“I tried to keep the press off the scent,” she assured him. “Well, as much as possible when the man owned half the world’s papers and news stations.”
No smirk, just a tic in his cheek. “And how did you pay for everything?”
It occurred to her he might be doing the same thing she was: talking about the service to avoid dissecting this morning. Or maybe he was satisfied with her answer that the timing was wrong and just wanted the service out of the way and her out of his life.
She swallowed, mentally balancing on that ledge of a week ago, with deadly waves threatening to engulf her and no way to get back to where she’d been.
He was leading her to the guest room in his high-rise penthouse. She craned her neck to orient herself. It was a surprisingly soothing expanse of rooms that flowed one into another, surrounding an outdoor pool and a view of the Parthenon that stole her breath. Rosedale must make him feel hemmed in, she realized, and accepted that she’d never win him over on the mansion. Perhaps she should have listened without judging, because she could stay in a place as private and sunny as this penthouse forever.
“My mother’s agent is floating me a loan,” she answered absently when she realized he was waiting.
“Introduce me to him. I’ll repay him.”
Her pride prickled. Hosting a service was her choice. She wouldn’t let it become his problem. “I’ve got it. It’s not like there’s caskets and burials.”
“It’s my responsibility. I’ll take care of it.”
“You cut me off because you wanted me to show responsibility,” she reminded. “Pay half, if you insist, but I refuse to owe you money. I’ll keep my loan with Frankie.”
“Don’t start a fight you can’t win, Rowan.”
“I’d rather not fight at all.”
“That’s funny,” he said without a shred of humor, and closed the door.
Nursing anger at Rowan for putting him in the position of owing a stranger for the cost of his own father’s service kept Nic from brooding on the disquiet eating a hole in his breastbone. It allowed him to lock his emotions so deeply in his personal dungeon he almost forgot what he was dressing for until he walked into the lounge.
Rowan wore a simple black top over a knit black skirt. Slits in the skirt revealed her high boots and black stockings. Her silhouette, graceful as always, was startlingly slight, making his breath catch. A deep purple scarf held her straightened hair so the length lay in a gleaming line down her right shoulder. She clutched a black pocketbook and opened it when he appeared, walking toward him with purpose as she extracted something.
He tensed, anticipating the hint of sexual awareness that always struck with her nearness, and found himself thrust back to their wild copulation in his lounge. Her invitation might have been more of a dare, but she had participated, welcomed him, taken him in like it was as vital to her as it had been to him. It had been raw and primeval and mind-shattering. He’d never wanted or needed anyone like that before. The culmination had been more than physical. It had been spiritual.
And exceedingly careless of him.
She’d said the timing was wrong, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was bang on?
His gut was a cement mixer as he stared at the part in her hair, trying to see into the workings of her mind. What if she fell pregnant? What would she do?
His palms began to sweat.
Her subtle scent invaded his dark thoughts, disguised by a designer bouquet of grigio citrus, but he detected the almonds and fresh tea, unique as the rest of her. It was a punch of homespun warmth, gentle and feminine and familiar.
He wanted to reach for her, but the last time he’d done that he’d behaved like an animal. It underlined exactly what he’d told her: he was incapable of true caring.
Guilt hardened in him, stiffening his muscles as he waited to see why she had come so close. Searching for a clue to her motive, he noted that the only adornment on her outfit of unrelieved black was a pair of pins above her heart: one a small emerald brooch that formed a lucky four-leaf clover, the other a familiar insignia—the Marcussen Media four-color shield with an inlaid “O” of white gold.
“How is that a pin?” he asked as he recognized Olief’s cufflink.
“I sent them out to be converted.” Rowan removed the tiepin he was wearing and replaced it with the matching cufflink inlaid with an “M.” She took care to ensure it sat straight. Her nearness, the light graze of her touch between the buttons of his shirt, was like a magnetic interference against his invisible force field, making his self-control shiver and threaten to short. The gesture was so simple and inclusive he felt his throat close over any words he might have found to remark on it.