Safe.
And so close to love.
That itsy-bitsy love sat dead like a lead weight in the bottom of her stomach now. Which was what she deserved. Because the very next day, the Great Man had reverted to type—cold and contained. Not a dimple in sight. He’d announced their departure with icy disdain. Ignored her on the plane. Ignored her when they arrived at the penthouse.
Ignored her existence for the past three days.
Darcy plodded down the hall to her bedroom. The one she slept in alone. His announcement of separate bedrooms had surprised her and hurt her. Darn it. Plus, double darn it, she missed him at night. Just as she missed him during the day.
She missed his hard warmth beside her. The sense of safety.
She missed his laugh and his dimples.
She missed the stimulation of his company. Not only the sexual hum between them, but the intelligence, the drive, the electricity of his presence.
Plopping down on her bed, she eyed the picture of the London Eye with distaste. The black-and-white photo sucked every ounce of joy from the edifice. Smoothing her hand across the grey silk coverlet, she gave it a moue of disgust. She would not moon over bedding thinking of his eyes. No way.
Thankful. That was the word.
She should be thankful he wasn’t parading her in front of the London press as he had in New York. The odds were in her favor that those particular pictures would never land on a wall to be obsessed about.
More importantly, she should be very, very thankful that Marcus La Rocca had showed his true colors these last few days. His behavior shocked her out of the fantasy she’d been weaving around him. He was nothing like that fantasy man. Not the smiling man who enjoyed her company. Not the simple man who ate Sardi’s spaghetti with gusto. Certainly not the man who held her so tenderly at night.
In actuality, he was a tyrant of the first order.
“Stay put,” he commanded every morning as he left for his office.
What had she done? She’d done what he told her to do. She’d spent her time mooning and yearning and moping over a man who didn’t deserve any of it.
Time to stop this stupid behavior, pronto.
Time to face reality.
In three weeks’ time, she’d be released from this gilded cage. Back into the real world where a girl had to make a living. Unless a miracle occurred, she wouldn’t have Matt to lean on while she got her feet on the ground.
Wait.
Matt. And the wedding-that-wasn’t-going-to-happen.
She glared at the London Eye and berated herself. Somewhere in the midst of New York City glamour and La Rocca appeal, she’d lost the thread of her reasoning. Lost the whole point of being around the Great Man. She’d forgotten about her friend and his predicament.
“What a tosser you are,” she muttered.
Time to change things. Rather than spending her time following the Great Man’s orders while secretly pining away for his attention, she needed to get a grip and make things happen.
First things first. Tomorrow was Sunday.
Darcy smiled as a brilliant idea sprung into her brain.
Chapter 7
It was a superb London day.
Sunny and surprisingly warm. The crowds were rather large for this time of year. A fact Darcy was grateful for.
Bayswater Road was her usual haunt on any given Sunday. She’d prop her oils along the hedges, set up her easel and chair and usually do a brisk business drawing caricatures. Her oils moved a little slower. Still, all in all, she often walked away at the end of the day with a good stash of pounds.
Today was shaping up to be a banner day.
She’d already sold one oil in less than an hour. And she’d done three drawings in rapid succession. If the day proceeded like this, she’d have a nice beginning to a deposit on a new flat.
It had been surprisingly easy to slip away from the grand mausoleum. The Great Man had held to his recent pattern and disappeared before she even awoke. His security team had spotted her leaving, but hadn’t made any attempt to send her back to her fancy prison. One lone man had followed her onto the Tube. He’d trailed her as she got to Bayswater Road and greeted an artist buddy who’d willingly stored her artwork when she’d been kicked out of her own flat. The security guy had faded into the woodwork as her buddy helped her display the art he’d carted over from his nearby home. She didn’t mind the following and watching. It was part of the deal, she supposed.
In an odd way, it made her feel wanted, even safe.
There was that dang word again.
She snorted at herself.
“Darcy, my lass.” Alvin, one the regulars sauntered by, several of his watercolor canvases under his arm. “Where’ve you been?”
“I only missed last week, Al.” She gave him a jaunty smile. What was she going to say? I was whisked away to New York by a billionaire. That would get a good laugh.