At First Sight: (inspired by Aladdin ) (A Modern Fairytale)

by Katy Regnery

  He flinches, his eyes searching mine, angrily at first, then softening by degrees. Finally, he reaches up and takes my hands, gently removing them from his neck, but holding my wrists tightly.

  “I’ll not fuck you like a stranger, macushla.”

  Embarrassed, both by his rejection and because he’s called me out on wanting detached, emotionless sex, my body flushes with heat. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not a stranger to me.”

  I’m furious with him. Livid. I struggle against his grip, but my wrists remain shackled in his hands.

  “Fine!” I snipe. “It’s all fate! That’s what you want to hear, right? Thanks for bringing us back together, universe! Now, fuck me, Ian!”

  He shakes his head. “No, love. Not like this.”

  “Fuck you!” I cry, trying to turn my nails into the flesh of his palms. The cage around my heart, that’s kept it protected for years, is starting to fail. It can’t contain the overwhelming rush of memories, which are as fresh and painful now as they were fifteen years ago. “Let me go!”

  “No to that too,” he says firmly. “I’ll not fuck you, Tina, but I won’t let you go either.”

  Without warning, he whips me around and pulls me back against his chest, holding me tightly from behind as I fight and flail with the hoarded fury from my betrayed and heartbroken teenaged self.

  “Fuck you!” I scream again, locked in his embrace, struggling like hell to free myself from his arms. I kick my legs and my bedside lamp goes careening to the floor, the lightbulb shattering on the hardwood.

  My bedroom door opens and Gaspare peeks his head in. “Is everything all ri—?”

  “GET OUT!” I bellow. “Leave us alone!”

  The door quickly closes and my fight resumes, but I am losing on all fronts.

  I am back in that hotel room again, checking the clock every five minutes, staring out the window for a glimpse of him, my pussy still tender from our lovemaking the night before. It’s seven o’clock…eight o’clock…nine o’clock…ten o’clock…and little by little, I’m dying inside. I was used. I’m a stupid, gullible little girl who gave up her precious virginity to a boy more than willing to take it without a backward glance.

  “I thought you cared!” I spit through gritted teeth. “I thought it meant something!”

  “I did,” he says evenly, like my writhing body doesn’t even faze him. “And it did.”

  “No, it didn’t!” I yell. I’m furious and I want him to be furious too, but he stays calm and part of me hates him for it. “It didn’t mean anything!”

  He grasps me tighter. “Yes, love. It did.”

  I am weeping uncontrollably, tears spilling down my cheeks, my breathing ragged as I try to catch my breath against gut-wrenching sobs. “You never came back! You didn’t love me! You didn’t mean any of it! You used me and left! What a good joke to fuck a stupid princess! You didn’t care…you didn’t care…you didn’t care…”

  “Get it all out,” murmurs Ian, in the same voice I use when Carina has a tantrum or a nightmare. “Get it all out, love, and then we can move forward.”

  “It meant n-nothing! You meant n-nothing!” I’m no match for his strength and I feel my body going limp against him as my fury, flowing from my body like boiling poison, starts to cool. “I meant n-nothing!”

  “You meant everything,” he says, his arms around me unrelenting.

  “F-Fuck you,” I sob, giving up the fight.

  “You’re okay, now, darlin’,” Ian whispers near my ear, pressing his lips gently to the tender skin of my neck. I savor his touch. I want more. I need more. Please. “You’re okay.”

  My throat is raw from crying, and the muscles that tried to fight him ache. He turns me around and holds me against him, my body flush against his, and rests his lips on the top of my head as I burrow into his chest and cry. He lifts me easily in his arms and sets me down on my bed. As I weep softly, he lies down beside me, his front to my back, his arm anchoring me to the solid strength of his body. I put my hands over his, clutching him to me, clinging to his warmth and strength after years and years of loneliness.

  I don’t know how long it takes, but little by little my tears subside, until I am spent and still beside him. And only then—nestled safely within the harbor of his arms—do I finally sleep.

  ***

  If there is anything more therapeutic than having an emotional breakdown fifteen years in the making, I don’t know what it is. When my eyes open the next morning, it’s like a thousand-pound weight’s been lifted from my shoulders.

  I know who’s beside me, and I remember our confrontation last night. I unleashed hellfire on him, even though what happened between us in Limerick wasn’t his fault. I guess a decade and a half of pain was too much to be reasoned with. But what sweet relief to finally express it and let it go.

  Turning slowly in his arms, I face him, my nose a breath away from his, my lips as close.

  He is a breathtakingly beautiful man: strong and masculine, scarred and stunning. That unruly curl I remember so fondly droops softly over his forehead, and my heart swells with so much tenderness, I almost can’t bear it. My feelings for him, long dormant, rise up within me, so much more than chemistry or attraction, but not translucent enough to be given a name. I only know it feels good to be with him again. So very, very good.

  “Good morning,” he rumbles, though his eyes remain closed.

  “Good morning,” I whisper.

  “Before I let you go…are you going to take a swing at me?”

  “No,” I say, leaning forward to nuzzle my nose gently against his. “I’m better now.”

  He peeks at me from under thick, dark lashes. “Sure?”

  I nod. “I’m better, but don’t let me go.”

  His lips tilt up as his eyes close again. He readjusts his arms around me to hold me securely against him. “Whatever you say.”

  Staring at his face—at the whisper of a dark beard shading his jaw—I realize how little I actually know this man. I knew him for one magical night when we were young, and our unexpected reunion has reignited that spark. It’s exciting, yes, but daunting too. Who is he? And how does adult-Ian fit together with adult-Valentina—if at all?

  Today—this very moment—is day one of a second chance for Ian and me. I don’t want to mess it up, but I’m not exactly skilled at relationships. I’m not sure what happens next.

  “Tell me something true, caro mio,” I say, closing my eyes and breathing him in. “Anything.”

  “Caro mio,” repeats Ian, his voice wistful. “You called me that. That night.”

  And no one since, my heart whispers, allowing myself to feel something real for the person lying next to me in bed. After so many years of forcing myself to bottle up my emotions, I savor the experience of feeling, of falling, of allowing myself to fall for someone.

  “Something true? Hmm.” He nuzzles my nose. “I care about you.”

  “You barely know me.”

  “My smile knows yours,” he murmurs. “My heart remembers yours. My ears long for the sound of your voice. My body wants yours as much as it ever did.”

  Part of me wants to get naked and jump him for saying something so sweet and sexy, but I’m trying to make a point, so I press on.

  “What’s my favorite food?” I ask him.

  “Hmm.” His eyes open again, narrowing in concentration. “Chocolate.”

  “Everyone’s favorite food is chocolate.” I try again. “What did I study at university?”

  He takes a deep breath and sighs. “I have no idea.”

  “Art history. What did you study?”

  “Business,” he says, grinning at me as he warms up to my game. “What’s my favorite drink?”

  “Beer,” I answer, taking a guess.

  “Correct. And yours?”

  “Prosecco,” I say.

  “You don’t prefer real Champagne from France?”

  “It’s too dry. I like a little sweetness.�
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  “Me too.” He nods. “How many kids do you want?”

  I giggle softly because there’s something so intimate about the question that it’s foreign to me. But then again, here we are, lying in my bed, our bodies clothed but flush, with a very intimate part of him prodding against a certain intimate part of me.

  “More than one,” I answer softly. “God willing.”

  “Me too.” A shadow falls across his face. “I loved having a brother.”

  “I wish I’d gotten to meet Albie.”

  “I wish you had, too. He was a great kid.” He pauses, then asks. “You have a brother, don’t you?”

  I smile at him. “Do you remember Nico?”

  “I never met him,” says Ian with a lazy grin. “But he covered for you that night, so I already like him.”

  “He’s married now. He and Bella live in Switzerland.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “I figured,” I say, remembering his reluctance to talk about Ireland last night. I lean up on my elbow, looking down at his handsome face, something inside of me that was long broken now rebuilding itself. “Won’t you tell me what happened? The real reason you left Limerick and haven’t been back?”

  His brows furrow and one of his hands unclasps me as he rubs his jaw. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He shakes his head. “I promised someone.”

  “But you can trust me,” I tell him.

  “I do trust you,” he says. “But I…”

  “You don’t,” I say, sitting up and crossing my arms over my breasts. “We barely know each other, and you don’t trust me.”

  I know I’m being a brat, but I can’t help it. I’ve had a lifetime of self-imposed deprivation and loneliness; now that its cage is gone, my heart wants to make up for lost time.

  He sits up beside me, elbowing me gently. “We know each other a lot more than barely and I trust you more than anyone except Craig and Brenda.”

  “Your American relatives.”

  He nods, which feels evasive. Unless I know what happened in Ireland, I’ll never truly understand Ian. And I want to know him. I want it more than anything.

  “If I asked you yes and no questions could you answer them?”

  The look on his face tells me he doesn’t like this game, but he nods his head slowly. “Go ahead and ask.”

  “Did something bad happen to you after your brother passed away?”

  “Yes,” he answers, averting his eyes from mine.

  “Immediately after?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it landed you in the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you had to leave Ireland?”

  He nods. “Yes.”

  “Can you ever go back?”

  “No,” he whispers. “I won’t.”

  Without another word, he turns away from me and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Kids’ll be up soon. How about I make breakfast?”

  I want to reach for him—to rub his back or place a reassuring kiss on his cheek—but he’s already leaving my room by the time I say, “Okay.”

  ***

  His mood is markedly improved as he flips pancakes for Carina and Dylan half an hour later, my little girl looking up at him with stars in her eyes.

  I could get used to this.

  As I sip coffee at the kitchen table, grinning at the three of them standing by the stove, I decide that it’s okay for us to unfold slowly to one another. We found each other, we are reunited, and we want to know one another again. Those are important steps. The speed and depth at which information is traded from now on doesn’t have to move at light speed. There is joy in slowing down, in not rushing. We can move at any speed we like; having enough time isn’t an issue for us anymore.

  “Princess.”

  Gaspare appears beside me in his usual fleet-footed manner, and I start, looking up at him. “Good morning, Gaspare! You surprised me.”

  He bows slightly. “Apologies. I was wondering if I could have a word?”

  “Of course.”

  He glances at Ian and the children. “In your study, madame, would be better.”

  I notice that Iago stands behind Gaspare, his expression grim as he stares at Ian, who adds two more pancakes to a stacked platter on the counter.

  “Alright.” I stand up and call over to Ian, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  His eyes twinkle when he grins at me. “Don’t be long or there won’t be any left!”

  I chuckle softly as I leave the kitchen, headed to my office. Once there, I take a seat at the desk once used for business by Steve’s father, and Gaspare closes the door behind him.

  “What’s all this about?” I ask him.

  “Your new…friend.” He takes a deep breath and sighs as he sits down in a guest chair across from me. “Mr. Prince.”

  “I expressly told you to leave him alone!” I cry, banging my palms on the desk for emphasis. “Really, Gaspare, I am—”

  “His name isn’t Ian Prince. It’s Ian Ladd. And he’s a criminal.”

  I blink at him, my breath catching. “What?”

  “He shot a man. Fifteen years ago.”

  “What? You’re…lying!” I reach up and press my hand over my racing heart. “What are you talking about? What are you trying to—”

  “Coincidentally, you were actually in Ireland when it happened, madame. Do you remember going to see a play in Limerick during a European tour? Romeo and Juliet, I think.”

  I nod.

  “It happened the following night. Mr. Ladd shot a man named Jack Murphy.”

  “He…shot someone?” My voice sounds too breathless, unfamiliar.

  “Yes, indeed. Then fled the country.”

  My mind flashes back to the incident in the Limerick alley and I know, without a doubt, that this new information relates directly to that confrontation.

  Can you ever go back? I asked him this morning.

  No, he answered. I won’t.

  All of the pieces fall into place.

  Jack threatened me.

  Ian beat him up.

  But, Albie. How does Albie fit into this?

  Was Ian’s brother truly hit by a truck? Or was Albie killed in retaliation for his beating? I suck in a sharp breath, drawing my own conclusions.

  Albie wasn’t hit by a truck, I decide.

  Jack killed Albie.

  And Ian shot Jack.

  Oh, God. Oh, sweet Jesus.

  This terrible chain of events started with me. I decided to wait for a boy in a dark alley. If I hadn’t made that decision, Ian’s brother might still be alive today.

  My eyes fill with tears, and I wince with pain as the impact of my actions—the terrible result of my foolish and impulsive teenage behavior—ripples across time to horrify the adult I am now.

  “Is he dead?” I ask, my voice a shredded whisper. “Jack Murphy?”

  Gaspare shakes his head. “No. He lived, no thanks to Mr. Ladd.”

  “So, it wasn’t murder,” I murmur, feeling weak with relief.

  “Well, it was certainly attempted murder. I’m sure you will agree that we cannot trust him around you or la bambina.” Gaspare clears his throat, his expression imperious. “I will take care of this. I’ll remove him from your home, and we’ll make it clear that he’s not welcome here. I can even call the authorities in Ireland and let them know—”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” I hiss at him. After my part in his misfortunes, Ian deserves my understanding and compassion, not to be thrown out of my house like a common criminal. “You expressly went against my instructions not to look into Ian’s history, Gaspare. I couldn’t have made myself clearer on the matter!”

  “Anything I do, I do for you, Valentina!” he cries, pressing his hands over his heart in a way that makes me deeply uncomfortable.

  His eyes flare with passion, and he looks like a lover, not a bodyguard. Add to this, I have never given him permission to call me by my
Christian name. It’s inappropriate that he should do so, and tells me that his feelings for me have surpassed those deemed suitable between an employer and employee.

  “I’m relieving you from your duties,” I say quietly, sorry to say the words to a once-trusted servant, but also recognizing that they’re probably overdue.

  “No! On what grounds?” he demands.

  “For direct insubordination,” I say, keeping my voice level and as calm as possible under the circumstances. “Find somewhere else to stay for the next few days. I’ll be in touch when and if my anger cools.”

  “Princess,” he says, his jaw set in anger and his eyes flinty. “I have lived my whole life devoted to your service. Devoted to you!”

  “If you have any interest in retaining a position in my household, you need to leave now,” I say firmly.

  I stand up, but he stays seated.

  “Out, Gaspare!” I bellow. “Now!”

  Gaspare stands up quickly, turns around and leaves my office without another word.

  I sit back in the desk chair, taking a halting breath and letting it go slowly.

  Oh, Ian. I am so sorry.

  I fight back my tears. I have no right to them.

  I picture Ian as the sixteen-year-old boy I remember and my heart clutches as I imagine the series of events I unknowingly set in motion. I have unintentionally wronged this man in ways that should be unforgivable, and yet he’s standing in my kitchen right now, making pancakes for my baby, after spending last night absorbing my anger; all to clear the way for a future between us.

  If that isn’t love, my heart whispers, I don’t know what is.

  I stand up from my desk and lift my chin.

  I have contacts all over Europe, and the combined clout of the Trainor and De’Medici names is real.

  I don’t know the statute of limitations on attempted murder in Ireland, but I will use all of the resources at my disposal to help Ian and clear his name. It’s the least I can do to make amends.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ian

  I noticed Valentina’s beady-eyed bodyguard whispering to her at the table, then watched them leave the room. A few minutes later, he stalked back into the kitchen, spoke a few words to the other bodyguard, gave me a hard look, then left.