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“I—” She started to tell him, wanted to confide in him. Had always imagined being able to share her life, from the positives to the challenges, with a lover.
But she couldn’t. Not when Griffith had explicitly laid out the terms of their arrangement. Even if their relationship was based in affection, how could she put the weight of her career on his shoulders? Whether she liked his decision or not, it was his choice.
“Yes.” She forced a smile. “Just an uncomfortable conversation with my boss.”
“About the contract?”
She slid the book back onto the shelf, debated how to reply. “About business.” She walked down the spiral staircase. “I’ll be okay.”
She started to walk by him. His hand shot out, closed around her wrist.
“Walk with me.”
She shook her head as she tried to pull her hand back. “No, thank you. I’ve wasted a lot of my morning and I—”
“Wasted how?”
He tugged her closer. Her hands came up, rested on his chest, his heartbeat a steady pulse against her palms. She stiffened and started to pull back. But when he slid a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his, she found herself holding his gaze. Taking comfort from his presence, despite the intensity of their eye contact. It was as though Griffith was trying to see right through her, into her soul. It was unnerving and exhilarating all at once.
“I’ve been reading instead of working.”
“How dare you?”
His dry comment startled a laugh from her and eased the tension from her shoulders.
“Let’s go on a walk. Get out of the house. Clear your head.”
“I have work—”
“Do you ever give yourself one day, Rosalind? One day to enjoy yourself.”
He took her hand in his, held it with a tenderness she hadn’t anticipated, tugged her toward the door.
I should say no.
And instead she followed him out into the great hall where they’d officially met for the first time. As he led her toward the front doors, she stopped in front of the painting.
“Where did you find this? It’s very well done.”
He stared at the painting, his eyes moving over the ridges and edges created by the artist’s knife.
“I was at a museum in early spring.” He spoke quietly. “An oil painting exhibition. The museum does an up-and-coming artist feature, a booklet where they put together paintings by local artists. I saw this painting and knew it. Knew the style. It had belonged to a painter my mother hosted from Brazil. I dismissed him as an amateur. Even before her death, I had started to gravitate toward wealth. Reputation. Selfishness.” His eyes centered once more on the lone figure on the beach. “Buying it seemed like righting two wrongs. Honoring my mother and all the work she did for artists like him. And a way of atoning for how I dismissed him. I had it shipped from Kent when I decided to spend some time here.”
Rosalind entwined her fingers with his. He wouldn’t listen if she pointed out that the simple act spoke volumes about the man he was becoming.
But she saw it. Saw and knew there was far more to Griffith than he let himself see.
Maybe one day...
“It’s a beautiful painting.”
He glanced down at her. The kiss he brushed across her forehead was unexpected and tender. It stirred something inside her chest, a yearning for more moments like this. Not just the wild, passionate desire they’d indulged in, but times when they just enjoyed each other’s company, drew strength from one another as they faced their demons.
Dangerous.
The word echoed in her mind once more. But this time, as she followed him out into the sunlight, she felt like the danger Griffith presented was no longer as simple as a threat to her career.
Now he was a threat to her heart.
