He moved into the room and knelt beside the bed. He touched her arm, his face somber. “Were you sleeping?” he asked, his deep voice so warm and tender.
Like home.
Or what home used to be like. Before she lost Ollie.
“No.”
“Can we talk?”
She slipped out of the bed and followed Roarke to the small room outside the bedroom. A couch was pushed up against the wall, and there was a minibar behind a counter. He led her to the couch and sat.
She sank into the cushion next to him, drawing her knees to her chest. “I can’t thank you enough. I know this is risky. To be honest, I didn’t even realize the magnitude of what asking you for help entailed.”
He rested his palm on her knee and gently squeezed, urging her to look at him. The overhead light illuminated the chiseled lines of his face. He’d changed in the last six years, was even more ruggedly sexy, if that was possible.
The familiar striations in his eyes, the solid structure of his cheekbones, and the stubble of his jaw stirred awareness and yearning inside of her.
Awareness of the man she’d known for most of her life and had needed so much since being away from home. Yearning for a simpler time.
And something else. A pull that she couldn’t explain. It came from deep in her chest.
“I don’t care about that,” he said tersely. “I’ve done far worse. Just not with a woman and child in tow.”
She rested her hand on top of Roarke’s. Her skin was so pale against his. “You rescued us. After the way I treated you, I didn’t deserve you coming to my aid.”
He brought his fingers to her hijab. Moving slowly, and carefully avoiding her wound, he gently unwound the material from her hair.
“Shit got weird between us that Christmas and I shouldn’t have let it.” Regret ravaged his voice.
Her throat tightened. This was what she’d been afraid of—not of getting involved with Roarke, but of his conscience getting in the way.
He set her hijab on the arm of the couch.
She caught his face in her hands. “You did nothing wrong.”
God, it felt so good to touch him. His cheeks were warm beneath her palms, his bristles rough and tempting. She wanted to press against him, to have his lips on hers and to forget how badly they’d fucked up.
But the hard glint in his eyes made her freeze.
He circled his fingers around her wrist. “I told Ollie I’d protect you and I didn’t. Look what happened.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I fell for Cameron and ignored the red flags along the way. That wasn’t your fault.”
He lowered his focus to the couch. He had the kind of thick, dark eyelashes every woman wanted for herself.
She stroked his cheek with her thumb. “Ollie’s death wasn’t your fault any more than my falling for Cameron was.”
“No,” he drawled, his gaze averted. “But if I hadn’t fucking run after that kiss ... well, maybe I would’ve met Cameron, or at least known who you were dating. I could’ve learned about him and prevented all this.”
A weight pulled at her heart. She shook her head. “Even if I could go back, I’d still choose to be with Cameron.”
Roarke flinched, and he pulled away from her hold. “You still love him?”
Tears misted her eyes. She shook her head. “I’m not sure I ever did. I didn’t know him like I thought. But he gave me Emmy, and I’d relive every beating from him if it meant I’d end up with her again.”
Roarke straightened, inhaling deeply. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
She caught his hand and held it between them, hyperaware of the fact she didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want to stop touching him. “I’m sorry for blowing you off in London.”
