What was to his mind a practical option, his mother saw as some sort of inability to put down roots. Everyone, she claimed, needed a home. When he pointed out that he owned a tropical beach house and a mountain cabin, she pointed out that, no matter how picturesque it was, a place without road access and a half-day trek to reach it, or one that involved stilts and was only accessible by boat, could only be called homes by someone who was running away.
She didn’t specify from what, and she was, as he had told her, over-exaggerating the situation. His choice not to buy a more traditional property was a purely practical solution. Why buy somewhere that would be empty most of the year when you could keep luxury suites where all your needs were catered for in several cities without the bother of maintenance or staff?
‘You live in hotels?’
He’d encountered reactions to his lifestyle before, but not like the sympathy he saw in her face.
‘It gets a bit boring, doesn’t it?’
‘You have lived in hotels?’
Marisa nodded. ‘I’ve lived in lots of different places. My dad travelled and I travelled with him. There was one time when he had his credit card refused at the—’ She caught sight of Roman’s concerned expression and stopped. ‘Sometimes we travelled first class and sometimes... Well, Dad was always generous even when he had no money and he had friends who were equally generous with their sofas and floors.’
‘That must have been...worrying for you.’
‘Not for him.’ He’d always said he didn’t need to worry because she did it for him. ‘He always saw the bright side of life.’
‘And you?’
‘I didn’t mind not having money sometimes. The posh hotels were nice but the novelty of on-tap room service and every whim catered for fades.’ Instead, she had longed for the familiarity of a room and belongings that were all her own. ‘It must have been fun for you and your brother growing up here.’ Unaware of the wistful envy in her voice, she imagined two boys having a ball exploring a place that likely as not boasted secret rooms and, on first appearances, dungeons.
‘It had its moments.’
A rather cryptic non-answer, she thought.
The information he’d offered about his parents’ marriage and the heavy hints that his relationship with his father had not been very healthy would explain the conflicting emotions she saw on his face before his mask slid back into place.
‘I think a home is people, not a place,’ she mused half to herself. Jamie was her home and she was his.
‘Are you offering to be my home? A roof over my head, my harbour in a storm...?’
His pointed sarcasm brought a flush to her cheeks and an unexpected knife thrust of pain to the region where her heart lived. ‘No, of course not. I just meant—’ A flustered hand pressed to her chest as though she expected to see blood seeping through her fingers and she stopped babbling; she had no idea what she meant.
The sardonic glitter faded from his eyes. ‘I don’t like to stay in one place for too long.’
Was he talking about a place or people? she wondered. Had the hinted-at bad memories from his childhood prevented him from putting down roots? Or was his comment shorthand for his preference for one-night stands and temporary affairs? Just the idea added nausea to her physical symptoms.
‘We could not be more different, then,’ she said quietly. ‘But then I’m a mother and a child needs stability, routine—’ She stopped, realising she’d started out talking about Jamie but what she actually meant was herself. They were the things that she craved.
‘I’m a father,’ he cut in harshly.
Unable to react to his brusque interruption or protest his interpretation of her comment, because he had virtually thrown himself out of the car door in his haste to get away from her, she opened the passenger door. Exiting the car with less fluid grace than Roman, she turned and found herself thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder with him.
She took an involuntary step backwards and mumbled, ‘S-sorry,’ to his chest. She would have taken a second distancing step back but with no warning his hand shot out, his fingers curling around her upper arm.
Heart pounding, her face lifted slowly to his, and she heard the breath snag in his throat as desire and longing twisted and expanded inside her chest.
Trapped as much by the desire coursing in a hot stream through her body as the hypnotic pull of his obsidian stare, she stood there quivering—aching. She had never reacted to any man this way, any man but Roman. He seemed to have direct access to a part of her that scared her.
A part of her that didn’t recognise common sense or self-preservation, a part of her that didn’t care about consequences.
The combination of passion and fear reflected in the golden pools of her eyes should have made Roman step back but he found himself stepping closer instead, pushing his body into hers as his hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her against him until their bodies were sealed hip to hip.
He saw the moment she felt the carnal imprint of his erection, her pupils dilated and he heard the throaty little gasp that left her parted lips.
He could feel a growl in his throat as he bent his head lower towards her plump, trembling lips, his blood heating as he thought of plunging his tongue past them and tasting the moist warmth of her mouth.
‘Oh, my God, what was that?’
Startled, he dropped his hand from her waist as she turned around, her wide fearful eyes scanning the darkness above their heads where moments before a ghostly apparition, a flash of white, and the beating of wings had disturbed the silence.
‘An owl hunting.’
A predator, Marisa thought, looking straight at another predator, all six feet four inches of him standing there, his chest heaving as he dragged air into his lungs like a drowning
