So Close, page 22
You stop at the threshold to the closet and face me, leaning into the jamb. You’re unabashedly naked. And why not? You have the most perfect masculine form. You’re a dream realized.
“Two different divisions,” you reply. “Marketing is in-house. Social is, too, kinda. It was Amy’s company, and we merged it into Baharan after she married my brother. We haven’t fully integrated yet, as far as I know, so they’re separate for now.”
My brows arch. “As far as you know?”
One of your powerful shoulders lifts in a careless shrug. “My mother oversees that end of things. As you know, she came up with the Baharan name and logo, so branding is just something I’ve left to her.”
I remember the frosty looks the two women exchanged in the library and Aliyah’s reaction to Amy’s emergency at work. I remember some other things, too. “She has feelings for you.”
An emotionless mask drops instantly over your features, hiding your thoughts. “My mother? That’s debatable.”
“You know I’m not talking about your mother,” I chide.
You scrub a hand over your face.
I wait for you to either say more or turn away. I won’t push you. I don’t need to – I saw how Amy responds to you.
“For a fraction of a second,” you say gruffly, “she reminded me of you.”
I knew it but am still unprepared for the blow of hearing it. I drop onto my back and return my gaze to the coffered ceiling, where my chaotic thoughts latch on to the perfect symmetry. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Kane.”
“I caught her in the periphery of my vision on a rough day,” you go on. “One of those days when you were the only thing on my mind. It was one night. Less than a night. She ended up meeting Darius because of it.”
My disappointment is fierce. But not for the reason you might suppose.
“You’ve every right to be upset,” you tell me.
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m murderous at the thought of you with anyone else.” The words drip with molten fury.
We’re both quiet for a long time. Ages, it feels like, as my thoughts dance with my demons.
“Can you forgive me, Setareh?” you ask softly.
“Kane …” I shake my head. “You’re asking the wrong woman. You should be apologizing to her.”
You exhale in an audible rush. “That’s fair.”
“I can’t offer you absolution, but your wife was dead, and you were lonely. Give yourself grace – you’re human. That said, try not to forget you’re like catnip for women. Tread with care.”
“I hear you.”
I nod. “I find it miraculous that you aren’t married with children.”
“I would never have married again or built a family.”
“You don’t know that.”
Your arms cross. “The hell I don’t. I would never settle for less. I would never raise a child with less.”
I wince. It’s not jealousy in its usual guise that plagues us. We don’t fear alienation of affection; our affinity is too deep. We envy the giving and taking of pleasure because our relationship is defined by pain.
My lips attempt to curve into a smile. “You could be with another woman, but I’m here instead. I’m happy about that. That’s all that matters.”
“I would never bring another woman here or anywhere. There was never anyone special. Who could ever compete with you?”
I look away quickly, hiding my tears.
“The longing for you was crippling. I learned to live with it, but some days were nightmares.” You stop, held for a moment within the memory of agony. “Some days, I couldn’t stop myself from looking for you, searching for you, in every woman I saw. If someone managed to make me look twice, to hope for even a second, I’d go a little insane. The disappointment was infuriating.” You pause. “So, I’d fuck them.”
I inhale sharply and cover my face with my hands. When I met you, you weren’t capable of such callousness. No, that’s not true. We’re all capable of it; you were simply too kind to indulge in cruelty. Heartbreak has twisted and refashioned you.
“Rage sex is cathartic,” you continue, your words singed with temper. “Then I’d hate myself for being weak. I’d hate you for making me weak. For making me settle for women who didn’t smell, taste or feel like you. Women who would never see in me what you do. So, I’d fuck them again because it made me sick to do it, and I deserved to feel my skin crawl for being so pathetic. Then I couldn’t stand to see them again.”
I twist away from you, my legs curling into my chest. A moment later, I feel the duvet lift and the mattress dip. Your cool skin presses against mine as you spoon me, curling your body to match my fetal position. Your heavy arm drapes over me, pulling me into you, and your lips press contritely to my shoulder. You wanted to hurt me as you’ve been hurt, to punish me as you’ve felt punished. That’s the craziest thing about love: it’s hate turned inside out.
You weren’t a man capable of such honest cruelty when we met. Love for Lily has warped you, and I accept responsibility for that; I can do no less. I catch your hand in my own and link our fingers together.
We don’t say anything. The embrace alone is comforting for both of us. We lie that way for a long time. The position of the sun’s rays on the walls and ceiling shifts.
“Are you okay?” you ask finally.
I nod. “Are you?”
“I feel like scum. Other than that, I’ll be okay if we are.”
“We’ll be okay.”
You start to move. “I’ll call Julian and take the day off.”
I look at you over my shoulder. “Don’t do that.”
Your gaze narrows. “Why not?”
“Because I’m okay,” I insist. “We’re okay. Really. And you need to clear the decks so we can take that honeymoon you promised me.”
Your eyes dart over my face, searching. You’re apparently satisfied because you press a quick, hard kiss to my lips. “I love you.”
I take a deep breath, then sigh. “I know.”
It’s a mad, suffocating, vicious kind of love. You once sought softer, gentler sentiments, but you’ve adapted. I grieve for the tender young man you once were, but I’m madly, breathlessly, viciously in love with the man you’ve become.
36
LILY
I hear the hangers sliding as you rifle through your closet, searching and considering options. I leave the bed, leaning a hand heavily into the mattress when I realize my legs are weak. You do that to me for reasons physical and far more profound than flesh.
Slipping on a red silk kimono, I belt it around my waist and start toward the stairs. I’m halfway down when the doorbell rings and gives me a start.
“I’ll get it,” I call up to you. “Take your time.”
Instantly vigilant, I descend in a rush, dipping my head around the corner for a split second to peek through the door’s inset glass. Surprise visitors have an entirely different connotation for us than for anyone else. And if someone poses a threat, they’ll have to get through me to get to you.
Paused on the final step, I scrutinize the mental picture I took with a glance. An imposing man stands on the porch with an enormous bouquet of red roses in his large, scarred hands. He is not as tall as you, but he’s over six feet. Possessing the shoulders of a linebacker, he’s tamed his sandy-blond hair into a military cut and keeps his eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses. His jaw is sharply square. His attire of a black T-shirt with black dress slacks makes it hard to mistake him for anything other than a bodyguard. If it’s meant for the bouquet to serve as a false front, it’s terribly deficient.
I curse the fact that I’m inadequately dressed. I’m also growing increasingly wet between the thighs as the evidence of your pleasure yields to gravity. All around, the situation is less than ideal. I’m not prepared for fight or flight, although I know the man must be yours. Any genuine threat would be cunning enough to catch us unawares.
Padding to the foyer on bare feet, I smile through the glass.
“What a nice surprise!” I say cheerfully, noting the florist delivery van as it pulls away from the curb. “Could you just set those down on the porch, please?”
He does as I ask, then straightens. The sunglasses shield his eyes, making them fully unreadable. “Is Mr. Black available?”
“Do you work for us?” I ask the question despite knowing the answer. Sadly, sometimes it’s more advantageous for a woman to hide her intelligence, and I’ve learned to excel at dissembling.
“Yes, ma”am.”
“I’ll let my husband know you’re waiting. I’d invite you to wait inside, but I’m not dressed for it, as you can see.”
“No problem.”
I watch as he leaves the front porch, his steps silent despite his size and the thick soles of his combat boots. A second, similarly conspicuously dressed fellow appears on the stoop of our guesthouse across the street.
So, we’re under guard here, too. Interestingly, you haven’t mentioned it. Are you keeping people away or just keeping me?
Tightening the tie at my waist, I focus on the delivery. I open the door and softly exclaim my delight. The arrangement is extravagant. The scent of the roses, lavish and sensual, engulfs me. I feel a flutter of joy that you would send me flowers. They’re a lovely, sweet symbol of courtship.
The bouquet is so huge and heavy it takes both of my hands to lift and steady it. Kicking the door shut behind me, I carry the cut-crystal vase to the kitchen island. I take a moment to admire each rose’s perfection; there are at least three dozen. Their color is a deep, luscious crimson, the petals softer than silk. I tug the card free of its stake and open the envelope to pull out the folded paper. The message is printed in a scripted font.
You’re always in my thoughts.
The smile that curves my lips is so wide it’s nearly painful. I set the card aside and reach with both hands to cup the silky petals in my palms. The bell sleeve of my kimono catches the paper and sends it fluttering to the floor. The card separates from its envelope, and as I squat to collect them both, I see the intended recipient’s name. I freeze, arrested by disbelief.
The flowers aren’t from you, and they’re not for me.
I choke back a wrenching sob. I pick up the envelope with shaking fingers, then reach for the card. I fall back to sit on the floor as I reread the message, my legs too weak to support me. It’s cold in the house, like the breath of a ghost, and abruptly dark. The sunny beach outside is another world, a make-believe place of warmth and light.
I don’t know how long I stay there on the cool kitchen tiles. I might have remained there all day, my thoughts racing, if I hadn’t heard you descending the stairs. I don’t want you to find me weak and shaken.
The island acts as an anchor for me to grip as I crawl to my knees, then I grab the lip of the counter to pull myself to my feet.
When I turn away from the bouquet, I nearly run into you.
You loom over me. You’ve dressed in a dark gray T-shirt and faded black jeans. Your closet here is several years old, bought by the man you once were, so the shirt strains around your biceps and the breadth of your chest. I’ve become used to seeing you this way over the past week, but seeing your thirty-two-year-old body in the clothes of your twenty-something self is eerie. I suddenly feel as if I’ve been unchanged all these years, my life uninterrupted, and you are a doppelgänger of the man I love, out of sync with time and me.
“Let me see that.” You take the card and envelope from my nerveless fingers.
I watch your features harden as you read the message first. Your gaze narrows with fury when you see Ivy York’s name. The note is crumpled into a tiny ball in your fist that you drop onto the countertop with disgust.
“Are you okay?” you ask, pulling me into a tight hug.
I sink into your warmth and strength. “I’m fine.”
In hindsight, the red roses are a calling card easily identifiable despite the sender’s chosen anonymity. The knowledge of Ivy York’s name is chilling, but beyond that is the hidden message of the delivery: you’re a target.
You press a kiss to the crown of my head. “I love you. You’re safe with me.”
That you would repeat that sentiment now shakes me to the core. This time, you’re referring to my physical safety, and a tight knot of alertness I’ve long lived with loosens a fraction. Ensuring my safety has always been my responsibility. I’ve learned to protect and defend myself and manage both quite well, but knowing you have my back … well, that’s a gift as precious as the jewels in your safe.
You pull back, stroke my cheek and deliver another blow. “I wasn’t what you needed before. I am now.”
You press your lips to mine, then back away, your jaw tight and your eyes burning with fury. Snatching your keys off the foyer console, you leave by the front door. Through the kitchen’s picture window, I see the security specialist waiting for you on the walkway. You cross the street together and disappear inside the guesthouse.
The sanctuary of your zealous love has transformed my existence. It’s my greatest failure not to have given you the same security.
My past has caught up with me. More, it’s found me in my safe place and endangers you. I turn my gaze to the back of the house, to the patio doors that lead out to the beach. I could go now. Disappear.
The painful prick of a thorn draws my attention to my hands. I don’t remember pulling a bowl out of the cupboard, but one sits beside the vase in front of me, half-filled with petals. Blood wells from a hole in the pad of my thumb and falls onto the lush pile, looking like a drop of morning dew. I have been beheading the roses and placing their wickedly sharp stems aside in a neat pile. The fragrance is hauntingly beautiful, a joyously sensual promise that taunts me with a fantasy not aligned with my reality.
What am I doing? How much time has passed?
I need to shower. Dress. Prepare.
Prepare for what?
The roar of the Range Rover’s powerful engine brings me back to the moment. I watch as you back out of the driveway, then take off down the street. Leaving the roses, I race up the stairs. I’m restless and, for the first time, feeling trapped. I start to untie the sash at my waist. There’s a weekender in the closet. It won’t take me long to pack what I need.
A flash of movement in the periphery of my vision draws my eye to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall … I pause.
My face is bloodless, my eyes bruised black holes. I stare at that reflected haunted woman, then spy the bed behind her. I change the sheets every morning, and you’ve folded the duvet into a neat accordion at the foot and removed the pillowcases. The job of stripping the bed was likely interrupted by your security team’s notification of the delivery. Still, it’s how we work together, meeting halfway. What we are is matchless and precious. We see the best in one another and subsequently strive to better ourselves, to become more than we thought possible even while embracing the parts best hidden from others.
My knees weaken again, and I move to the bed, sinking onto it. My hands fist in the sheets. Your scent is in the air. And our scent.
Everything I want is right here. While my proximity threatens you, it also affords me the best chance of protecting you. And there are promises between us that may not survive being broken. The most crucial question: will you survive if I stay?
Six years have gone, and you are alive and flourishing. Isn’t that a compelling enough argument for my departure?
A heavy sigh deflates my shoulders. You weren’t flourishing, you were successful, and those aren’t the same. The fire inside you had been slowly suffocating, that raging flame unable to breathe as you turned into stone. Another year or two, and it would’ve burned out entirely. That’s why it took so long for us to bridge the gap between us. You were locked away inside yourself, alive without living. I couldn’t reach you.
I can’t do that to you – to us – for any reason, but primarily because I don’t think it would make a difference. I’m with you. Your importance to me is inarguable now.
I shower and pull on a sleek floor-length column of black satin. It hangs from my shoulders by thin straps and dips so low in the back I can’t wear anything beneath it. I can put my makeup on with my eyes closed. Since I wear it every day, it takes mere moments to complete. It’s another layer of armor and another habit instilled in me by my mother.
Once I feel ready to face whatever comes our way, I remake the bed and toss the sheets in the wash. I’m anxious. I feel the need to act, but what can I do?
As I step outside, the slate pavers on the patio feel too hot against my bare feet, but gently warmed sand soon engulfs my toes. The glistening water straight ahead beckons, and I can’t resist the call. The salt breeze caresses my bare back like a phantom lover, and ghostly fingers comb through my hair. I reach the shoreline, the sand turning damp and firm. Waves lap over my feet, coaxing me closer and deeper. Behind me, I feel the pull of the beach house urging my return.
Troubled, I turn and walk to clear my head. You’re safe with your security team, and I’ve never been the one in danger. The air is crisp, the breeze holding aloft seagulls whose raucous cries seem to originate inside me. In the distance, a large ship powers out to a sea spread with glistening points, like millions of dagger tips bobbing in the sapphire waters.
I stop in front of the prettiest house on the shore, which is painted the softest of pinks with a pale gray trim. The upper and lower floors have a balcony and deck the same width and length, creating a covered porch upon which sit two rocking chairs and a wrought iron table with seating for four. A man is sitting at the table, a familiar and beloved figure.
I wave. Ben stands slowly and with difficulty. It pains me to witness his decline, more noticeable because of the yawning gap of time since I last saw him. I run to him.
“Hey, Ben.” I ascend the steps and embrace him. “I’ve missed you.”
