by Claire Vale
Scarf and coat, I flung those on the bed. The bottoms of my jeans were soaked and muddy, my fleece sticky with the sweat of my trek back from the Bohemian Quarter. I stripped down completely and redressed in a fresh pair of jeans and an oversized woolen sweater. The air conditioning system vented warmth directly into each room, but the raging storm outside made me want to cuddle into comfort.
On the way out, I scooped my hair back into a low knot at my nape.
Roman’s dirty dishes were cleared, deposited next to the sink. The man himself kneeled before the fireplace, coaxing flames from the stacked logs and pine cones. For me, since he was going back out there.
In that moment, the attraction I felt was almost overwhelming. It was more, so much more than the muscle rippling beneath his top and the damp curling his hair and the sinful beauty of every arrogant feature carved into his face.
It was a swell of my heart. A tug at my pulse. A feeling of rightness, well-being, a knowing that he had strength enough for the both of us and he’d always stand between me and harm.
When he finally pushed up from his knees and turned those smoky eyes on me, I was half lost, gone to a place beyond delicacy and abashment and all those things that might have stilled my tongue. “Are you going to ask me where I was tonight?”
“I heard it all from your father.” He moved to perch on the arm of the couch, legs stretched out, folded at the ankle, arms crossed as he watched me. “I’m sure your story won’t get better in the re-telling and I thought I’d spare us both the agony.”
There was that cynicism I knew so well, delivered with the affectionate tolerance I was only starting to come to grips with. He didn’t believe whatever version Mom had passed onto my father.
“You’re not even the slightest bit mad?” I was still having a hard time understanding.
“I’m not thrilled,” Roman said, his voice low and gravel. “But you grew up here in Capra. You sure as hell know more about curfew and the risks than I could fit into any lecture. And you kept a clear head, went to your father for help instead of trying to sneak past the barrier. There’s that.”
“You are so different from any other man.” Any other Capra man.
“Not necessarily, I just care about different things.” He cocked his head, a grin hinting at one corner of his mouth. “If I’d gotten that call tonight from the Guard House and not your father, the conversation we’d be having would be far less pleasant.”
“I guess that’s fair,” I said, not put off by the gentle warning. I rather liked it, the suggestion of taking responsibility for my actions. It made me feel…less childlike, more like a woman, a wife. I wet my lips, sucked in a deep breath, didn’t think too long before I plunged in. “I know we’re taking it slow, but it’s been months now, and you haven’t…you’ve never…”
I struggled to turn my forthright thoughts into words, but he didn’t need me to finish.
“I haven’t,” he drew out slowly, his eyes creasing into me. “I don’t want you duty-bound, however willing.”
“We’ve moved on from that,” I said. At least, I’d moved from that, and if he couldn’t tell…of course he could tell. He wasn’t a green boy straight out of school and I didn’t have the practice to hide the longings that had crept up over time.
Heat stole up my throat. “Do you really find me that easy to resist?”
“Who said anything about easy?” he drawled.
Was he just trying to make me feel better? I’d never asked him to resist. “You don’t want me.”
A beat passed, then another, his gaze sinking into me, deeper and deeper. “I don’t want to want you,” he admitted at last. “That’s not quite the same thing.”
“Oh, okay,” I murmured, even though it wasn’t. The hot blush flared to my cheeks. What was so very wrong with me that he didn’t want to touch me, even while he wanted to? And what kind of sense did that make anyway? None, none at all.
His back teeth clamped as he regarded me, pushing hollows into his bristled jaw.
I bit my lower lip, not sure if I felt humiliated or irritable, devastated or angry. All these feelings churned inside me, along with the humming butterflies as my gaze slid lower and got itself stuck on the firm line of his mouth until he spoke.
“Come here.”
He’d unfolded his arms and I looked at the hand held out to me, unsure of what I’d started. I didn’t want pity, or fake words of reassurance, or some lame attempt at whatever.
“Georga,” he growled, my name a husky rumble that compelled me forward.
I gave my hand to the grip of his long, warm fingers and at some point he’d uncrossed his ankles and I found myself tugged and wedged between his thighs. One hand went around me, hitched beneath my sweater, his palm pressed to the small of my back, nudging me closer, keeping me there.
All at once, I had to remind myself how to breathe.
Inhale, exhale, repeat.
His other hand came up, his thumb stroking an outline down my face and underneath my jaw, tilting my gaze up to meet his.
Awareness washed over me, not just of Roman, but every little thing. His male scent, woodsy pine and ash. The crackle of fire spitting through a log. The palm splayed just above my spine, making that small hollow feel like the most sensitive, intimate part of my body. The rain drumming on the sliding door with the same vibrant, static energy rushing through my veins. The glint of something dangerous, or perhaps wicked, in his silvery gaze as he lowered his head, brought his mouth closer.
My stomach dipped in fiery anticipation. I knew what came next. Lips mashed together. Thrusting tongue as he deepened the—
That never happened.
His mouth brushed over mine, so lightly, almost not there, a whispered rumor that tapped a beat of longing into the bends of my elbows and behind the knees. My lips parted on a sigh. His hand slid from my jaw around the back of my head, his fingers threading into the knot of hair at my nape as his mouth brushed again, the feathery kiss snagging my parted lips so slowly, my breath dragged along with it.
I reached out to steady myself, my hand curling over his bicep. Muscle tensed beneath my touch, flexed into iron. A thrill rippled through me, hot and intoxicating.
Roman’s mouth swept off mine, his bristled jaw scraping sensations along my cheek, his breath warm on my skin.
I felt my knees weaken.
I felt impulses I had no experience with and wouldn’t know how to enact. My mouth wanted to find his and taste all of it. I wanted to press my body to him until there was no air between us.
I felt him draw in a long, deep breath and I felt him release it slow, shallow and shaken along with a guttural curse that I could’ve sworn was an expression of uncontrollable, undeniable desire.
But what did I know?
A heartbeat later, he’d turned us around, me perched on the arm of the couch, him already turning from me.
“I have to go,” he said, his voice harsh and gruff.
I watched him leave, my cheek tingling from his roughened jaw, my lips trembling from promises hinted at but never fully delivered.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind and the tunneled hallway, I heard the echoes of a door slammed shut, presumably behind him.
My bones shocked back into a solid state where they’d only just begun to melt.
Roman had kissed me and…and he hadn’t walked away.
He’d run.
21
I was on fire the next morning.
Ants crawling in your brain kind of fire.
I jumped out of bed, couldn’t pull my clothes on fast enough, didn’t bother about brushing my teeth or washing the sleep from my eyes.
Had Roman gone for his morning jog? Not a question I’d usually need to ask myself, but surely even he wouldn’t venture out if the raging storm from last night continued? I rushed through the house, (knocked on his bedroom door, ear to the keyhole), on through to the kitchen to pull the lace curtain aside.
The storm had blown
itself out. Our driveway was a mud bath. Leaves—and in some instances entire branches of leaves—had been battered from the trees. I craned my neck to peer up through the window. High above, the sky was a powdery blue streaked with white clouds that seemed to proclaim innocence—no, not us, we’re not responsible for this mess.
Okay, nothing to indicate Roman wouldn’t be sticking to his daily routine and I had plans, lots of half-hatched plans swimming inside my head.
The loudest was the night fishing trip I remembered from Roman’s planner. That had been a while ago, of course, but it seemed like the sort of male-bonding activity they’d repeat at least once or twice a season. And I wasn’t in a hurry. I could wait a couple of weeks or months if I had to. The urgency Rose had impressed on me was due to Brenda and Daniel moving out into their own place, but this plan wouldn’t require access to Julian in his own home.
I had two vials. Two chances to knock the three men out cold in the middle of the night with nothing around but the gentle lapping of the lake and the moon to bear witness. One vial for the bottle of whiskey Roman packed in—which he would, he enjoyed a glass now and then and almost always when he relaxed. Julian as well, although Daniel preferred beer and cider. Huddled over their fishing poles, though, I couldn’t see him refusing a sip when the bottle passed along to him. He was a man’s man, a team player and all the rest. Anyway, I had another vial for the flask of cocoa I’d send along. If one didn’t get them, the other would.
The rest would be a little trickier. I’d have to get Roman to tell me the fishing spot, or at least which side of the lake they preferred and how far up along they went—all the way into the nature reserve would be a major headache, but no need to invent problems before they arose.
I’d have to sneak out before curfew (and stay out until the daybreak curfew), follow stealthily when they showed, tuck myself in somewhere to hide and wait for the sedative to take effect. Then I’d jump in, scan Julian’s handprint and no one would be the wiser when they drifted back into consciousness. I mean, was there anything more boring than dangling a fishing rod and watching for a bite that never (or hardly ever) came? Nothing suspicious about them nodding off at all.
Actually, my plan sounded less crazy and more genius by the minute.
All I needed to get me started was a date. That meant taking another look through Roman’s day planner. I was sure he’d inform me of any upcoming trip, but I wanted some advance warning with as much time to prepare as possible. It may not be penned in yet, in which case I’d just keep checking.
No hurry, no rush, as Rose had said, but I was one hundred percent committed. I wouldn’t let the mission slide again. It sat at the top of my list of priorities, right above my appointment with Sector Five. That date was set, Tuesday, the day after tomorrow, and I had an idea about how to hitch that ride—the lockbox on the back of Roman’s truck. All I needed was some extra strength duct tape and a spit of luck. I wasn’t even expecting some major revelation. More likely Sector Five was a division housed in the Warden Head Quarters. It didn’t matter. I just wanted there to be one less thing I didn’t know.
And, okay, I needed the distraction.
I simply refused to think about Roman.
He was a coward.
No, he was a walking, living ego stuffed full of stubborn pride.
That’s what I’d come up with in the hours it had taken me to finally fall asleep last night.
He wasn’t untouched by our kiss, fleeting and almost-not-there as it had been.
I hadn’t been wrong about the muscle flexed to iron, his ragged breath and that raw, primal curse.
He wanted me, but he didn’t want to want me.
It all made perfect sense to me now.
He’d never wanted me for wife. He’d care for me, protect me, be civil and pleasant and even indulge me on occasion, but he’d be damned if he allowed himself anything else. Desire, passion, uncontrolled longings, that all he meant he’d changed his mind and a man like Roman did not change his mind—that would indicate he’d actually been mistaken about something to start off with.
I realized what I was doing and threw my hands out in a fit of irritation. Not thinking about him. Not analyzing. Not caring. When he got over himself, I’d be here, looking rather forward to how he’d go about it. He wouldn’t crawl or beg. I rolled my eyes at that amusing fantasy. He’d probably just hold that hand out again and growl, Come here. And maybe I wouldn’t, not the first, second or even third time he tried it. Maybe I’d turn and run and let him see how that felt.
And you’re still thinking about it.
“No,” I said aloud. “No, I’m not.”
The truck’s key fob wasn’t in Roman’s windbreaker. I searched the pockets twice.
His bedroom?
I didn’t think twice. It wasn’t like I was invading his privacy. I went into his bedroom all the time to clean up. He always made his bed, sharp corners, but he was surprisingly disorganized with his dirty clothes, either flung over the wicker chair by the window or tossed into a heap against the wall. He hadn’t even owned a laundry basket until I’d bought one, and he’d never used it.
The keys weren’t on the nightstand.
Digging through the pockets of the cargo pants he’d worn last night did feel a little invasive, but the jingle I heard put a smile on my face. Bingo.
Repeating the steps from my previous foray into his study, I unlocked the door, returned the fob to where I’d found, checked my watch as I entered the forbidden sanctuary. Plenty of time.
I found everything pretty much the same, except for the day planner. It wasn’t in his backpack. Not lying on the desk. Not in the drawers.
Damn!
Could it be on him? It was small and thin enough to slip into the back pocket of his sweatpants. Had something made him paranoid? No, if that were the case, he’d have taken the keys with him.
He wouldn’t have hidden the planner, would he…? I glanced around the stark room and my gaze lit on the bookshelf of haphazardly stacked books. Maybe not hidden, but if he’d been reading at his desk, the planner might have been picked up along with a pile of books when he returned them.
I wasn’t terribly fussed, there always a next time, another day. I wasn’t expecting the fishing trip to be imminent. But seeing as I’d made the effort to sneak inside, I might as well be thorough.
I went through the stacks, lifting each book individually. Occasionally browsing the pages when the cover didn’t immediately make the contents obvious, still curious about Roman’s reading habits. Mostly art books, a catalogue of tiny prints that apparently claimed to be modern masterpieces (I didn’t see the appeal, but then I’d never been overly impressed with the Van Goghs or Picassos we’d studied in social science either).
When it came to the higher shelves, I dragged the desk chair over and scrambled up to reach. That’s where I came across the hardback A4 notebook of pencil drawings.
A gnarled oak tree, dying or dead, with an empty child’s swing hanging low to the ground, nearly touching the carpet of wildflowers that grew beneath. The drawing was all lead grey except for a sprinkle of purple blossoms on the vines that clawed up the crooked oak trunk.
My nerves shivered as I turned the page, instinctively knowing I shouldn’t be here, that this place, this book of drawings, was a window to the artist’s soul and I hadn’t been invited to look.
Roman’s soul.
The mountains between Capra and The Smoke, no color in this one, just the finely detailed strokes and shading that brought the scene to life. I could hear the breeze rustling through the long grass that grew on the leeside. I could smell the acrid stench of the polluted clouds that dripped poison rain onto the blackened, rotten carcasses of trees staggered along the top ridge.
The dark theme continued on as I slowly flipped the pages, but it was the beauty, not the death and destruction, that fed the ache in my heart. Roman was talented, that much was obvious, but these drawings were more than art, they
invoked and provoked, demanded a raw and emotional response.
My breath caught at the portrait on the next page. His eyes were downcast, his face partially in profile, as if he’d just started to turn away. His neck and shoulders were bonier, his face fuller, a boy or teenager, not yet the man but the likeness was undeniable. A smile brushed his mouth, not quite there, almost like our kiss last night.
Not a self-portrait, not in this pose.
Roman wasn’t the artist.
This had been drawn by a woman who loved him, who saw him. There was no darkness in this drawing, only light and goodness.
Who is she?
Someone important to him. Did all these books belong to her?
I flipped through the pages faster, searching for a clue. No more portraits, that one had been an anomaly. Then I turned a page and there was no drawing, but a square hole cut into the bottom half of the notepad that held a wad of folded papers.
Pulse racing, I moved to place the notebook on the desk so I could pull out the fold of papers. Two photographs fell out.
The first was of Councilman Thorpe, without a doubt, although the shot had been snapped from an odd angle and the lady wrapped in his arms took up most of the frame. She was stunning, olive skin, sleek black hair that hung down to her waist. Young, somewhere in her twenties. I couldn’t tell for certain when this had been taken, but Councilman Thorpe looked pretty much as I knew him now, white hair thinning on top, thick around the waist, that flap of skin sagging beneath his chin.
My focus went back to the woman. I had no idea who she was, but I knew who she wasn’t. She wasn’t Thorpe’s wife. She wasn’t either of his two daughters—and it wasn’t that kind of embrace anyway.
Was this Roman’s artist?
Was she the reason he didn’t want to want me?
I shuffled the photo behind the other and stared, utterly confused. Different woman, a pretty brunette dressed in a scandalous short skirt and black boots that came up to her knees. Same man. Thorpe’s arm was slung low behind the brunette, it looked like his hand might be resting on her backside.
