“I feel beautiful,” she said. It wasn’t just the dress and the makeup. It was the way he reacted to her every minute of every day. He complimented her whether she was coiffed and made-up or disheveled and wearing a housecoat. Today was simply the day she embraced his words as true. “I do,” she said sincerely. “Now. Thank you.”
“How could you ever doubt it?” he scoffed lightly.
She debated, not wanting to spoil the moment, but she wanted him to understand how much confidence he gave her.
“You already know my upbringing wasn’t the best. Anton hated that Dad had remarried and it didn’t matter that I was his half sister. No matter what I wore or said, he put me down. It’s taken a long time to get past it. But since I have so much more respect for your opinion than his,” she said ruefully, “I must be beautiful.”
His expression had grown sober as he’d listened, then he gently caressed her cheek. “There will be a correction, Melodie. Rest assured I’m taking note, and the extent of their crimes will not go unpunished.”
“Don’t— I didn’t say that so you’d stoop to their level.”
“I know. And I won’t. But I’m not as forgiving as you are. Mark my words, when the time is right they’ll receive their reckoning. But let’s not spoil our evening thinking about them.” He tugged her into his big frame.
Her hands went to his waist and splayed, taking in heat and firm, taut man. She could get used to leaning on him. Easily. Far too easily.
“Ready to go?” he asked, breath faintly scented with scotch.
“I don’t know how far I can walk in these shoes,” she said, lifting a foot so he could see the wicked spike.
“The car’s outside.”
The boutique owner carried out Melodie’s things in a bag and handed them to the chauffeur while Roman helped her into the backseat.
Moments later he helped her out again and they entered a nightclub lit only by candles and subtly recessed indigo bulbs. Glowing white tablecloths draped tiny tables surrounded by comfortable chairs. The glassware sparkled and the servers wore tuxedos. The place was already full, but they were shown to a reserved table in an elevated alcove that allowed them some privacy yet offered a perfect view of the stage.
The meal was served in a series of courses between sets, the food excellent, while the chanteuse created a warmly nostalgic mood that allowed Melodie to envision her mother as a young model in Paris, briefly happy.
Roman leaned his arm on the back of her chair and played with her hair. She set her hand on his thigh and wondered if this was a dream. They even danced, although it was more a prelude to what would come later. Like every other couple, they plastered themselves to each other and swayed lazily, using the music as an excuse to arouse each other.
Weakly tilting her head back so she could see him, she didn’t have to say a word.
“I’m ready, too,” he said hungrily, and tightened his arms on her so she could feel how hard he was. “I’ll call for the car.”
She was past the point of trying to understand it. Between New York and Virginia, they’d been making love every time they found a shred of privacy. She was shocked by how constant their desire was, but she’d stopped fighting it. She was only grateful the distance to his apartment was short.
Expecting a high-rise, she was surprised when the car halted outside an art gallery. A bright glow came through the windows and a chic crowd mingled inside.
“Are we going in?” she asked as they stepped onto the sidewalk.
“My flat is upstairs.” He walked her to a steel door next to the gallery entrance, slid open a panel and peeked inside.
The door cracked open. Inside was a small closet for coats and shoes, then a flight of stairs to an open-plan bachelor apartment. No sound from the crowd below penetrated, and the lighting was all indirect and moody.
Melodie took in exposed brickwork, high ceilings and elegant white furniture in a lounge containing ferns and colorful throws. A butcher-block island with copper cookware suspended above it separated the kitchen and its stainless-steel appliances from the rest of the apartment. Floating stairs led to a bedroom in a loft. The bedding looked sumptuous with its rich colors and tasseled pillows. Beneath the loft was a cozy library with bookshelves and a pretty antique desk that was probably strong enough to hold a laptop, but was more for looks than serviceability.
“This is not your apartment,” she said decidedly.
“Why do you say that? My iris is the one that opens the door. And the housekeeper’s,” he allowed. “She comes in once a week. Which reminds me. Open.”