Heavens, that sound! Deep and rough, the murmur sent a spike of need through me.
Was I really going there with him? Sure, the kiss with the mobster had been steamy, and our encounter at the zoo was an intense memory that I found myself dreaming of more than once—strange, wicked dreams that left me sweating and panting when I woke. During the day-to-day, we kept the chemistry out of our interactions. It was undeniably there, always simmering in the background. But we were in this friendly, co-parenting situation. Crossing that line, giving into the fire, would only complicate the situation.
And we are leaving.
I hadn’t worked out an escape plan. The Bulgarians watched us constantly. Even if we didn’t see them, they were there. That had been my mistake with the first attempt. I hadn’t realized they were close, that they alerted Ivan, who’d been on his way home by chance.
There was never any telling when he would be around. It was as if he were keeping me on my toes by randomly showing up all hours of the night, when he was supposed to be working.
Because the reason that he wanted to be home, that he wanted to be with us, was too intimidating to fathom. I wanted it to be true. I wanted him to enjoy being with us—with me.
No, he was keeping guard over his prize: His son.
And I was the crazy lady trying to escape.
The mobster thought love was a fairytale. I was the girl who wanted it desperately, bad enough to think our kidnapper was falling for the adoptive mother of his son. My brain twisted details, unconsciously screaming that this could be a real family. That Ivan would fall in love with me, not just want to fuck me.
I had to remind myself often that I was just dreaming.
Ivan pushed open the door, a small bell tinkling as we entered.
I gasped as we stepped through the threshold. The space that greeted us was nothing short of enchanting. Golden light spilled from elaborate crystal chandeliers that hung from a vaulted ceiling, their facets casting prism-like reflections across the room. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, carved from rich mahogany that gleamed with polish and care. Ornate spiral staircases wound upward to a second level gallery that ringed the main floor.
“My God,” I whispered, the ruby silk of my dress rustling as I turned slowly to take it all in. “This isn’t a bookstore, it’s…it’s…”
“Do you like it?” Ivan watched my reaction carefully.
“Yes,” I said simply. I spoke two languages, and yet words failed me.
“Good.” Ivan slid his hand against the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the store.
My heels clicked against marble floors inlaid with intricate mosaic patterns. Between the towering shelves, reading nooks were carved out with velvet settees and antique desks. Oil paintings graced the wall with their vivid landscapes or historical scenes.
In one nook, hidden away from the main area, was set a small round table, maybe four feet in diameter. Three tapered candles stood tall and proud in a holder designed to give them varied heights. While other lights illuminated the space, the candles cast their own beckoning glow over the polished wood, claiming the space as their own.
Ivan helped me into the chair before retreating to a side table where a bottle of wine waited with two glasses. He uncorked the bottle, poured, and brought me a glass.
I lifted it and took a gulp.
“Nervous?” Ivan let out a short laugh.
“Me? No.” But my voice sounded small. “Why, Ivan? Why this—” I spread my hands around us “—why?”
Ivan settled into the seat across from me. “Because you are a rare creature, Poppy. Rare and beautiful, and I’m honored just to sit in your presence.”
To deflect the attention, and because my cheeks were warming, I waved my hand. “Kind of a tongue and cheek thing to say in a bookstore of this caliber.”
Ivan shook his head. “I mean what I say.”
He did all this. For me.
I swallowed hard, watching the way his eyes darkened as they traveled over me. The wine was warming my blood, or maybe it was his gaze. It lingered on my lips, my neck, the curves where the ruby silk hugged my body. I felt it under the heavy material, skating lower and lower.
“And what exactly are you saying, Ivan?” I asked, my voice dropping to a husky whisper I barely recognized.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “That I’ve been thinking about you. About us.”
“There is no us,” I said, but the protest sounded weak even to my own ears.
