‘It is a marriage of...of convenience. There is no... We are not...’ Crazy, considering what they had shared, she’d blushed before adding with husky self-consciousness ‘...intimate.’
‘Then what the hell are you?’
‘We are just friends,’ she’d said softly. ‘And I respect him more than any other person I know. I owe him so much and I won’t leave him...’
Roman had done a quick translation.
‘You mean you married him for his money! Well, sweetheart, you should have waited, because if that is what attracts you to men, I’ve got a lot more.’
She’d flinched but then continued quietly, ‘I’ve hurt you and I’m so very sorry... I shouldn’t have done any of this. It’s all my fault and I know I wish I could go back and undo it...’
Roman caught another glimpse of his face in the mirror, seeing something in the eyes that looked back at him that he hadn’t seen in a long time. It belonged to the days, weeks and months when he had been chained to the memories of being with her. He had finally escaped those memories, although it had meant reinventing himself, and he would not be going back except to claim his son.
What are you going to do with him when you’ve got him, Roman, or doesn’t it matter so long as she doesn’t have him?
Tuning out the sardonic voice in his head, he lifted a hand to his jaw, grimacing as he dragged it down over the rough three-day growth.
The self-mocking grin that tugged up the corners of his mouth only served to increase the look of bad-boy smouldering menace. It was a look that would open more than a few doors, but it wasn’t bedrooms Roman was interested in right now.
Beneath the thick mat of stubble the slight cleft in his square chin deepened as he imagined the reaction if he strode into the foyer of the hotel where Marisa was staying.
He narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer, touching his hair-roughened cheek and jaw again. The bottom line was, he looked like a hardened bastard with trouble written all over him, which was an effective look most of the time considering the sort of action-man hero with emotional issues that he wrote about.
It was less good when you wanted doors to open in the world in which Marisa moved, when you wanted people to look at you and see responsible good father material.
A good father... Would he be one? Was he capable of it?
His brother had a child and he did not seem to be afraid of fatherhood or of repeating the mistakes of their own father. Then again, his twin was not like their father at all. Not like Roman was.
Had there been a particular moment when he had realised that the things he hated about his father were actually there inside himself? Roman wasn’t sure; he just knew that having a child was a risk he had not been willing to take.
Jaw clenched, he forcibly silenced the voices of doubt in his head that were alien to his nature. True, there were times when he could have reeled off a list of reasons why fatherhood was not a path he intended to take, but he knew that there was no point doing that now. Events had moved on and this was no a longer a choice that was his to make.
Hands flat on the tiled vanity surface, he surveyed his face carefully before reaching into a drawer and pulling out a cellophane-wrapped disposable razor. He needed to get into role because although in a perfect world appearances didn’t count, in the real world they counted big-time.
After viewing his jaw from several angles he set to work. It took two razors but five minutes later he was moderately pleased with the close shave he had achieved. No way was he tackling his own hair; instead he would rely on the products he had no doubt his brother kept on board to tame it after he showered.
He walked through to the bedroom, opening one of the built-in wardrobes, not surprised when he discovered that conveniently his twin was still in the habit of keeping several changes of clothes on board.
He ignored the section devoted to casual wear, his long fingers flicking through the suits and shirts section before finally selecting a pale shirt still with the discreet designer tag attached, and a grey suit. He looked at the ties, lifting a hand to his neck with a grimace, imagining the confining tightness.
‘Thank you, brother,’ he said, a grim smile flashing as he threw the selection on the freshly made-up bed. The underwear in the drawers were all still in their wrappings and a moment later boxers and socks joined the suit, shirt and tie.
Compact but luxuriously appointed, the bathroom had a decent-sized shower that ran the entire width of one side of the compartment. Stripping off the clothes he’d been wearing for thirty-six hours straight, he let them fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.
He might not hit the gym the way he used to when he was working in an office, but his life for the past few years had involved enough physical activity to compensate for this lack.
Both brothers had always been competitive but, while Rio used to excel at team sports, Roman, not a natural team player, had gravitated in the direction of solo extreme sports where he was competing against himself, pushing his body to the limit, solo sailing, running, gymnastics and his lasting passion—rock climbing.
He’d discovered that solo climbing complemented his lifestyle as a writer; when his head was crowded with imaginary characters and convoluted plots he found climbing was the perfect way to switch off—and it had the added benefit of keeping him extremely fit too.
Fifteen minutes later he stood suited and booted before the mirror once again. It was amazing what a shave could achieve, he decided, and the slicked-back hair created a transformation so
