She had certainly seemed vicious when telling Charlotte of her upcoming marital fate.
Dimly, Charlotte had always thought that her life might come to this. Because her father was nothing if not a medieval lord, the master of his keep and all who depended on him for anything. And of course it was not outside the realm of imagination that he would try to cement his power in the criminal world through marriages. Like a dark king, trading family members to prevent wars. Or to start them. Depending on the present circumstance.
But even though part of her had always known it was a possibility, she had done her very best not to think of it. And now, there was Rafe.
Rafe, who made love and sex something that wasn’t theoretical. Rather, something that she wanted. Something that she craved. Not in a general sense. She wanted it with him.
The idea of sharing her body with someone else… It could not be endured. Her need for Rafe, for his touch, his kiss, for everything… It was so intimate. It went deeper than the electric need that sparked over her skin.
It was heart. He was her heart.
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose that is the letter of the law, if not the spirit of it.” His dark eyes turned intense, a black flame that burned through her. “I would like you to break some rules for me. I know your hair is considered quite the asset. You’re not allowed to cut it—is that true?”
Charlotte touched her heavy bun. “Not entirely. I get the ends trimmed. But yes. My father considers my hair to be part of my beauty.” And the importance of her beauty had become shockingly clear with her marriage deal being brokered.
“Creepy.”
She forced out a laughed. “You work for him. And here you are.”
“I only work for him until my debt is repaid. I have no loyalty to your father. On that you can trust me.”
It was the first time Rafe had said anything like this to her. “I didn’t…I didn’t realize.”
“I am forbidden from speaking of it. But then, I am certain that I am also forbidden from being in here. And I’m also forbidden from touching you like this.” He put his hand on her cheek, and then he kissed her. “Let down your hair,” he whispered against her lips.
This time, she obeyed. For him. Only for him…
*
Charlotte was dragged back to the present, and her heart was beating out of control, as it had been in the memory. It had only been a couple of weeks after that when everything had fallen apart. When she had been left devastated, wounded beyond the healing of that devastation.
When Josefina had told her that Rafe had gone, that he didn’t want her. And that she had no choice but to go and marry Stefan. Charlotte had protested. So much so, that she had found herself locked up. So much so that she had seen the true nature of her father. He did not love her. Not at all. He would kill her if she didn’t marry the man of his choosing; that was what he’d told her. And Charlotte had been ready to believe it.
She had also not been ready to accept her fate. Because if there was one thing that being with Rafe had taught her, it was that there was more to life than the villa. More to life than her tower bedroom. More to intimacy with a man than a simple transaction.
And she had wanted those things. All of them.
So when her father had paid his men to transport her across the country and they had stopped at a petrol station in the middle of nowhere she had taken her chance.
She’d slipped from her restraints and fled, running deep into the woods, certain they wouldn’t follow her there. Somehow, she was right. They had searched for her along the highways, perhaps checking in with passing motorists and various business owners.
They certainly hadn’t expected her—cosseted princess of the Adair family empire—to take her chances with the wolves and foxes out in the thick forest.
But she had.
Ultimately, had found a certain measure of safety living in rural Germany, moving from cottage to cottage, never settling in one place too long, taking simple positions at shops and farms over the years.
It had been a lonely existence, but in many ways freeing.
It wasn’t until years later that she had seen anything of Rafe again. But then, there he was, splashed across the cover of a newspaper. The story of a man who had worked his way up from nothing, from the Italian slums, to become one of the wealthiest men on earth.
A blind man. Wounded in an accident that he refused to speak of.
After that, she saw him on the covers of papers quite a lot. It never got easier. It never got less painful. She ached for him. For what they might have had, had he truly loved her as she had believed he had. For the accident that had taken his sight.
She thought very little about his billions. If only because she had never truly doubted that Rafe would overcome his circumstances in a spectacular way. He was a singular man. He always had been. No one compared to him. And no one ever would.
It was why, when she had gotten the news of her father’s death, when she had found out about the invitation under his name to this event, and the fact that Rafe would also be in attendance, that she had decided to take her chances.
With her father out of the picture, no one was coming for her. And she very much doubted any of his men would recognize her now. She was no longer an eighteen-year-old girl.
And as for Rafe… Well, he would never see her. Just as he would never see anything ever again.
But she could see him. She needed to do that. Needed to put that part of her life behind her completely so she could move on. Her time of seclusion was at an end. And he was wrapped all up in it.
She was done hiding. But she had some ghosts to vanquish.
She took a fortifying breath and moved out of the shadows and into the light. She could honestly say it was the first time in five years she had done this. For the first time in five years, she wasn’t hiding.
She sensed that heads were turning, following her progress as she made her way through the ballroom. But she didn’t care. She wasn’t here for generic admiration. Or curiosity. She was here for him.
She had dressed up for him. Even if it was foolish. For one thing, he wouldn’t be able to see her. For another, she didn’t want him to.
It didn’t take her long to see him, though. Her eyes were drawn to him, like a magnet. He was near the center of the ballroom, standing and making conversation with a group of men in suits. He was the tallest. The handsomest. He had always been the singularly most beautiful man she had ever seen. And he still was. Except at thirty he was much more mature than he’d been at twenty-five. He had filled out, his chest thicker, his face more chiseled. Dark stubble sat heavy on his jaw, and she wondered…she wondered what it would be like to touch his face with it there.
She hadn’t touched a man since Rafe. She’d had no interest.
She needed to find some interest. Because she was going to have a normal life. After she claimed the inheritance she knew that she still had—untouched—in a trust at the bank in London, she was going to start her life in earnest.
Maybe go to school. Maybe start a shop of her own, since she had always enjoyed working in them over the past few years. Had enjoyed not being lonely.
Whatever she did, it would be her choice. And that was the point.
She didn’t know what answers she had expected to find here. Right now, the only clear answer seemed to be that her body, her heart, was still affected by him.
He excused himself from the group, and suddenly, he was walking her way. And she froze. Like a deer caught in the headlights. Or rather, like a woman staring at Rafe Costa.
She certainly wasn’t the only woman staring. He moved with fluid grace, and if she didn’t know better, she would never have known his sight was impaired at all.
He was coming closer, and as he did her heart tripped over itself, her hands beginning to shake. She wished she could touch him.
Oh, she wanted it more than anything. In that moment, she wanted it more than her next breath. To put her hands
on Rafe Costa’s face one more time. To kiss those lips again. To place her hand over his chest and see if she could still make his heart race.
It was easy to forget that her stepmother had told her how Rafe had left, taking an incentive offered by her father to end his tenure there earlier. How he had thought nothing of Charlotte when he left. Nothing of all the promises he had made to her.
Yes, it was so easy to forget all of that. It was easy to forget that and remember instead the way it had felt when he had kissed her. Touched her. The way that she had begged him to use more than his hands between her thighs, more than his mouth. The way she had pleaded with him to take her virginity, to make her his in every way.
But he hadn’t.
For honor, he had said. And for her protection.
Except, really, he had never wanted her. At least, not enough to risk anything. So he had simply been toying with her.
She should remember that. Her treacherous, traitorous body should remember that well. But it didn’t. Instead, it was fluttering. As if a host butterflies had been set loose inside her.
He came closer, closer still, passing through the crowd of people, everyone moving out of the way for him, as though he was Moses parting the sea.
Time seemed to slow. Everything around her. Her heartbeat. Her breathing.
Suddenly, he was there. So close that if she wanted to she could reach out and touch the edge of his sleeve with her fingertips.
Could bump into him accidentally, just to make contact. He wouldn’t know it was her. He couldn’t.
Suddenly, he turned. He was looking past her, his dark eyes unseeing, unfocused. But then, he reached out and unerringly grabbed hold of her wrist, dragging her toward his muscular body.
“Charlotte.”
Copyright © 2017 by Maisey Yates
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Kept for the Sheikh’s Pleasure
Copyright © 2010 by Lynn Raye Harris.
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Kept for the Sheikh's Pleasure Page 9
