‘Do you have much more work to do?’
Bereft of her usual focus and energy, she looked at the report on her desk. The one she’d stared blankly at for the last hour. She glanced at her watch. It was only four o’clock. ‘A bit,’ she said.
‘Finish up and come with me.’
She frowned at his commanding tone. ‘Where?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘You know I don’t like surprises.’
His smile was gentle enough to melt her insides. And her resistance.
‘Humour me,’ he said.
* * *
An hour later Emily stood in the centre of an enormous living room on the lower floor of a beautiful late nineteenth-century mansion in Chelsea.
‘What do you think?’
Slowly, she turned and looked at Ramon. He stood in front of the big window that overlooked the large fenced-in front garden, rays of late-afternoon sunshine highlighting the rich, glossy mahogany of his hair. His jacket was undone, his tie was loosened and his hands were thrust casually into his trouser pockets.
Emily wasn’t fooled, however.
Every hard inch of him radiated tension.
She gazed up at the moulded ceiling and the beautiful, intricate glass chandelier above her head. ‘It’s stunning.’ More than stunning, she thought. Even unfurnished, the three-storey, seven-bedroom residence was breathtaking.
Having grown up in her grandfather’s mansion north of London, she wasn’t unaccustomed to large houses. But, while the interior of her grandfather’s home had been characterised by dark wood and heavy, oppressive furnishings, this house was light and airy, its preserved period features interspersed with touches of contemporary luxury that gave it an elegant, timeless appeal.
And the kitchen!
Emily had salivated over the walk-in pantry, the giant stove, the hand-crafted cabinetry with oodles of storage space and the massive custom-designed granite countertops offering plenty of room for culinary experimentation.
Her heart had soared with excitement, and then just as quickly had dropped.
This was a ‘for ever’ home. The kind where kids grew up and couples grew old. Where families laughed and argued and loved and cried. Where children and grandchildren came back for Christmases and birthdays and boisterous reunions—the kind you saw in movies or read about in books that guaranteed you a happy ending.
It wasn’t the sort of home a billionaire playboy considered buying.
Sadness weighted her down. ‘Ramon,’ she whispered, a wealth of feeling and helplessness pouring into that single utterance of his name.
His gaze held hers and she thought maybe he understood. Thought he might be experiencing some of the same turmoil she was. He crossed to where she stood and curled his hands over her shoulders. She wanted to press a finger against his lips so he couldn’t say the words, but her limbs were frozen, her breath locked in her chest.
‘Marry me.’
She closed her eyes. ‘I can’t.’
He was silent a moment. ‘You’re saying that because you’re scared.’
She lifted her lids. ‘Aren’t you?’
A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘Yes,’ he confessed, the word seeming to drag from the depths of his throat. ‘But fear isn’t a reason to avoid doing the right thing.’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Is that what we’d be doing? The right thing?’
His brows lowered. ‘Of course.’