwhile, Ben had come right out and told her exactly what he
thought
and
felt. And yet Ben had
been the one to betray her.

Roman
pulled her back to him, right up to his chest, where she could feel his heat.
Her body responded, and inwardly she cursed.

“It
is my business because you are mine,” he said gruffly.

Lola’s
looked up into his eyes, her breath caught on those last words. He didn’t look
romantic, or emotional—he looked fiercely jealous.

“We
have an agreement,” he went on.

Oh,
right. The agreement. Physical exclusivity.
Of course.

“The
agreement pertained to…physical relations,” she said bitterly, looking away.
“So relax. You don’t have to care.”

Roman
hissed and threaded his hand through her hair, his thumb gently stroking the
side of her face.

“Do
not tell me what I care about,” he said. “Why were you speaking to him?”

Lola
wanted to scream with frustration. She should walk away from this right now,
tell Roman he had no right to criticize her, that if he wasn’t involved with
her romantically then it wasn’t any of his damn business, but no matter how
many times she told herself that, her stupid, treacherous feet just would not
move. Her hands wouldn’t push him away; her eyes wouldn’t look anywhere else.
She was his prisoner, and he didn’t even know it.

“
Not
that it’s any of your business,
since we’re not, you know…” She couldn’t look him in the eye and finish that
sentence, so she just jumped ahead. “But I met up with him for
coffee—because he asked, and because I wanted to hear what he had to say.
He apologized.”

Roman
grunted. He didn’t seem happy, but it wasn’t like he could fault the guy for
apologizing.

“Did
he say he had been drinking again?” Roman asked.

“No,”
Lola said. “In fact, he said he hadn’t. And you know what? As big a jerk as he
was, I’m proud of him for that.”

If
a cloud had passed in front of Roman’s face before, now it was a category five
hurricane.

“He
doesn’t deserve for you to be proud of him,” Roman said. “He doesn’t deserve
for you to speak to him. He does not even deserve to look at you.”

“Great,
Roman,
thanks so much for telling me. I never would
have known without your help!” Lola was getting really angry now. At least Ben
made an attempt to communicate. At least she
knew
how he felt, even if he had been a total douchebag. “Did it
ever occur to you that maybe
I
needed
to know some things? That maybe it would help
me
to hear them?”

Roman
looked stricken, and let her go. She wished he hadn’t; she felt weaker without
his hands on her, suddenly cold.

“This
is so fucked up,” she muttered to herself.

“Lola,”
he said, and it was his tone that got her attention; he never sounded like
this, so unsure of himself. He cleared his throat, and now his voice was low
and fierce. “Lola, I…I do not like you talking to him. I do not like him. I do
not trust him. And if you gave the word, I would end him.”

She
felt his hands envelope hers, his fingers meshed with hers, and found herself
lost in his eyes again. He’d just said something borderline insane, and yet his
eyes were soft. His hands were warm.

What
the hell was happening here?

“But
I want what is best for you,” he said. “Did it help you to speak to him?”

“Yes,”
she said. “I think so.”

He
bent down, and his lips brushed her forehead. “Good. I hope you do not have to
see him again. I will contact the reporter and make arrangements for an
interview. Now let’s go, and think of better things.”

Bewildered
and disoriented, Lola followed him into the museum.

The
Cloisters were, of course, beautiful. An elaborate extension of the famed
Metropolitan Museum of Art, built, at great expense, to look and feel like a
true medieval abbey, it housed one of the world’s best collections of medieval
artifacts in a way that felt weirdly intimate. You could walk around casually
amid stained glass windows, huge, faded tapestries, giant stone rooms with tiny
little alcoves. Roman and Lola were some of the first visitors of the day, and
had the place largely to
themselves
. It was easy to
get lost in the surroundings and imagine that you were back in the thirteenth
century. Lola couldn’t help but wonder what a Volare wedding would be like
here. It intrigued her to no end to think about what Dagmar would do with a
place like this, even if she couldn’t imagine that anyone in their right mind
would let her throw a wedding here, let alone a Volare wedding.