Modern Romance June 2016 Books 5-8. Tara Pammi
voice as they arrived at the door to her suite.
‘He does,’ Anya said, ‘only with far more skilled hands.’ She felt the grip of his fingers tighten high on her thigh and then his hand moved and he fingered her damp knickers, where she was hot and swollen for him.
‘Liar,’ he said, for there were no more skilled hands than his where Anya was concerned.
He removed his hand and swiped the card, pushed open the door and strode through. He dropped her onto the bed and she lay staring up at him.
She was breathless.
So too was he.
Not from exertion. He had hiked through rugged terrain with far more weight than Anya on his back.
He stared down at her and there was a dangerous edge to the air. She felt he might take her now, might get on the bed and simply have her.
And she fought the desire for just that.
Then suddenly he turned and walked away.
He went into the bathroom and stood for a moment holding the sink, looking at the marble bench where he saw just her toothbrush, her things. Relief washed over him when he saw that she did not share her suite with Mika.
He understood Anya better now, how she could not bear to discuss Celeste, for Roman knew he had serious work ahead of him. Jealousy and possession churned the bile in his stomach and he took a long drink of water.
Anya worked with Mika, she trained with Mika and would perform with him. Roman knew that if he and Anya were to have any chance at being together then he would have to learn how to deal with that.
In the midst of reclaiming them, he had to acknowledge and accept her past, her present, and for that reason he stood for a moment to regroup.
Anya lay there. She couldn’t see him, she just lay there trying to work out what to do next.
Roman came out and offered a solution.
‘We need to get to know each other again,’ he said.
She was scared to see his home, scared to get more involved in his life—after all he had left her so easily last time. Their love had burned just as intensely then and yet he had walked away.
And he had married her!
‘I know you already, Roman,’ Anya said. She did. She knew his heart for it had connected with hers many years ago. She knew the might of the pain he could cause, had caused, and still did. ‘I can’t forgive you.’
‘I’m not asking for you to forgive me,’ Roman said. ‘But we need some time together to at least—’
‘No.’
‘There will be no discussion about Celeste until you are ready.’
Anya closed her eyes even at the sound of his wife’s name.
‘We will just spend some time together, catching up, little by little...’
‘Why?’
‘Because we are back in each other’s lives.’ It was why he had stayed away for so long.
‘I need to focus on my dance,’ Anya said. It wasn’t going well. Since Roman had come back she had been rehearsing less and eating more. ‘I have to rehearse and train every day.’
‘Of course you can rehearse and train. I’m not kidnapping you.’
She looked into coal-black eyes as he spoke.
‘I want you to come back to my home and I know that you want to be there too.’
‘I don’t want to share a bed with you.’
‘Of course you do.’ Roman said it as fact. It was. ‘But if you want to play coy then you can stay in one of the guest rooms.’
‘Guest rooms?’
Who was this man? Anya thought. Maybe she didn’t know him after all. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Don’t think,’ he interrupted, and he went to the wardrobe and took out her cases.
She lay and watched as he made a call to someone and spoke in French then he calmly packed up her things.
Calmly, because it felt right.
Roman was taking her home.
ANYA GOT INTO the car as her cases were loaded.
She had insisted on not checking out of the hotel. It felt safer knowing she had a bolt hole to return to at any time if they didn’t work out.
And she very much doubted that they could, for she simply could not foresee a time when they could speak of Celeste, and neither could she ever forgive him for leaving her all those years ago.
He had ended their relationship without consultation.
And now, with just as little consultation, he was starting it again.
Roman had a driver.
Oh, her heart knew him, but who was this man and how had he got to where he was? Her brain was dizzy from him.
‘I’m tired, Roman,’ she said as he got into the car and sat beside her.
It was long after midnight and she was utterly drained.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘Soon you can rest.’
His apartment wasn’t very far from the hotel she was staying at.
He lived in the chic Eighth District just off the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which was arguably the most beautiful avenue in the world.
How?
He insisted his money was his own but Anya knew where he had come from and it did not seem possible to her. As they drove through heavy gates and into a private street a horrible thought occurred. They pulled up at a stunning classic Parisian residence and there was one thing Anya had to know before she got out of the car.
‘Is this where you lived with her?’
‘No,’ Roman answered. ‘I bought this last year.’
And so she got out.
The foyer was serviced and they were greeted. The gates of an antique elevator opened and an elderly man came out and spoke for a moment with Roman in French.
There were several elevators and it was like a faded, luxurious hotel, Anya thought.
‘This is the only elevator you can use. I shall give you a key,’ Roman explained as they stepped in. ‘If you press this...’ he showed her which button ‘...it takes you straight up to my apartment.’
It made no sense.
Still, she asked no questions, just nodded as they jolted upwards. When the lift came to a halt he pulled the door open and she stepped into luxury that wasn’t faded, but magnificent.
They stood in a reception area the walls of which were deep crimson; the ceiling and carpets were too. There were antique furnishings and a huge gilded mirror in which Anya could see her pale reflection.
An elderly rotund woman came through and conversed in rapid French with Roman before speaking directly to Anya, who shook her head to say she didn’t understand.
She was almost too tired even to speak.
‘Josie said that your room is ready and asked if you would like some supper.’
‘Tell her, no, thank you,’ Anya said.
‘Do you speak any French?’ he asked.
‘I know an awful lot of ballet terms,’ she said, ‘but that’s about it.’
The elderly