Protecting the Innocent. Cassie Miles
feel trapped here. That I won’t have…”
“Won’t have what?” he asked.
“Fun. That I won’t have any fun.” She rolled her eyes and tasted her wine again. “It sounds foolish when I say it out loud. I’m an adult. A widow. Why should I be concerned with fun and games?”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Because you never had much fun when you were growing up.”
“My mother did a good job raising me.” She automatically defended Claudette. Her mother had been a single parent with a demanding job. “She didn’t have a lot of time for me. Her skills were in demand, and we traveled all over the place. East Coast, West Coast and in between. Plus we lived abroad. Pacific Rim. Africa. Europe.”
“Was it fun?” he asked.
“Not for me,” she admitted.
It seemed odd that they’d never really talked about her early life before. During the days she spent with Roman after the funeral, they talked about Jeremy. Or about Charlie. Or they just sat together, staring into the middistance between real life and tragedy.
She took another deep sip. “It’s bad enough being the new girl in town. When everybody else speaks a foreign tongue, it’s even worse.”
“You felt isolated,” he said. “Trapped.”
His snap analysis hit close to the truth. Being at Legate felt very much like her childhood when she had no control over what happened and was dragged along like an inconvenient piece of luggage. “Am I so transparent?”
“Hell, no. You’re an intelligent, complex woman.”
“I don’t want to be complex.” She carried her wine to the oak table in the dining area between the kitchen and living room and sat. Usually, Anya didn’t drink alcoholic beverages, and the wine was already having an agreeable, relaxing effect. “All I ever really wanted was a normal life. A normal family. A nice little house. A pleasant, low-pressure job. A garden. Maybe a golden retriever named Rover.”
“And when Jeremy died, you feel like you lost that chance.”
“I miss him,” she said.
“So do I.”
When he sat beside her at the round table, she felt warm and settled, as if this were the way things ought to be. A man, a woman and her son upstairs asleep. Normal. “Thanks for rushing over here.”
“Whenever you need me, I’ll be around.”
She couldn’t believe that promise. He might have the best intentions, but he also had a life. “Baby-sitting me would cut into your social action.”
He shrugged.
“I’ve heard all about your infamous bachelor pad,” she said. “A chamber of seduction?”
“You can see for yourself. Come to dinner on Friday night.”
“I don’t think so,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to leave Charlie with a baby-sitter so soon.”
“Bring him,” Roman said.
Dubious, she toyed with her merlot, swirling the rose-colored liquid in her glass. “I’m not going to have to explain to him about mirrors over the bed or anything, am I?”
“It’s not the Playboy mansion,” he assured her.
Part of her wished that his place really was a splendid, sensual pleasure palace. What would it be like to have this very good-looking man sweep her off her feet and into his bedroom?
This time, her sip of wine was a huge, sloshing gulp. She needed liquid to douse these inappropriate flickers of desire. Once again, her gaze came to rest upon his lips, moistened with sweet merlot.
Why on earth would she think that a notorious bachelor like Roman Alexander would be interested in her? Here she sat in her ancient flannel robe and fuzzy slippers. No makeup. Her hair hung uncombed around her cheeks. She certainly wasn’t the picture of desirability.
Yet he communicated a sexual energy. She felt it in the way he looked at her, the arch of his eyebrow, the way he lifted his wineglass to his lips. When he spoke, his rich baritone struck a trembling chord within her. Likewise, his silences were full of portent and promise.
She blurted, “Do you think I’ll ever get married again?”
He reached across the table and placed his large hand atop hers. His flesh was warm. His touch? Pure sensuality. “Yes, Anya. You’ll find love again.”
It was the answer she wanted to hear. Earlier, she dared not even ask herself that question, but that was exactly what had been bothering her. Not the armed guard outside the door. Not a lack of fun. She wanted to know if love was an option in her future.
“Friday night,” she said. “We’ll be there. Me and Charlie.”
“It’s a date.”
Maybe not a date in the single woman’s sense of the word, but it was enough for right now.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Roman arrived at Legate early. He needed some heavy-duty exercise before his eight-o’clock breakfast meeting. He hadn’t slept well. After he spent a full night of tossing and turning, his bedsheets were as tangled as his emotional response to Anya Bouchard Parrish.
Leaving his Mercedes in the parking lot, he strode to the asphalt path and did a quick warm-up. The weather was relatively clear, and the dawn mist was colored a soft pink—the color of Anya’s lips. There was a nip in the air, but he’d chosen to wear only nylon shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He wanted the reality of a cold wind against his bare legs.
He started at a jog on the path that circled the mansion. Yesterday, Fredrick Slater had asked him to make Anya happy. Anything Slater suggested was likely to come with a multilevel ulterior motive. But Roman was only too glad to comply with this request. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, imagining what it would be like to taste that lovely mouth and tangle his fingers in her silky blond hair.
At the same time, he felt guilty. In his mind, she was still Jeremy’s wife. She still wore the wedding band Jeremy had placed on her finger for better or much, much worse. His death wounded her deeply…which meant she was vulnerable. Roman didn’t want to take advantage of her.
He picked up the pace, aware that he was nearing Anya’s cottage. Through the shrubbery, he could see a second floor window that might be her bedroom. He stared at the white window frame outlined against the slate-blue house. The curtains were drawn. Was she sleeping? He envisioned her delicate body beneath the sheets. She’d roll to her side, and the sheet would slip lower on her breasts. His fingers itched to touch her, to caress the soft white skin on her inner thigh. When he kissed her, she would smell of honeysuckle.
Running harder, he proceeded to the winding stairs that led down to the beachfront. After eighty-seven steps down the cliffside, his custom-made running shoes hit the hard-packed sand on the narrow beach. This portion of his morning run was his favorite. At the edge of the bayside surf, he paused. He bobbed his head and shoulders, loosening up. After a few stretches, he shook out the muscles in his legs, then dropped into a crouch. Ready, set, go.
His toes dug into the sand as he went into a full-out sprint—a dash at the water’s edge. He ran hard. Ice-cold droplets splashed onto his calves. The morning mist parted before him. Gulls and a flock of sandpipers took wing. His pulse accelerated. A rush of adrenaline shot through his veins.
At the rugged black rocks that marked the edge of this private beach, he stopped. Breathing hard, he bent double.
When he lifted his head, he saw a tall man in a three-piece gray suit coming toward him. Dr. Lowell Neville, head of Legate’s psychiatric division. Damn it, Roman didn’t want to talk to him.
“I expected to find you here,” Neville called out.