"You see, Gregor came from a poor family. Father a blacksmith, mother a maid. They would never approve of the match. In desperation and without consulting Irene, Gregor went to seek an audience with her parents to try and convince them that he would make their daughter happy."
"They threw him out of course and threatened that if he ever came near their daughter again, they would have him beheaded."
Kiara closed her eyes and settled against him. She was the writer, but he was a born storyteller. "And?"
"That did not stop the young and very determined Gregor. He tried again and was forbidden to set foot on the property. That did not sit well with the couple who continued to see each other."
He paused for effect, his fingers soothing as they moved up and down her back. "They decided to run away together."
"Regular Romeo and Juliet."
"Want to hear the rest or what?"
Her lips curved at his impatient tone. "I can hardly wait."
"Well, they made careful plans to go away that night. He had saved up some money, and she had some of her own. As well as jewels and a few trinkets. They would go someplace else and start their lives together. He would..."
His voice trailed off, a smile curving his lips when he heard the gentle snores. Shifting slightly, he gazed at the sleeping form and shook his head wryly, one finger trailing over her cheek.
"Remind me to yell at you for falling asleep during one of my famous storytelling hours." Bending, he kissed her forehead gently and felt his heart tripping. He loved her so much, he wondered if he would ever get used to how much.
Easing her gently down, he pulled the sheets over her and just sat there watching her. And watching her, he remembered the first time they made love.
A smile drifted over his lips as memories assailed him, wrapping around him sinuously. She smelled of jasmine and some other exotic scent. She was not one to use much artifice. Not a lot ofperfume for her or even makeup. She did not have a vain bone in her body.
She spent more time brushing her teeth than spreading 'gunk' as she put it on her exquisite face. But he always told her she did not need it.
She was quick, sharp, and defensive. He supposed it was due to the fact that she had been so emotionally and mentally abused as a child, by a woman who was supposed to be her protector.
His mouth tightened at that, and he deliberately turned away from those dangerous and depressing thoughts.
She murmured in her sleep, stirring a little restlessly, until he placed a hand on her forehead. And she settled. She was filled with a kind of energy that often left him feeling dizzy. Kiara was a person who was always in motion. Her steps were quick and loping like a gazelle.
Even in lovemaking, she was a bundle of energy. The first time he made love to her, she had started automatically to take the lead, until he stopped her.
"Sexist or not, I am the man," he told her firmly. Her skin was petal soft, something he knew from memory. Her mouth was sweet and seductive, stirring him to desperation.
Their first time had been hurried and frenzied. He had been aching for her for weeks, trying to break down her defenses and resistance. He had all but given up in despair.
But he had fallen hard and for good. There was nothing he could do to stop the fall. He was helpless against her potency.
The humiliating thing was that she was not even trying to get his attention. She all but ignored him. He was the one doing all the chasing. She would rebuff him, send him on his way, but he would come running back.
It had angered him that he, a man so used to having women chasing him, was now humbling himself before one slip of a girl.
Easing away from her and careful not to wake her, he swung his legs off the bed and stepped on the Indian rug she had placed there just recently.
Looking around the master suite, he shook his head at the changes she had made. Subtle ones, a sinuous blue-green glass sculpture she had picked up on a trip to Scotland. She hadclaimed that it gives the room and the tall highboy a sense of elegance.
There was the splash of colors on a plain white canvas she had picked up in Belize by a little known artist. The painting looked more like the squiggles of a four year old, but his woman insisted it was mesmerizing. A form of self-expression.
"You have no appreciation of the beauty and boldness of colors merging."
"I have a healthy respect for arts of all kinds. I support Jackson and Jason, don't I? Even when I don't know what the hell the artwork is supposed to mean half the time."
"Jackson and Jason are established as artists. Ben Gooden is not."
"You're telling me you bought it because you felt sorry for the guy? It's a guy, isn't it?"
