Page 93 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

Perhaps I could give her something like happiness.

I don’t know why I care about this. I don’t know why I feel more than attraction, more than pity.

She is a fascination. I didn’t expect that. But it’s like something in her might show me something I need to understand. I’ve never felt this before, nor can I explain it.

I decide then I don’t need to. Seduction is much simpler than understanding.

I assign two men to post up out on the water, because that’s the most likely place for there to be an attack if we are on the beach. The entire perimeter is under observation, but if somebody came onto land on the other side of the beach, our motion detectors would catch them. But if they tried to fire on us from the water it would be more difficult for us to get away, especially if we are on the shore unawares.

And so two of my men go out in boats, where they will anchor and station themselves to make sure that Lindsay is not fired upon.

Then I have my chef put together a selection of gourmet treats for a snack.

She’s a complicated creature, is Lindsay. And I find that my feelings for her are increasingly complicated. I don’t like the way that she was attempting to manipulate me with her body.

But what I did enjoy was the expression on her face when she saw the clothes. I enjoyed watching her light up when she saw my grandmother’s closet.

But then, it is very like her. She is a study in contradictions. Hard and scrappy, yet melting at the sight of luxury fabrics. If I were to have met her without knowing anything about her, I would’ve assumed she was the sort that would say clothing was silly. That fashion meant nothing. I would’ve guessed, perhaps, that she was the sort of woman to affect that posture of being not like other girls, and claim that such feminine things were unserious, or lacked depth. Instead, she seems to find the depth in the topic of fashion. The way that she guessed correctly that this house wasn’t designed or built by me fascinates me.

I also suspect her choice of clothing was a manipulation from moment one. She is so aware of clothes that she cannot be unaware of what the choice to go naked beneath the cashmere was doing to her body. And she cannot be unaware of the kind of response that would engender.

As she pointed out to me, it is indicative of something. Fashion choices.

I’m still pondering this when she appears at the top of the stairs. She’s dressed in a vintage bikini, tiny and fitted low on her hips, giving space to her rounded belly. Her breasts are spilling over the cups, her face glowing with the light.

“This is exquisite,” she says.

She slides a see-through cover-up over the top, one that adds a bright pink color, a veil barely concealing her curves, doing more to tantalize than it does to add modesty.

“I’m glad you enjoy it,” I say, and I do mean that.

I’m not actually trying to be a tyrant.

It comes naturally.

“Thank you,” she says, moving down the stairs, her hips swaying back and forth just so, my stomach going tight, making a liar out of all my proclamations about how I can have whatever I want, and therefore don’t need to worry about her. The truth is, when she took a step toward me, that glorious body wrapped in that soft material, all I could think about was lowering my head and fastening my mouth to her nipple. It was visible through the fabric. I wanted to bite it. There is something about her being pregnant with my child that is having an effect on me. Making me feel aroused and unhinged at the mere thought of her.

But one thing I’ve learned for certain is that feelings don’t need to be acted on. My father is the kind of man who acts on every impulse that occurs to him.

Was.

He’s dead. I know this. It’s what spurred all this into motion. But for some reason, the realization hits me with ferocity then.

I push it aside. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” she says.

We slip out the side door of the compound, and into the trees. I like this as an exit because it’s covered. You cannot see it at all from the water.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Her eyes are wide as she looks around, her blond lashes so long they’re almost touching her eyebrows. The sun enhances the blue of her eyes, the wonder on her face like a gift that I want to hold close. Damn this woman and her witchcraft.

Damn her.

Damn her for being so exasperating and beguiling all at once.

I can’t recall ever spending this many days in a woman’s company before. Not one that I’m not related to. It hasn’t been that many days; I know that well.