She blushed, and he felt her hand twitch in nervous reaction, but she left it trustingly in his. Her brow pulled into a small frown. “You’re possessive?”
“I’m Sicilian, bidduzza. I’m incapable of being anything else.”
Each breath he drew was laden with the scent of her—spring and berries and something sweet like almond cookies. He wanted to continue nuzzling along her wrist, but contented himself with tracing his thumb along her love line.
This isn’t real, a voice in his head reminded him. She might not be as innocent as she projected. Even more concerning, she might be, in which case he definitely shouldn’t allow himself to sink into any sort of involvement with her.
How was he to know either way if he didn’t spend time with her, though? It was a convenient rationalization for pursuing a woman he couldn’t have. What the hell was he going to do?
“What was your real question?” he prompted, still caressing her palm with his thumb.
“Do you still fence?”
Ah, yes. He had confirmed that small detail, at least. An online search had unearthed a passage from one of Hugo Anderson’s earliest books about his “young companion,” as her father had referred to her, taking fencing lessons from an Olympic hopeful. For weeks after, every stray piece of driftwood had become a weapon until a nasty sliver had forced her to find other amusements.
“These days I stay fit in ways that allow me to watch the market numbers or take a conference call. Fencing requires complete focus.”
“And world domination via cell phone apps doesn’t?”
“That was dumb luck,” he said with uncharacteristic frankness—and a hint of disparagement that she leaped on with an incisive frown.
“What do you do with your downtime, then? Inspire me. My pastimes are all very tame.”
He scratched his cheek, stalling. “You don’t yearn to fill your time with the obvious? Marriage and a family?”
She let her mouth hang open before she accused, “Sexist.”
“How is that sexist? Many people want those things, gender notwithstanding.”
“Do you?”
She wasn’t afraid to put him on the spot. It was as annoying as it was refreshing. Given his wealth and position, most people jumped at his every whim, rarely challenging him on his opinions or what he did with his life.
His response to her question should have been a quick and firm no. He’d buried any youthful assumptions that he would one day have a family when he’d buried the one he’d had. Part of that reaction had been bitterness. Lately it was simply a matter of priorities. Close relationships of any kind were a vulnerability he couldn’t afford.
But he had a sudden vision of her in his bed, gaze sleepy and filled with infinite possibilities. His heart lurched in warning. Or was it masculine craving?
“Marriage isn’t a priority for me,” he said in an implacable signal. “I’ve always been focused on other things. My physical health, athletic training, my education. My investments.” Not to mention unraveling multinational conspiracies and political corruptions without getting himself further maimed or killed in the process.
“Same.” She nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been focused on my book and finding my feet. In many ways, I feel as though I’m still waiting for my life to start.” She looked at the hand still in his warm grip. “This is the first date I’ve been on in ages. The handful of friends I made at school have moved on to careers and other things. I know a lot of people, but I’ve always moved around so much, I’ve never connected deeply with anyone.”
Her thumb tentatively caressed the backs of his fingers. His hair damned near stood on end, the sensation caused such an acute reaction in him.
At the same time, the wistful yearning in her voice reverberated off the steel shields he’d erected around his heart, making her words echo inside him as though they were his own. He had an overpowering urge to mute that inner vibration with the press of her body against his.
All his good sense flew out the window. Before he realized what he was saying, his voice rumbled from the depths of his chest.
“Come home with me.”
“Now?” Her pupils dilated and a visible quake went through her, one that leaped so quickly onto the suggestion, his honed instincts of self-preservation tingled in warning, but a responsive ripple of pleasure rolled through him. How could he resist her when this was how they reacted to one another?
Don’t let her see how desperate you are, he cautioned himself.
While his mouth affirmed, “Right now.”
CHAPTER TWO
“THIS IS SOMETHING I’m still getting used to,” Freja admitted nervously as they left the elevator into his penthouse. Recessed lighting kept the lounge dim enough that the view of the city lights was like a carpet of stars beyond the darkened windows. She trailed her hand over the buttery leather of the overstuffed sofa. “I thought Oliver and Barbara lived like kings in their two-bedroom walk-up. This...”
There were no words for the kind of expansive luxury surrounding her. Until moving to New York, she’d only seen this sort of wealth in historic palaces. Catering had sent her into a few high-end hotels and penthouses, but even those paled next to what appeared to be a mansion atop a skyscraper. The floors were a gleaming hardwood, the drapes silk, the art on the walls a colorful mix of modern impressionists. Beyond the value in such things, the real luxury was in how the entire space was tastefully customized for a man who moved in a wheelchair instead of on two feet.
Something introspective shadowed his expression as he hung her jacket. He paused.
“When I asked you here, I was only thinking that I wanted to be alone with you. I didn’t consider the way you’ve been forced to live in the past.” His mouth pulled with consternation. “If you have second thoughts—I hope you feel comfortable here, but leave anytime if you don’t. Or we can go back to the restaurant.” He turned to regard her as though she were a complex puzzle he was trying to solve.
“I like to believe I’m a good judge of character.”
She had believed it until meeting him, at least. He was hard to read, though. She continued to finger the soft leather of the sofa, soothed by its texture as she considered his contradictions. Bold enough to state what he wanted, compassionate enough to anticipate her hidden apprehensions. Open about his attraction, completely closed off in other ways.
“I wouldn’t have come here if I thought you were planning to attack me.”
His expression eased into a smoldering one that pulled her insides tight with anticipation. “Only in a very sensual sense, bidduzza. And with your explicit consent, of course.” He rolled forward. “Come. Sit,” he invited, nodding at the sofa.