by Pippa Roscoe
Roman pushed up under her nightdress, his hands sliding over her thighs, the heat from his palms both soothing and torturous at the same time as each sweep moved closer and closer to where she wanted to feel him. She felt his fingers pull at the edges of her underwear, drawing them almost leisurely down her thighs and from her ankles.
Her fingers once again struggled with the belt on his trousers, only to find them thrust aside by Roman’s efficient swift movements as he freed himself.
‘Tell me you want this.’ His words were more of a plea than a demand. ‘Tell me you’re as lost to this as I am. Tell me—’
‘I do, I am, and right now I’d tell you anything you want to hear if you would—’
All words, all coherent thought was lost as he thrust into her, the delicious smooth glide of him within her taking her by surprise and propelling her towards an edge that she felt far too close to. Her hands flew to his hips as he entered her again and again, wringing pleasure from her that she feared would never be satisfied, would never be appeased. But she had been wrong. Because almost against her will the world came crashing down about her as everything within her rose to reach out to it. Her body, heart and soul pushed and pulled in a million different directions, yet all coming back to one place, one thing... Roman.
CHAPTER NINE
And for a brief moment Red Riding Hood was happy. She was proud of the relationship she’d forged with the wolf, proud of what she’d accomplished. But, as we all know, pride comes before a fall, and Red Riding Hood couldn’t see the chasm before her. Only him. Only the wolf.
The Truth About Little Red Riding Hood
—Roz Fayrer
ELLA HAD NEVER gone back to her room in the house. Since the night of the ballet she had shared his bed, waiting for him while he was away in Russia and delighting in him as he returned to her in France.
And each time he did, he marvelled that what had once been a small, almost imperceptible presence around her abdomen was now most definitely there and had required yet another shopping trip exclusively for maternity wear. Roman thought she might have only a few more weeks before being visibly pregnant, provided she wore very loose clothing. And part of him couldn’t wait until the moment he could see it, the constant proof that his wife was carrying his child.
They’d had the second scan—the first for them both together—and the scariest. But the tests came back clear and they had both heaved an emotional breath, reached for each other in that moment, seeking and finding support, and Roman felt another stone in the wall around his heart break loose.
But as the stones fell, fear came with it, slipping through the cracks. Insidious whispers and thoughts he fought valiantly to keep from his wife. His innocent wife, who had been punished enough for his actions. She had tried to keep her own disappointment at failing to secure the client from him, but he had not missed the worried phone calls to her business partner, Célia. That Ella sought to protect him from the responsibility of it ate at him. He might have lived his whole life walking his path of vengeance alone, but he no longer felt like the Great Wolf—a name he had once delighted in.
He had found himself a pack, and Dorcas had taken to fiercely protecting Ella, following her everywhere she went, resting her head on her lap when Ella would sit, almost as if guarding their child.
Her words from the night of the ballet performance had run through his head as if on a loop, in time with his breathing and heartbeat. Her assurance that he could be enough, that he could be more than he had been. For her. With her. It had been a seductive call and it had somehow morphed into being his want and need.
He realised he wanted to embrace all the things that he had hidden from for so long. That he wanted a future with her, not just because of their child, but because of her. In the days since he had spoken to her of his mother, other memories had surfaced. Fractured moments of his mother laughing, the feel of her hand on his cheek, the way she had swept back the hair from his forehead and placed a kiss there. For years he’d only remembered the sadness, and now he saw that his mother had given him so much more. And, rather than pushing the memories back down as he had as a young man—as he’d needed to—or quickly refocusing his mind on some damned pursuit of vengeance, he took the time to remember, to hold them up and inspect them, feel them and embrace them. And it had caused a painfully sweet yearning for the love he’d forgotten.
None of which would have happened without his wife’s belief that there was something worth saving within him, something worth preserving there for their future. For their child’s future. His mother had once made him feel like that and now Ella was making him feel the same way.
And he wanted, needed, to give her something back, but felt it had to be perfect, that he had to do everything in his power to give her what she so greatly deserved.
Which was why, he justified to himself, he had made the call. Loukas Liordis was a Greek billionaire with a bad-boy reputation to match. And Roman, after a particularly intense drinking session in his New York club three years before, knew Loukas needed to redeem that reputation. It was that which made him the perfect client for Ella and Célia. Loukas had agreed to keep his involvement a secret, more than happy if it would lead to the redemption of his reputation, and promised to find a way to reach out to Ella through official channels.
But as the days wore on, without any word from Ella about a surprise new business contact, Roman began to regret his impulsive decision.
Instinctively, he knew that Ella would see it as an act of deceit, of going behind her back in precisely the way she had forbidden. Even in his attempts to make things right, to do and be better, he was starting from an act of betrayal. He’d even begun to hope that Loukas would have forgotten, would somehow have changed his mind.
Until he heard the most unlikely scream of delight from his wife and cursed inwardly, because he knew. All his hopes had been in vain. Because whether Loukas revealed his involvement or not, he knew that Ella would find out. And she would never forgive him.
Better to ask forgiveness than permission, his inner voice whispered seductively, even though something in his chest cried foul.
Ella came running down the steps, pausing midway when she saw him in the grand hallway of their house in France. The pure joy shining from her eyes and lighting her features made his heart drop, even as a smile pulled at his lips.
‘Can we go to Fiji?’
‘What?’ he replied, not quite expecting her request.
‘Fiji—can we go? Célia can’t, and I...we might have a client, and I’ve never been and it would be—’
‘Of course,’ he said, willing in that moment to give his wife anything...anything but the honesty she had made him swear to.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind? I know that you must be busy with Kolikov Holdings and your own business.’
With yet another whip lashing against his conscience, Roman smiled through the self-recrimination. ‘When are we going?’
She looked uncertain for the first time. ‘Tomorrow?’
He laughed at this, not at Ella’s uncertainty but the speed with which his future could come crashing down upon him. The impending moment when his wife would realise that he would not, could not, be what she needed him to be. The moment she would realise that he was so irretrievably damaged by his past that he could not hope for his future.
‘Of course, Ella. Whatever you wish.’
Because he could at least give her this. He could ensure her future was secure, even if his was not.
* * *
Viti Yalo was a private island in the South Pacific that only allowed seventy visitors at any one point. As the private jet approached the small landing strip Ella peered at glimpses of paradise through the small round window. Turquoise sea and slashes of white sand bordered lush green patches peppered with tiny brown rooftops and the little square tiles of infinity pools that seemed unnecessa
ry when next to the beautiful South Pacific Ocean.
It was a patchwork quilt of the dreams of the rich and famous—and suddenly Ella felt neither rich enough nor famous enough to be here. But her husband descended the small steps of the aircraft, covered the short distance towards the sleek black limousine waiting for them and barely spared a glance for the uniformed driver holding the door open for him as if he did this kind of thing every day.
She marvelled at the inherent power and authority of her husband. Wished and wanted to borrow it for herself. Because despite the brave face she had worn since Ivan had turned them down Ella had begun to fear that, although he had given the reason as her husband, it was her business plan that was the problem. It was a fear she had kept to herself, not wanting to betray Célia’s confidence any further.
She had been relieved when Roman had agreed to her request that they arrive two days prior to the meeting with Loukas Liordis, so that she could prepare the pitch and the specifics and details and all the other minutiae that was in all likelihood unnecessary. But she would be prepared this time. Not willing to let herself, her business or Célia down. And, in some small way, determined to prove herself to her husband too.
But all Ella’s internal musings were cut short when they arrived at the one-storey dwelling where they were staying. At each corner of the main house sat triangular turrets of a sort, bamboo thatching topping the roof of the building that sat squat and wide, clinging to the edge of the ocean. Stone arches indicated several rooms with windows that looked out across the water, a small pathway at the side of the house leading towards a long stretch of white sandy beach, dotted with palm trees. A somewhat improbable glass-encased pool sat to the left of the house and the sweep of the bay ensured complete privacy from any other dwelling nearby.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, laughing at the look of concern—almost horror—that passed across Roman’s features. ‘I don’t want to live in France any more. My grandmother will be fine. Let’s just move here!’ she cried in delight as she ran to the doorway of the house, desperate to see what treasures she could find inside.
Every single room had large windows revealing the incredible view of the ocean. The two rooms bracketing either end of the house simply opened out onto the elements. Large hurricane lamps swinging gently in the breeze hung from the ceiling and swayed before large sprawling round benches that could easily have been the most exquisite beds covered in cushions and draped in throws that had her imagining a sunset with her husband beside her and... She broke off that train of thought as her cheeks heated and her pulse began to thump.
It was a luxurious fantasy, magical in the sheer opulence of it all. In the central living area, on the table had been placed a large vase of gloriously bright crimson flowers, beautiful in their bloom. A bottle of champagne, glistening with condensation, sat in a bucket beside two glasses, and a bowl of chocolate-tipped strawberries nestled on ice cubes. And that barely even began the welcome package the island had left for them.
As she moved through every room she saw signs of small gifts and touches that made her feel like a princess. Rose petals on the floor of the most beautiful bedroom she’d ever seen, swathes of richly patterned silk wraps for her to keep with ‘our compliments’. Local artisanal paintings hung on the pure white walls, adding splashes of colours Ella would never have imagined liking, spreading joy through her, covering over her fears and concerns about the upcoming meeting—and suddenly she wished they were there just for them.
Everywhere she looked, the hypnotic horizon of the ocean was displayed in the distance and she thought that she never wanted to leave.
Roman found her where she had dropped herself onto the plush sofa, gazing at her as if searching for approval. She smiled. ‘I think I could lower myself to spend a few days here,’ she said mockingly.
‘Very gracious of you,’ he replied and she loved the teasing tone in his voice, so different from the husband who had seemed pressed down under an invisible weight she couldn’t fathom since the night at the ballet.
‘We have reservations at the restaurant...’ and Ella couldn’t help but feel a little crestfallen at the idea of leaving this beautiful place, even in all likelihood for an equally beautiful place, but she didn’t want to share this. Share Roman. She wanted to tuck herself into this magical bubble and never leave. ‘But I’m sure we could ask them to bring the food here.’
It was startling how easily he could read her. She’d never thought herself that expressive, but Roman seemed to know, to sense what she was thinking—sometimes even before she did.
‘This is going to be impossible,’ she almost wailed, once again mockingly. ‘How am I supposed to focus on a business proposal with all this...?’ She gestured around her, searching for a word that would express even an ounce of the beauty she was staring at. But for once she wasn’t looking at the ocean, or the rooms, or the beautiful things contained within. She was looking at her husband. A husband who did not seem hungry for food in that moment.
Roman couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop the smile lifting his lips at his wife’s insincere complaints. He had wanted to give her this—to give her everything and more.
‘First, we eat. And during our meal you can practise your pitch as much and as many times as you need. But after...that time is for us,’ he promised.
‘Nope. Don’t need to. I know it by heart. Let’s just skip to the “us” time,’ she said, reaching for him, pulling him towards her.
He placed a kiss on her lips, chaste and sweeter for it, and pulled away. ‘I am simply making sure that you go into the meeting feeling completely prepared,’ he gently whispered, refusing to be responsible for any further damage to her career.
Her large round eyes, matching the colour of the turquoise sea behind her, flickered with understanding, seeming to sense his guilt, and she reluctantly agreed.
Over a first course of filo pastry wrapped scallops in a creamy leek sauce, finished with fresh figs, Ella outlined the strategies of placing Loukas’s business with handpicked charities within Greece and across the globe. Through the second course of sous-vide lobster with a mango, avocado, red onion and lettuce salad, Ella described how she and Célia would ensure each event and investment would be carefully curated by them, all communication running through them in order to filter only information of the utmost importance to him directly, reducing the tax on his precious time. And over a dessert of gingerbread cannoli, kirsch mousse and cinnamon ice cream, she delivered the financial incentives for offsetting some of his extraordinary wealth against global tax breaks and outlined how the positive impact of the publicity garnered would be immeasurable.
By the time coffee was served, Roman was halfway to demanding she drop all and any interaction with Liordis and muscling in as her first client himself. He was impressed. The vague gathering of thoughts she’d had when they had first met in France had been honed, stripped back and fine-tuned to the point of excellence. Ivan had been a fool. A fool that he was pleased his wife had not succeeded with. Liordis, he was sure, would not make the same mistake.
‘And now,’ she demanded, placing her knife and fork together on the plate, ‘can we please—pretty please—get to the “us” time?’
Yes, everything in Roman roared. Whatever she wanted, while she still wanted it, he would give.
* * *
Two days later Ella swept into the restaurant she and Roman had still not visited. She felt...powerful. Powerful and sensual and confident. The soft white linen shift reaching to her thighs and a deceptively comfortable pair of palazzo trousers in a beautiful rust colour were both elegant and practical. Because, Ella realised, this would be the last business meeting that she could have while still disguising her pregnancy.
She was not naïve—she knew that her pregnancy could affect the way some potential clients viewed her and her future involvement in any deal she would secure. But both she and Célia
had already decided that they would not be the clientele they would wish to attract. Roman had reassured her that it was unlikely to worry Liordis and she trusted him. Nothing would dim the excitement she felt thrumming through her veins. It was almost an echo of the sensual delight her husband had driven her to on the two preceding evenings as they’d watched the sun descend over the South Pacific Ocean, as their cries of pleasure mingled with those of exotic birds and the unconscious rhythm of their bodies followed the gentle sweep of waves moving back and forth over the beach below.
Ella would not have needed the careful guidance of the head waiter to direct her to Loukas Liordis. The man sat at a table on the decking, separated from the rest of the customers inside the restaurant, who were unable or unwilling to prevent the curious glances they cast his way. Although there were a few other tables dotted around the sweeping decking, Ella knew that they would have the space entirely to themselves so that no one would be able to eavesdrop on their conversation. She had ensured as much.
She took the short walk winding between the other diners to look at the man she hoped would be her and Célia’s first client. With his view secured on the horizon, she could take her fill. He was very attractive—Ella could see how he had earned his wicked reputation—and was even mildly surprised not to feel something within her pull towards his impressive aura. But a red ribbon had formed around her feelings for her husband, one that would never be severed by anyone other than Roman.
Even sitting, she could tell he was tall. Low brows lay heavily over deceptively slumberous eyes and the tawny hair, stylishly chaotic, almost roguish in its refusal to adhere to neatness, was a surprise to someone who expected to see darker features. His full lips drew into a large smile as he stood upon seeing her and graciously met her with a kiss to each cheek.
‘Ella,’ he said, and the informality of using her first name, the intimacy it invited, would probably have made another woman swoon. The heat of his hand at her arm and the smell of his cologne, all appealing, yet Ella found herself immune—as if her body craved only one touch, one scent, one person.
