“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that unless you mean it.”
“What if I do mean it?”
“Go to bed, Kasimira.”
“Come with me.”
The words escape before I can stop them.
For a heartbeat, I think he might. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and his breathing gets rough.
Then he steps back. “Goodnight.”
This time, it’s final. He turns and walks toward his office, leaving me standing alone at the bottom of the stairs.
I watch him go, my skin still humming with unfulfilled desire, and realize that Miami changed everything.
23
ALARIC
I should bein my office reviewing contracts, not standing in my private gallery at midnight thinking about my wife’s mouth.
But here I am.
The charity gala ended hours ago, but I can’t settle into normal routines. My collection room calls to me—the one place in this sprawling estate where I can think clearly. Floor-to-ceiling cases display artifacts I’ve acquired over decades—ancient Roman coins, medieval manuscripts, Renaissance sculptures that most museums would kill for.
Tonight the space feels different. Moonlight streams through the arched windows, casting shadows across marble pedestals and gilt frames. My grandfather’s Caravaggio dominates the far wall, the saint’s tortured expression seeming more relevant than usual.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Her voice carries across the silence, and I turn to see Kasimira standing in the doorway. She’s changed out of the burgundygown into jeans and a cashmere sweater, but she’s no less beautiful.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.
“Could you?”
The honest answer is no. Ever since Miami, sleep has been elusive. Every time I close my eyes, I see her arching beneath me and crying out my name. My bed feels too empty, and my control feels too thin.
“What are you doing here, Kasimira?”
“Looking for my husband.” She steps into the gallery, her footsteps echoing off the marble floor. “He’s avoiding me.”
“I am not.”
“Bullshit.”
The profanity sounds strange coming from her lips, but it makes my mouth curve up despite myself. “Watch your language in front of the Botticelli.”
“The Botticelli has heard worse.” She moves closer, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “Why are you running from me?”
“I don’t run.”
“Then what do you call what happened earlier? I proposition you, and you disappear into your office like I have the plague.”
