away from the vision of her moist pink tongue sliding over her full lower lip, darting to the corners of her mouth. “For chasing you out of your bed last night.”
Yes, she was to blame. But not in the way she thought. He raked his hand through his wet black hair, then shoved his coffee cup toward her on the table.
“More,” he growled. Then at her expression, he amended, “If you please.”
She poured steaming coffee from the silver coffeepot, looking impossibly lovely and old-fashioned. She was the kind of woman, Xerxes thought, that any man would want to come home to. She was the kind of woman who made a home.
Christ, what was he thinking? First he’d had images of her pregnant, now he was having ideas of coming home to her? He took another burning gulp of steaming hot coffee.
He was meant to be alone. He clenched his fingers over the china cup. He always had been and always would be. Hadn’t he learned that by now?
“Would you care for jam on your toast?” she asked him, holding out a tray with a smile.
“I want it plain.” Taking the closest piece, he shoved it into his mouth. He barely tasted it as he ripped through it with his teeth and gulped it down, wolflike.
An awkward silence fell between them. The only sound was the caw of seagulls and the pounding surf.
“So.” She took a deep breath. “Have you heard from Lars?”
“No,” he bit out. It reminded him that now he would have to trade Rose to the bastard as planned, because he hadn’t found Laetitia on his own. Once again, he’d been too late to reach her. Too late and too slow. And so he’d have to trade.
At the thought of giving Rose to any other man, Xerxes was so enraged he wanted to punch a wall. Instead, he shoved another piece of toast into his mouth.
“You must be starving,” she murmured, trying not to stare.
Xerxes wiped his mouth with his hand, staring back at her. At the pulse of her swanlike neck. At the shape of her breasts beneath the thin eyelet lace cover-up. At the curve of her slender waist. From this close space, he could smell the scent of her, like flowers and sunshine. Her hair was long and golden and wavy. Natural. As if she’d just come from making love.
As if, instead of taking a shower, he’d cleared the breakfast table with a rough swing of his arm. As if he’d ripped off her clothes and thrown her against the bare table, kissing her neck as he thrust himself inside her.
He had to resist. For once in his life, he had to do the right thing for someone else. He couldn’t seduce a woman like Rose, knowing that it would ultimately hurt her—knowing he’d still be forced to trade her back to Växborg like a used toy.
He had to resist. But still, even knowing this, his body shuddered with the effort it took not to seize her and take her like an animal, right there on the table. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to put down the remaining bits of toast he hadn’t devoured. Forcing himself to pretend, for just an instant, that he was a civilized man.
“Växborg is in Las Vegas. He will contact me as soon as the divorce is final,” he ground out. “I expect within days.”
She blinked. “A divorce can go through so fast? Even in Las Vegas?”
“An uncontested divorce in Las Vegas usually takes about two weeks. I’m using my influence to make it go more smoothly.”
“How?”
“My people are persuading every office to make this case a priority and move it to the top of the pile. It’s not difficult.”
“Of course it’s not—for you.” Looking away, she took a small sip of her creamy coffee, holding the delicate cup with light grace. “You must be desperate to see her.”
Desperate was the right word, but he did not wish to be reminded of his latest failure. “And you?” he said bitterly. “Are you desperate to be back in Växborg’s arms?”
She whirled back toward him, her blue-green eyes widening in shock. “You know I am not!”
He knew that, but Rose believed the best of people. Could she, in time, grow to forgive the baron as well? The thought made him cruel.
“You should know,” he said brutally, “that you were not the first woman he took as his lover since his marriage.”
She licked her lips. “I wasn’t?”
“He’s had five or six.”
She set her coffee cup down on the table with a trembling hand. “You must think I’m the biggest idiot in the world,” she whispered, blinking fast. “Believing Lars would actually marry anybody like me.”
Staring at her, Xerxes abruptly grabbed both of her hands in his own. The sizzle of her soft touch, of her fingers against his rough palm, was torture. Ignoring the pain of his own longing, he looked into her beautiful face.
“Anybody? You weren’t just anybody. You were the special one.” His fingers tightened over hers as he whispered, “You were the only one he wanted to keep.”
As if his touch burned her, she ripped her hands from his grasp, looking away.
“I still don’t understand what he was doing in San Francisco when we met. He told me that he’d been looking for business opportunities—” she gave a small laugh “—but I’ve never seen him work.”
Xerxes set his jaw, fighting the fury that threatened to choke him at the memory. “There’s a medical clinic an hour east of San Francisco, the best brain trauma hospital in the world. At first I thought he’d taken Laetitia there. Instead, he dumped her at an old cabin in the mountains before he went to San Francisco to try to put her family’s mansion up for sale.”
Rose blinked. “A cabin?”
“It’s old and desolate. No electricity. No running water.” Grimly, he looked away. “When I arrived, I found dying embers in the fireplace, a new blanket on the floor, an open bag of potato chips in the kitchen. But Laetitia was gone. Since then, I’ve chased rumors of her around the world, looking in one desolate clinic after another, trying to find her before Lars finally gets his wish and she dies.”
“I still can’t believe he would be so cruel.”
“You can’t?” He gave a hard, ugly laugh. “Love brings out the worst kind of self-deception.”
Rose’s turquoise eyes looked close to tears as she sucked in her breath. “You can’t still think I love him!”
He shrugged.
“What happened to you?” she said softly. “What made you so hard and cynical?”
“I just know that when people think they’re in love—” he couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice “—they’re usually lying. Either to others, or to themselves.”
She blinked at him. “And yet you say you love her.”
Clenching
