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He froze.
She did look perfect. Here, in his room, in his bed. In all his years of sleeping with women, he had never brought one back to his bedroom. He’d made do with guest rooms, the sofa, even a hotel room. But his bedroom had been his private sanctuary.
Yet he’d brought Rosalind up last night without a second thought. Because he had wanted her to see the view from the balcony. Had wanted to worship her body in the space he felt most comfortable. Safe.
Had wanted more than just sex.
He took a quick shower, turning the water to arctic. The cold momentarily knocked some sense into him, long enough to get dressed and slip out instead of sliding back into bed with Rosalind and pulling her into his arms.
At first, he wandered down the drive aimlessly, eyes roaming over the estate. When his parents had first bought it, he’d enjoyed coming here, watching the house evolve under his mother’s dedicated care and his father’s bottomless bank account. It hadn’t been his style; even though he hadn’t fully descended into his hedonistic lifestyle, he’d preferred modern and contemporary.
And after his mother’s death...anything that reminded him of her had been too painful. Looking ahead, to the future, had kept him from delving too deeply into what had been.
Yet now, as seashells crunched softly underfoot, he felt a new appreciation for the chateau. That the estate had withstood the tests of time—war, human capriciousness and greed—touched him in a way it never had before.
Because of Rosalind.
He blinked and glanced back at the house. The suite he’d taken as his was on the back side of the house. He wouldn’t see Rosalind in one of the many windows, wouldn’t see the balcony where she’d arched against him and cried out his name as he’d shuddered and come apart inside her.
With her, he felt freer than he had in years. Even when he’d indulged his wants and vices to excess, when he’d wallowed in his precious possessions, there had been a chain about his neck. With each purchase, the satisfaction had been fleeting. If he waited too long to go out and seek the next best thing, the ache would start. Dull at first, but quickly growing until grief flirted at the edges of his mind and threatened to pull him under.
So he’d bought more, each purchase delaying the inevitable reckoning of his mother’s death.
After his father’s death, his desire for things had evaporated. The one thing he had desired above all else—to see his father again—was out of reach.
But now, when he asked himself what he wanted above all else, the answer was immediate and clear.
Rosalind.
As he neared the entrance to the lane of oaks, he scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d known her less than a week. Had spent the first two days avoiding her entirely. Their sexual chemistry was explosive, their conversations engaging. And she was an incredibly beautiful woman.
It’s more than that.
Impossible as it seemed, he had developed something that went far deeper than simple affection for Rosalind. A woman who challenged him, pushed him, yet also supported him in ways no other woman in his past had.
He cared about her. He cared very much.
You care for her too deeply.
He was in too deep. He’d overstepped a boundary of his own last night by bringing her to his room. Had told himself he could keep his emotions back, that sleeping with her would get this obsession out of his system.
Except it hadn’t. The longer he was stranded here, the more time he spent with her, the more he risked wanting what he couldn’t have. At some point, he would falter. Would make a mistake and drag her down. His track record when it came to managing and processing grief was abysmal at best.
He hadn’t tried to lift himself out of his misery for his own father. Why did he want to now? Because his connection with Rosalind went beyond sex, because he truly cared about Rosalind? Or was he tired of living in his self-imposed state of isolation?
Could he even answer that question? Did he want to? He’d spent a lifetime punishing himself, eschewing emotion and connection. He didn’t know how to sustain either. And he knew he couldn’t have Rosalind without those, it wouldn’t be fair to her. Wouldn’t be fair to a woman who craved both.
The sound of a saw cut into his thoughts. His head snapped up. Realization hit him hard in the chest before he rounded the corner and entered the shadow of the oak trees. At the end of the lane, a crew worked diligently to cut up the once mighty tree that had been felled by the storm.
Chateau du Bellerose would soon rejoin the outside world.
He didn’t know how long he watched. But as a path was finally made for a smaller truck to drive through, he started walking toward the bridge. Each step reverberated through him, pushed the thoughts and possibilities that he’d been considering back as reality set in.
Cocooned out here in their own slice of heaven, it had been easy to enjoy her, to indulge her, to allow vulnerabilities to show and secrets to be shared. To imagine himself the kind of man she dreamed about. The kind of man he wanted to be, both for her and for himself.
But that was here. Not London, not the everyday where the demands of life would tug and pull at them. How many people had he known who had jetted off to a romantic getaway, convinced they’d saved their relationship on the white sands of the Caribbean or the lush forests of Bali, only to return to reality and realize that there wasn’t really anything left to save?
We could give it a little time.
