Not Just the Boss's Plaything(73)

He went terrifyingly still, his eyes turning to poured gold.

"And you like to collect things," she continued, not caring about how    scratchy her voice sounded, or how many unshed tears pressed against her    throat. "You're good at it. You obsess for a time and then you forget    all about it while you chase your next obsession." She shook her  head,   and stepped back from him. "I can't even blame you for that. I  saw what   your grandfather was like. But how can I marry you when you  don't love   me back? When you can't?"

"Dru-" he started, but it was a stranger's voice, and he was looking at    her as if she'd become a ghost again, right there in front of him, and    she knew that it was time to leave. That she should never have come.    That she had betrayed herself once again.

"You don't have to say anything," she said softly, and she meant it. She did. "I should have stayed away. I'm sorry."

And then she turned back around and walked away from him. For the last time.

* * *

He tracked her back to a converted townhouse in a part of Clapham that    was a world away from his three-story penthouse at the top of an old    Victorian warehouse perched at the edge of the Thames. This was what she    preferred to him, he told himself as he caught the door from one of   her  neighbors and climbed the narrow, grimy stairs to her second-floor    flat-this dingy little place and the dim little life that went with  it.

He was so angry with her, Cayo thought it might actually burn off the top of his head.

He pounded on her door, not even pretending to be polite.                       
       
           



       

"I know you're in there," he growled through the door. "I saw you enter the building not five minutes ago."

He heard the rattle of her locks and then she swung the door open and    stood there, scowling up at him, and his curse was that he felt her    prettiness like a punch to his gut. Her cheeks were flushed with    emotion, making her gray eyes gleam, and he was tired of playing nice.    Or trying to. He'd let her go, hadn't he? What else was he meant to do?    And she'd been the one to come back and make it perfectly clear that    he'd been a fool to do so. That he should have ignored what she'd told    him. That he shouldn't have let her go in the first place.

"You are not welcome here," she told him in that cold voice that only    made him want her more. It made him think about what best melted all of    that ice, and he was certain she could see it on his face when he saw    her eyes widen. "Go away."

"I can't do that," he said. He stepped toward her and she leapt back,    terrified, he suspected, that he might touch her and prove what a liar    she was. He simply shouldered his way inside the flat and kicked the    door shut behind him.

And then they were all alone. No brand-new personal assistant in the    outer office. And he was blocking the only exit. Cayo could see    precisely when that occurred to her, and he smiled.

It was a laughably tiny little place, a bedsit indeed, all in white with    a few accent colors-a wooden headboard, the pop of scarlet pillows on    her bed-to suggest the idea of space without actually having any. She    kept it scrupulously neat, and that was why it seemed slightly bigger    than it was-but only slightly.

To his right, a wardrobe and a double bed jutted out into the small,    fitted kitchen. Her laptop lay there, on a café table next to what    looked like an abandoned cup of tea, and something about the sight made    his chest feel tight. He could imagine her there, dressed in whatever    she slept in, her glorious hair knotted on the back of her head as she    scrolled through the internet with her morning tea. To his left, when  he   wrenched his gaze away from her laptop and his imagination, was  the   smallest version of a living room he'd ever seen, featuring only a  plush   white armchair, a small trunk and a little shelf with a  television sat   on it.

This was where she slept. Dreamed. Imagined her life without him. Lived it. Even while claiming she was in love with him.

She would pay for that, too, he promised himself. And dearly.

"This is my space," she fumed at him. "It's not one of the many things    that belong to you, that you can storm in and out of as you please. I    get to decide what happens here, and I want you to leave."

"I'm not leaving." He leveled a dark look at her. "Nor am I planning to run away if things become intense, unlike some."

He moved farther into the room, grimly amused at the way she skittered    away from him, or tried to, as there was nowhere left to go. He picked    up one of the handful of framed photographs that sat on the narrow    bookshelf at the top of her headboard. A younger Dru and a pale, skinny    boy who looked just like her, the same dark hair, those same    unfathomable gray eyes. Dru was staring into the camera, mischief in her    eyes and a slight smile on her lips, while her brother slung an arm    around her neck and laughed. They looked happy, he thought. Truly  happy.   The constriction in his chest pulled taut.

"I did not run away," she was protesting. She reached over and snatched    the picture from his hand, holding it against her chest for a moment    before replacing it. "There was no point continuing that conversation.    There still isn't. It hurts too much."

"All you do is run away," he contradicted her, not even attempting to    temper the harshness in his voice. "You jumped off the damned yacht. You    demanded I let you go. You walked out of my office. And that's not    counting the numerous ways you run away without ever leaving the room."

"That's not running away," she hissed at him. "That's called the    survival instinct. I'll do whatever I have to do to survive, Cayo,    including climb out this window and down the side of this-"                       
       
           



       

"I promise you that if you attempt to run away from me again," he cut    her off, his gaze hard on hers, his voice brooking no argument, "I will    lock you up in the nearest tower and throw away the key."

"Another excellent threat," she retorted, unfazed, if that glint in her    eyes was any indication. "With shades of Rapunzel, no less. Sadly, not  a   single one of your sixteen properties features a tower."

"Then I'll buy one that does."

They glared at each other for a long moment, while everything inside him    rioted. What was it about this woman? How did she do this to him?  Even   now, all he wanted was to sling her over his shoulder and then  onto  the  bed, and who cared what she thought about that? He knew how  she'd  feel,  and it was rapidly becoming the only thing that mattered  to him.  She  stood in her small living area, her arms crossed over her  chest,  her  sleek boots kicked off next to the armchair so it was only  Dru in  her  stocking feet with too much color in her cheeks.

And he wanted her so badly it was painful.

"What do you want, Cayo?" she asked then, her voice soft, as if it    really did hurt her. And he hated that, but there was no other way.

"I want you," he said, gravely. Deliberately holding her gaze. "That hasn't changed, Dru. I don't believe it will."

She held herself even tighter, while her cheeks paled and she bit down    on her lower lip. And he wanted his hands on her. He wanted to bury his    face in her hair and inhale the sweet fragrance of it. He wanted to   hold  her slender shoulders in his hands. He wanted to be what chased   her  pain away, not what caused it. But he had never known how to do   such  things. He'd never tried. He didn't know how to start, and all she   ever  did was leave.

But she loved him. And that was like a bright light where there had never been anything but dark. It was everything.

"I meant what I said in your office," she whispered. "I shouldn't have    come back. I should have stayed gone. If you leave now, you'll never  see   me again."