But every moment with her had been pleasure beyond imagining. Even more indescribable than anything he remembered sharing with her in the past. He now realized his invulnerability had only been the deep freeze he’d plunged into when he’d walked away from her, thinking he’d never have her again. He’d stored everything inside him, starting with his libido, which he’d kept behind barricades of thorns and ice. But mere re-exposure to her had pulverized them as if they were cobwebs, thawed him out as quickly as New York’s summer sun melted an ice cube.
He’d tried to fool himself into thinking he could apply brakes to the desire that had overtaken him. But even as he’d told her he was done, the thought of losing her again had made him want to take it back at once. The utter contempt that had dawned on her face had made him willing to do anything to erase it, to restore the contentment his words had wiped away.
And he had offered everything. Again. Without trying, she’d snared him again. It was a trap he’d eagerly been caught in. She remained the only person who had his secret access code. The one, in spite of every reason on earth against it, he gladly relinquished power to.
Satisfaction spread like wildfire, pulling at his lips as he jumped to his feet and headed for the shower.
Once beneath the pummeling water, he closed his eyes and relived his nightlong possession of her and her captivation of him. Next time, this was where he’d end their intimacies, soothing and refreshing her before he let her leave him. He certainly wouldn’t end another climactic night together by doing his best to alienate her.
After his contradictory behavior, she’d run away screaming monster. Crazy monster, to be exact.
She wouldn’t come back on her own. No matter how much she craved him. As he was now beyond certain she did.
So he had to pursue her. But he predicted that the harder he did, the more she’d push him away. He had no problem with that. It would only make the hunt that much more intoxicating.
He would have her at his mercy and that of the unstoppable passion they shared. This time, he wouldn’t let her go before he was glutted. If he couldn’t be, then he wasn’t letting her go at all.
Exiting the shower, he stood in front of the floor-length mirror, grimacing his displeasure with his too-short hair.
She’d loved it when it had been longer. He’d woken so many times still feeling her clinging to it as he’d ridden her, or combing through it languorously in blissful aftermaths. It had been why he’d kept it razed, thinking it would abort the phantom sensations. Not that it had.
Deciding to grow it out, he took extra care with his grooming, but didn
’t shave so he wouldn’t have a stubble by the time he saw her again. It had driven her out of her mind when his whiskers had burned her during sex. But she’d always complained afterward that he’d sandpapered her. When he hadn’t been able to meet her smooth-shaven as he had last night, he’d learned how to handle his facial hair to keep the pro of pleasuring her without the con of scraping her sensitive skin raw. By tonight, when he had her again, his current stubble would be the perfect length to give her the stimulation without the abrasion.
After dressing in clothes she’d love, he called Murdock.
As always, he answered on the second ring. “Sir.”
“I need to get into Dr. Sandoval’s home.”
“Sir?”
Annoyed that Murdock’s response wasn’t a straight “Yes, sir,” he frowned. “I want to prepare a surprise for her.”
After a beat, Murdock said, “You didn’t read my report.”
Suddenly, Richard was at the end of his tether. He was unable to bear a hint of obstacle or delay when it came to Isabella. “What is it with you and your fixation on that bloody report, Murdock? Did you even hear what I said?”
“Indeed, sir. But if you’d read my report, you would have known it wouldn’t be wise to break into Dr. Sandoval’s home.”
“Why the bloody hell not?”
“Because her family is in there.”
* * *
Two hours later Richard was driving through Isabella’s neighborhood, a sense of déjà vu overwhelming him.
He hadn’t even known such a place existed in New York. But there it was—Forest Hills Gardens, what looked like a quaint English village transplanted into the heart of Queens.
A private, tucked-away community within the Forest Hills neighborhood, it was based on the model of garden communities in England. Its streets were open to the public, but street parking was reserved for the residents of the elegant Tudor and Colonial single-family homes that flaunted towers, spires, fancy brickwork and red-tiled clay roofs. Wrought iron streetlights inspired by Old English lanterns lined the block, while the curving street grid was lined with London plane and white ash trees.
It felt as though he was back where he’d grown up.
Shaking off the oppressive memories, he parked in front of Isabella’s leased residence, a magnificently renovated Tudor.
Glaring at the massive edifice, he exhaled. If he’d been in any condition to think last night, he would have deduced the reason why she’d leased such a big house when Murdock had imparted that information. It was understatement to say he’d been unpleasantly surprised to find out she lived with her mother, a sister and three children.