by Tessa Blake
And when she followed it with a bit of that goat cheese, it was sublime.
She could feel Gabriel watching her intently as she ate, which was a little weird, but if he wanted to see her eat she was happy to oblige him. When her halibut was set in front of her, garnished with nasturtium blossoms and wild radish flowers, she was extra happy to oblige him, and had to remind herself to put her fork down between bites before she embarrassed herself by just shoveling everything in as fast as possible.
Apparently, putting her fork down didn’t fool Gabriel. “If you don’t slow down,” he said, “I believe you might eat the pattern right off the china.”
She sat back, surprised he would say something like that to her, and trying not to let it show on her face.
From the immediate look of regret on his, she could tell she’d been unsuccessful.
“Please don’t blush,” he said, and laid his hand on hers. “I’m sorry I said anything. I hate it when women order three pieces of lettuce with no dressing and pick at them. I only mention it because there’s still dessert to come.”
“Oh,” she said, and smiled at him. “I don’t think I can make any room for dessert, to be honest. I just about did eat the pattern off.”
“You’ll make room,” he said. “There’s a rice pudding that has to be eaten to be believed.”
“Rice pudding?” she said. “I can get rice pudding at home, from my mom.”
“Not like this,” he said, and gestured to the waiter, ordered the pudding.
It arrived chilled and silken, smelling like a wedding bouquet. She took a long sniff when it was set in front of her, then looked up at the waiter. “Roses?”
“Indeed,” the waiter said. “A splash of rose water, just before serving, folded in just slightly, but not stirred.”
“I’ve had something like it,” she said, “at an Indian restaurant.”
He nodded. “The Indian version is made with pistachios, and cardamom. Ours is nothing but the cream, rice, and sugar, cooked, then pressed through a sieve, then the rose water. Taste it.”
She complied, spooning up a small bite and letting it melt on her tongue. “Oh, my,” she said.
“Indeed,” the waiter said again, and smiled.
34
After dinner, they stood for a few minutes on the sidewalk outside Marigold, discussing what to do next. She happily agreed to go to Gabriel’s apartment. It was a foregone conclusion, really, and she felt she should have just packed clothes and brought them with her. If there had ever been a point to be made about her independence—and she wasn’t positive, ultimately, why she’d felt such a burning need to make one—she had made it.
They took the subway to her place and she filled a bag with clothes, more than she needed for one night, as she’d decided she might be spending a lot of nights with him. She would keep her place, she would find another job and pay her own way as best she could—but after the day they’d had, after the way he’d listened to her so intently when she talked about the things she loved about the city, after the hundreds of small caresses he’d given her without even seeming to be aware, she had come to realize she wanted to be with him, and it was silly to deny herself what she wanted to make some kind of point.
She was tingling, and nearly mad for him, and before he got around to calling for a car to come and get them, she tempted him into her somewhat small bed. He didn’t complain, but made use of every bit of it.
Eventually, they called for his car and driver, and made their way back uptown, to his penthouse apartment on Central Park West. He had the entire 30th floor, and she stood at the windows and looked out at the park, and the three bridges in the distance, and wondered how she’d ended up here. She knew all the steps, but she still couldn’t quite believe them.
He came up behind her, put a glass of wine in her hand. “I don’t look out at it much,” he said, quietly.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It is.”
“You shouldn’t take it for granted.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “But it’s easy to take things for granted when they’re just right there, all the time, not being interesting.”
She turned, tilted her face up to look into his eyes. “That’s so sad, to think of you losing interest in things just because you don’t take the time to remember how amazing they are.”
“Well,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her, lightly, “how fortunate am I, then, that I’ve got you around to make everything look interesting again?”
“I love you,” she said. It hung in the room a moment, and she wasn’t entirely sure she should have said it, but she also thought it would be silly to try to hold it back.
He put his forehead against hers. “What’s brought this on?”
She shrugged a little. “Just … everything. This whole day.” She closed her eyes, tried not to care that he hadn’t said it back.
“Was it the pierogi?” His voice was amused.
She shoved him a little. “Don’t mock me when I’m making declarations,” she said. She had hoped the words would sound breezy and carefree, but even she could hear the strain in them.
“Oh,” he said. Just that, then he took her wineglass and set it aside so he could gather her into his arms. He held her even as she remained stiff and embarrassed. “I’ve upset you.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve upset me, I suppose, by expecting too much.”
“You aren’t the problem here, Lily.”
“Aren’t I?”
“You’re not.” His voice was firm, flat. “I don’t know a lot about love. I know what I see in movies or read in books, of course, but … I’m not human. I’m not sure I feel things the same way.”
She nodded. Oddly, she found that she could accept that, that it made sense to her and left her feeling less insulted than she might otherwise have been.
“But what I do know is this: you’re mine, and as much as you’re mine, I’m yours.” He cupped the back of her neck and kissed her gently. “Something has happened inside me, and I’m different than I was before I knew you. If something like me can feel love, I think that’s what this is.”
She couldn’t help herself: “And if not?”
He brushed his lips over her forehead, then her mouth again. “Then this is as close as it gets, and closer than I’ve ever been. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t bear the thought of either of us being with anyone else. I want to see you when I wake up, and I want you here when I go to sleep.” His eyes met hers. “I can’t even imagine a day when just the sight of you doesn’t make my blood sing. Is that what love is?”
She felt her heart swell, and lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck. “That’s close enough,” she said. “That’s more than enough.”
He took her again, there in that room, on one of the two navy sofas that faced one another across the coffee table, looked up at her as she rose above him, and asked, “Will you stay, and keep everything interesting?” with the carefully sophisticated tone of a wealthy man, but the worried eyes of someone who wasn’t quite sure he believed in his own good luck.
She answered him, not with her voice but with her body, giving him everything there was of her, and looking into those eyes so he could see how he emptied her out, how he filled her up.
And later, in his bedroom with its silk wallpaper and enormous bed set under the open skylight, he breathed into her ear as he gave her everything there was of him, and what he breathed was: “This will be your life, Lily, if you stay.”
She understood all those Biblical showdowns now—because, as temptations went, it was a fine one indeed.
This will be my life, she thought.
Yes, she thought.
I’ll stay.
And after, when she cuddled against his side and listened to his deep, even breathing, she gazed up through the skylight, looked at the stars, and thought about how much more there was under them than she had ever known. Thought about how much more there was to learn, a
nd how wonderful it would be to learn it with Gabriel by her side.
She drifted off to sleep, more content than she could ever have imagined, as the stars shone down and her man—human or not, he was her man—slept beside her.
THE END
Author’s Note
I owe yet another enormous debt of gratitude to Ginger and Nikki and Katie, for insightful beta feedback and for assuring me that this book was better than I thought it was. There’s a certain arrogance that’s necessary to write down the stories in your head with the assumption that people might want to read them, but that arrogance often falters between the writing and the publishing, and mine surely did on this one. It’s so different from my other published books that I wasn’t sure if I’d done it right—or, even if I’d done it right, if it was right for me.
If you found me through one of my other books, and you stuck with me through One Hell of a Guy, thank you. I know it may not have been what you were expecting—and that’s very intentional on my part.
Let me tell you why.
My first book wasn’t even a book at first; it was a smutty serial that got away from me and turned into a story that I ended up falling completely in love with. My second book was a pretty straightforward, longish, standalone contemporary romance with a slow burn and a heroine who was, let’s face it, pretty hard to love. And now I’ve given you this—the first of three novellas about a charming but vulnerable half-demon and a sassy, independent girl who’s going to make her own damn choices, thank you very much, even if she’s so caught up in his magnetism she can hardly see straight.
These are three really different stories, and I might be shooting myself in the foot with that.
I’ve been told over and over that readers like to stick with one sort of book. If I want to write a ridiculously sexy alpha billionaire romance serial, and a chick-lit style “girl screwing up but finding love anyway” novel, and a funny paranormal romance trilogy with closed-door sex, I should be writing these under different pen names.
But I don’t accept that.
Nora Roberts writes straight romance. She writes paranormal romance—time travel, witches, psychics, even vampires. She writes futuristic romantic suspense police procedurals (and who else could get away with crossing that many genres all at once?) as JD Robb, but that pen name has been an open secret for decades. She writes standalone novels. She writes trilogies. Her In Death series is more than 50 books long at this point.
Do I want to be the next hot self-published niche author turning out the exact same kind of book three or four or eight times a year? Or do I want to be Nora Roberts?
Dumb question.
(Note: Please don’t send me emails saying “You’re no Nora Roberts, lady.” I know that. Nobody is La Nora except La Nora.)
In the end, I’ve made the choice to write what I like, and hope that readers will follow me across sub-genres or will skip a book that doesn’t look like their sort of thing but will come back for the next one. It’s a risk, but it’s mine to take.
And where does that leave you, the reader? It leaves you dependent on me to clearly signal what I’m doing so you’re not picking up books you don’t like—and I take that seriously.
So I will always try to make sure my covers and descriptions and advertising convey the tone and type of romance you’re getting from me. When I release a new book, I will let everyone know exactly what sort of book it is, even though that will mean some people will say “Oh, this one’s not for me” and won’t buy it.
And I will always be true to the story, in the form and style it needs to take, and deliver you the best characters and the highest quality writing I’m capable of.
What I won’t do is put myself in a box and write the same book over and over and over again. And if you come along with me for the ride, I think you’ll find that there’s enough of me in every story I write that you just might like it, even if you weren’t sure you would.
After this trilogy, I have so many ideas and half-drafts to choose from that I still don’t know what will come next. Maybe a rock star romance. Maybe that left-at-the-altar story. There’s one about a military hero that has All The Feels™. I still owe my billionaire fans a follow-up about two secondary characters from The Billionaire’s Contract. Or maybe I’ll write that one with the heroine you’re going to hate even more than Jenna from Mr. Wrong—and try to make you love her.
Whatever I do, I promise you won’t be bored.
So thanks for reading, and I’ll see you in Infernal Love Book 2: Dance With the Devil, available for preorder here or at books2read.com/dwtd .
Tessa
1/8/18
Other Books by Tessa Blake
Why does the wrong guy feel so right?
I had my perfect husband all picked out, but the bastard went and decided to marry someone else. So, on the night of his engagement party, I'm drowning my sorrows with my BFF Kari ... and in walks Mitchell Cole.
Mitch is the slow-talking, sexy-walking, eye-crinkle-having star of one of Kari's soap operas, but he doesn't do a thing for me. I need a career guy with a steady job and a plan, not a scruffy actor who works construction between gigs.
But Kari, who never takes no for an answer, "volunteers" me to hang out with him so I can get behind-the-scenes gossip for her. And that's all this is, even if his special blend of sweet and sexy is starting to break through my defenses.
But then my ex comes back into my life in the most unexpected way, and that's when things get confusing. Do I choose the man who's everything I thought I wanted? Or the man who might be everything I need?
Fans of Lauren Blakely and Emma Chase will love this hilarious and sexy take on losing Mr. Right ... and finding Mr. Wrong.
Click here to get your copy,
or go to books2read.com/mrwrong .
Now complete in one volume!
Includes a special Afterword from the author.
Investigative reporter Ainsley Dumont has landed the assignment of a lifetime: prove that Rafe Garrett, NYC’s most famous billionaire, is behind the crooked development deal that’s threatening to ruin the careers of some of the country’s top political figures—including the President himself.
Rafe Garrett is a ruthless negotiator, too handsome for his own good, and a man of … particular tastes. But as Ainsley gets closer to Rafe, she learns there is more to him than what the public sees. Muchmore.
When sparks fly between them, she has to balance her assignment—and her ethics—against the urge to forget who she is and be what Rafe wants. But what Rafe wants is so far outside her experience, she might lose herself.
And when her search for the truth turns dangerously personal, she’s determined to face whatever she finds… no matter what it costs.
The Billionaire's Contract was previously published in 6 segments. Except for the Author's Note, the content in this volume is the same as in those volumes.
Click here to get your copy,
or go to books2read.com/tbc .
About the Author
Tessa Blake lives in Central Maine with her kids and pets—and the hot billionaires, soap stars, and demon lovers in her imagination.
Join her in her Facebook reader group, Alpha Ever After, or find her at:
tessablakewrites.com
[email protected]
