No Ordinary Love

by Ann Christopher

  “I’m an only child.”

  “Ah. So you were like one of the Von Trapp children from The Sound of Music, eh? Put frogs in the nannies’ pockets to scare them away?”

  “I wasn’t the problem,” he said, unable to keep a good portion of the bitterness out of his voice. “Two of the older nannies were sacked after they had affairs with whoever the man was in my mother’s life at the moment. One of the younger ones was sacked when she chose not to have an affair with my father. He died when I was ten. Boating accident. Mrs. Smith was sacked because my mother woke up from her drunken haze long enough to notice how much Mrs. Smith meant to me. She was there when I went to summer camp, and gone when I came back. I never knew where she went or what happened to her. I probably should have tried to find her when I grew up, but I couldn’t deal with learning she’d died or didn’t remember who I was or anything like that.” He tried to smile, but his mood had turned sour. “Glad you asked?”

  She watched him with eyes that were wide and shocked.

  Until she shrugged and shot him a wry smile.

  “It’s so hard to find good help, isn’t it? How did your family do with gardeners, chefs and housekeepers?”

  That made him laugh. “Very well, now that you mention it.”

  She gaped. “You’re serious? You grew up with all that help?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “How big was your house?”

  Estate. “Big.”

  “Were you spoiled?”

  He took a moment to consider. “Rotten, yes.”

  She paused.

  “Were you neglected?” she asked quietly.

  He thought of his parents, birth and step, none of whom had ever wanted to be bothered with him for more than ten-minute increments. He thought of his mother, who had drunk, shopped, partied and cheated her way through life. Her one great lesson for Baptiste? To be suspicious of every woman he met. He thought of some of the beloved servants, any of whom could have been fired on a whim and without notice, and the way he’d tried never to get too attached to them after the Mrs. Smith debacle.

  Was he neglected growing up?

  “Yes.” The quiet admission cost him a great deal of his pride, but it seemed important, especially now that he knew something personal and painful about Samira’s childhood. “My parents probably did their best with me, but their best was shit. They were both far too self-centered. They were the kind of people who should never have had children. They had no idea what to do with me.”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll have to do better with your own children one day, won’t you?”

  The idea made him scoff. “I will never have children. It’s best to let my family name die out with me. I have no reason to believe I could successfully continue it.”

  She looked stricken. “That seems like a shame. Don’t you like children?”

  “I like children very well. That’s why I’m determined never to father one.”

  They stared at each other, her gaze unblinking. For once, he didn’t want to look away or pretend that he was tougher or more impervious than he was. For reasons he chose not to explore, he wanted Samira to know him.

  To understand him.

  So he volunteered more information on a topic that he usually never talked about.

  “My mother and her brother inherited my grandfather’s companies. Finance and fashion. My uncle ran them because my mother had no interest in anything other than shopping. My cousin—his son—runs those parts of the business now. I run the winery. Anyway… My uncle took me under his wing. Cut off my monthly breathing air allowance.”

  “Breathing air allowance?”

  He smiled humorlessly. “My mother never bothered with me or required anything from me. She was too busy partying, marrying and divorcing. As long as I woke up every morning, breathed air and left her alone, she was happy to throw money at me when I asked. But my uncle cut me off. Insisted on university when I finished boarding school. Insisted on putting me in charge of the family’s floundering winery to see if I could restore it to its former glory.” Baptiste slowed down, sudden emotion making his voice thick. “Insisted on dying when I was in Napa and never got to see how successful I made the winery.”

  Her face fell. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, shrugging it aside because what else could he do? Shrivel up every time he thought about his lost father figure, even though he was a grown man of thirty-five? “I’m grateful he saw something in me.”

  “You sound surprised he saw something in you.”

  This observation, stated quietly and without judgment, caught him by surprise. He was discovering, twenty-four hours into their relationship (and no matter what she said, there was a relationship), that surprises came fast and furious when Samira walked into the room.

  “Maybe I am. No one else saw anything in me at the time.”

  “Well, of course they didn’t. You’re not special at all. You’re like a muddy cat.”

  He laughed, and the conversation’s wind shifted like magic. The morose mood that had drifted overhead, perhaps looking for an opening to settle onto his shoulders for the rest of the night, once again disappeared like the morning fog when the sun rises.

  Did that make Samira his sun?

  “Thank God you’re not feeling sorry for yourself anymore.” She used her napkin to wipe her forehead with exaggerated relief. “Thank God you’ve realized that you’re smart, funny, kind, generous and hardworking—”

  “I didn’t hear handsome or sexy in there.”

  “—because I didn’t want to have to give you a swift kick in the ass.”

  “But you would?”

  “If needed.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. For future reference.”

  “Good. Americans hate self-pity. For future reference.”

  “And what do Americans love?”

  In that delicious moment, he was happy to find, buy or create anything that made her happy. Whether it was an after-dinner gelato or a newborn unicorn, he wanted to provide this woman with her heart’s desire.

  Anything to keep her eyes sparkling like that.

  “Americans love…”

  She caught herself and stopped, not caring that his entire body waited at attention. Took a deep breath and reeled back her excitement and enthusiasm until only the telltale hint of breathlessness indicated that whatever she loved, it had something to do with him and the magic—and it was magic; no other word came close to describing this sizzle in the air—they created together.

  “Americans love a good slice of apple pie with ice cream,” she said firmly. “So I’m going to have one for dessert—will you kindly stop staring at me like that?”

  If only he could.

  He cleared his throat, trying to focus on something other than his hunger for everything about her. This couldn’t be normal, wanting a woman he’d just met this desperately. If he didn’t find a way to control his reactions to her, he’d send her running for the other side of the Hudson to get away from him.

  Yet he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth.

  “That’s not what you were about to say, ma reine.” The husky note in his voice seemed to capture her attention, because she went very still. “I thought you were braver than this.”

  She hesitated for several beats, holding his gaze across the table.

  “I’m not sure what I am when you’re around, to tell you the truth, Baptiste.”

  The quiet confession went a long way toward soothing the simmering impatience and anxiety inside him.

  They would get there soon enough, he and Samira.

  Maybe he couldn’t define there or quantify soon enough, but none of that mattered right now. The only thing that mattered was that they both wanted it equally.

  He wasn’t in this alone.

  Thus reassured, he redoubled his efforts to hold his desires in check.

  It wasn’t easy.

&
nbsp; Those sweet pangs of longing started up inside him again, reminding him that he was dangerously out of his depth with her.

  Something about her inspired a sharp greed in him.

  He wanted her physically, but he also wanted to meet her parents and discover if they were as delightful as she claimed. He wanted to see Melody again so he could thank her for her display of faith in him.

  He wanted to see Samira’s house, to observe her in her natural habitat.

  Before Samira, he was positive he’d never experienced this tightness in his chest and throat. Lust? Yes. Excitement? Of course.

  This longing for an unidentifiable something more?

  An entirely new experience for him.

  “Good,” he said quietly. “Maybe if we both lose our heads together, it won’t feel so scary.”

  Funny how the tiny flare of anxiety in her eyes exactly reflected what he felt inside.

  “I have no intention of losing my head over you, Baptiste.”

  “Can you control it?” he asked her, honestly puzzled and determined to understand what was happening between them. “Because I don’t think I can.”

  Samira opened her mouth.

  But she never managed an answer.

  13

  That night, Baptiste tossed and turned until two twenty-three, when he couldn’t take it anymore. The bed was too big and cold tonight, the gnawing in his belly far too acute.

  Rolling onto his back, he sat up, adjusted his pillows, clicked on the nightstand light and reached for his phone.

  He dialed. Waited.

  One ring…two rings…

  Doomsday scenarios scrolled through his bleary mind. Maybe Samira put the phone in some other room while she slept. Maybe she’d turned it off. His nerves wound tighter with each successive ring, until finally—

  “Hello?” she said groggily.

  He felt a wild—and entirely unwarranted—swoop of relief as he held the phone in front of his face. Unfortunately, he saw nothing other than shadows in varying shades of black.

  “Wake up, ma reine.”

  “Baptiste? How did you get my number?”

  “From work, since I didn’t think you’d give it to me. Hold the phone up.”

  “Whaaat?”

  “So I can see you. It’s a video call.”

  “Oh.”

  The picture dived and swerved, finally settling on an indistinct lump that was evidently Samira lying in her bed.

  A supremely unsatisfying image.

  “Baptiste? What is it?”

  “I can’t sleep,” he said gruffly. “It’s your fault, so I decided to make it your problem.”

  Loud yawn from Samira.

  “Wow. Immature. And how am I keeping you from sleeping?”

  How was she—?

  Was she kidding?

  He flipped the sheet aside and adjusted the angle of his phone, treating her to a close-up image of his raging erection, which seemed to have developed its own pulse and would soon need its own zip code if things continued at this rate.

  She shrieked.

  There was a scramble and a thunk. The next thing he knew, she’d clicked on her own nightstand lamp and was sitting up, gaping at him.

  Better. Much better.

  She’d evidently showered earlier, because her hair was curly again, a sexy halo around her head, and she wore some sort of white T-shirt with orange and black writing on it. He couldn’t tell about her panties, but her long legs were on exquisite display as she sat cross-legged.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she cried. “Why not give someone a warning before you start flashing your junk onscreen?”

  “You asked,” he said, shrugging as he replaced the sheet. “And you know my junk very well. Don’t act shy now. How can I rest like this?”

  “Why can’t you just masturbate and go to sleep like a normal human being? Why do you have to spread your insomnia throughout the land?”

  “Obviously, I did that already. I’m not that inconsiderate. But it didn’t work.”

  Reaching under the pillow, he withdrew her lacy black panties from last night and held them up for her to see.

  Her jaw dropped. “What the—? Did you at least wash those?”

  What a ridiculous suggestion.

  “If I wash them, I won’t be able to smell your sweet pussy,” he said reasonably.

  She smacked her forehead and leaned back against the headboard, laughing.

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Is that what you did?” Returning the panties to their safe place to be admired later, he rolled to his side and propped his head on one hand while holding the phone with the other. “Touched yourself? Or do you have a vibrator or a dildo?”

  She looked incredulous. “None of that is any of your business.”

  “I beg to differ. Your sexual pleasure is my highest priority. So I must stay well informed.”

  “And to think I was so impressed with your gentlemanly behavior at dinner.”

  “Did you appreciate that? My act of superhuman will?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, it’s over now. My good behavior has worn off. What are you wearing?”

  “My Syracuse T-shirt.”

  “And panties?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  They stared at each other for a long beat or two, enough time for him to lose his train of thought. He’d meant to suggest she take off her clothes—it was only fair since he was nude, correct? —but staring into her eyes, even over the phone, always left him a little addled and breathless. Especially when she mirrored his posture, sliding onto her side and resting her head on her palm.

  “It’s hard for me to breathe when you look at me like that, Baptiste.” Her attempted smile never quite took hold. Maybe she realized, as he did, that there was nothing amusing about the effect they seemed to have on each other. It was too startling. Far too overwhelming. “You should stop before you make me pass out.”

  “I would stop if I could. Easier to ask me to stop blinking.”

  “And you should stop talking to me this way. It’s too much. Too soon.”

  “I agree. I tell myself to shut up, and then I look at you again and…” He swallowed hard. “I can’t help it. So you can’t blame me. I don’t like it any better than you do.”

  There was a long pause while she studied him for signs of insincerity. She’d have better luck searching for a third eye.

  “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Baptiste. I’ll remember them in the morning.”

  Didn’t mean?

  “I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re fascinating. You’re beautiful.” The sudden huskiness in his voice caught him by surprise but, again, there was nothing he could do about it. “I can’t recall if I told you last night. And if I told you once, that wasn’t enough. You’re beautiful, Samira.”

  Her eyes’ quiet glow lit up his entire screen.

  “And you’re incredibly sexy,” she told him.

  His heart began to thump loudly enough for her to hear.

  Why were they wasting precious time?

  Didn’t she feel what he felt?

  If not, why was she looking at him like that?

  Had he gone insane in the last twenty-four hours?

  He glanced at the ceiling for a second, struggling to contain his unruly thoughts and failing spectacularly. When he turned back to her, there was no way to kill the urgency in his tone. It ran far too deep inside him.

  “We should be together in the same bed right now, Samira. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Baptiste…”

  “You should be here, or I could come there. It doesn’t matter. I would even put on some pajamas for you, if you insisted. I would have to buy some first—”

  She laughed.

  “—as long as I could fall asleep beside you again. Don’t tell me you don’t want that. I wouldn’t believe you.”

  She faltered, her smile fading, but she didn’t
deny it.

  Nor did she look away, which he took as permission to continue.

  “We just met. We don’t know each other very well. I understand that. But something is very right between us. Why deny what we both feel?”

  She hesitated for a long time.

  “I keep trying to figure out whether I should run away from you or run toward you,” she confessed. “Are you always this intense ten minutes after meeting a woman?”

  “No.” He thought of the irony and had to laugh. “I’m never this intense with women. I don’t chase them. They come to me.”

  She made a derisive sound. “Such modesty.”

  “Would you prefer I lie to you?”

  “No,” she said, her scowl deepening. “If you’re not used to women telling you no, then you must want me for the thrill of the chase.”

  “Or maybe I want you for you. Why not consider that possibility?”

  She looked away, frowning with unmistakable bewilderment.

  He took a deep breath and focused on evening out his features. They weren’t curing cancer here. No need to carry on as though the fate of the world hung in the balance, even if it felt as though it did.

  “Help me understand, Samira. Please. Because spending time with you feels important to me. We were together last night. Now I’m here alone with no chance of sleeping. It feels like we’re playing games for no reason. That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  She took time to gather her words. “I told you. I need my job, Baptiste. I don’t think you understand how important it is for me to be a hundred percent professional at work, especially now.”

  “Why especially now?”

  “I’ve got a lot of debt from the wedding that wasn’t. As it is, I’m thinking about working nights as a server again for a while, like I did through college.”

  Samira working a second job on top of her full-time career? From what he’d seen today, she worked her fingers to the bone at the winery, making sure Daniel got full value for every cent he paid her. And now she might get another job? When would she unwind and enjoy her young life? When would she sleep or find time to be with Baptiste?