“What kind of charitable work does the foundation support?”
“It funds a number of programs in Africa.” My gaze locked onto the graceful movement of his long fingers as he went down the list. “Sustainable farming, clean water, literacy.”
“How wonderful. Do you run it?” I asked distractedly, my attention still focused on those skilled fingers, fingers that had done unspeakably wonderful things to me the night before.
“Partly, I also have some great people working for me.” His hands came to rest on his hips again, two fingers tapping anxiously. “I need you with me.” I looked up and found his expression resolute, tense. His jaw twitched. Need was waging war with his vaunted self-control––and need was winning. I tucked the silk blanket neatly under the mattress.
“You know that’s impossible,” I replied, tilting my head to scan the open bedroom door.
He raked the silky hair that had fallen over his eye back in an exasperated gesture. “No, it’s not fucking impossible,” he snapped. Glancing at his Rolex, he added, “I have to go, but this discussion is far from over.”
Out of prudence, I didn’t respond. His patience with the situation was unraveling by the day. It was wearing on him and I didn’t blame him. It must have been difficult for a man who was used to getting his way, without question, be denied something he seemed to want badly. But we were at an impasse. He was chivalrous to a fault. I couldn’t confide in him about my past because he would insist on getting involved. And I couldn’t risk that. He was too high profile a person. It could hurt him in a million different ways that I wasn’t even certain of, and I would have rather faced the vultures in Tirana alone than cause him a moment of trouble. I was just as fiercely protective of him, as he was of me.
Isabelle stepped into the bedroom as I was fluffing up the last of the pillows. It was obvious she was on a mission to catch us in a compromising position. I almost laughed when a disappointed frown appeared on her face.
“Mr. Horn, Mrs. Arnaud would like to know if you’ll be here for dinner this evening, or if you’re staying in town?”
He pinned her with one of his lethal stares. Okay, he was in a really bad mood. “I’ll be here this evening––like I have been for the past few weeks. Tell Marianne to cook whatever she wants,” he said curtly and departed.
“What’s his problem?” Isabelle asked as she watched him disappear down the hall.
“He must be in one of his moods again,” I replied with a smirk, and left her standing alone in the bedroom.
He made love to me passionately that night, withholding his own release until I was begging him to stop from exhaustion, having climaxed enough times to actually make me sore. My hair was soaked in sweat, plastered to my throat and face. Barely able to lift my arms, I made a feeble attempt to push the hair aside.
“I think you’re trying to kill me with sex,” I said, panting and wheezing.
I looked over and found his arm lying over his eyes, his nostril flaring, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips didn’t move. He wasn’t amused by my attempt to lighten the mood. I placed my hand on his chest, over his heart.
“It’s two. I should get back to my room.”
He lowered his arm and scowled at me. “It doesn’t bother you that we can’t sleep in the same bed? That you can’t wake up in my arms?”
I knew that tone. He was angry and itching for a fight. “Of course it does, I love you. Every minute that you’re not with me, I miss you.” His face softened. He turned on his side and caressed my face, running his thumb over my kiss-swollen lips. “But this is how it has to be,” I added.
His face hardened instantly. “Tell me what it is that you think I can’t handle. And don’t you fucking lie to me and tell me it’s about Marianne because I will fucking wake the whole damn house up if you do.”
My blood froze. I was no match for him in a battle of wills.
“I can’t. Don’t ask me to, please, I beg you. You’re right, it’s not about Marianne anymore, in the beginning it was, but that was before––”
“Before what?” he interrupted gruffly.
“Before I realized how much I love you.”
While he searched my face, his anger didn’t abate, his eyes remaining confidently cool. “When I get back from London, I’m going to tell anybody that will listen that we’re in love.”
“Darling––” My plea was tentative. I knew him too well by now to pose anything that resembled a challenge.
Speaking over me, his voice grew louder. “That gives you three days to acclimate yourself to the idea. Whatever it is that you won’t tell me––I don’t give a hot shit about it. I don’t care if you were on the grassy knoll and murdered John F. Kennedy. I love you. I want to share my life with you and no amount of bullshit will prevent me from doing that.”