Page 38 of Heated
Sighing, I study the gorgeous home sitting on the corner lot. When I initially drove up to the address Val gave me, surprise winged through me as I pulled up to the house. From Cyrus’s picture and the little bit of information Val had provided about him, I’d assumed he’d live in a luxurious condominium or townhome. Definitely not this beautiful single-family home in an immaculate residential neighborhood that screamed carpools, PTA, and door-to-door trick-or-treating. Okay, so carpools in Lexuses and PTA meetings at exclusive private schools with tuition more expensive than some colleges, but hey, still family oriented.
Like I did weeks ago, I can’t help but admire the white limestone exterior made up of slopes, angles, and arches. To the right, glass nearly encompasses an entire wall, providing a glimpse of a gorgeous winding staircase. A private walled space curves around one side of the house, and a garage occupies the other. So much house for one man. But maybe he bought it soon after meeting Val, planning on filling it with a family ...
No, that doesn’t sit right. I’ve known Cyrus for only a very short amount of time, but he doesn’t really come across as the Taj Mahal type. Prenup, yes. And Val ... well, while this house is stunning, I can’t see it being quite palatial enough.
While I’m still scrutinizing the home and motives of the owner, the front door swings open, and said owner stands in the opening.
It’s just not fair, dammit. He’s as beautiful in his don’t-look-directly-at-the-sun-or-risk-your-vision way as he’s ever been. Possibly even more so in a thin but obviously expensive gray sweater, a white T-shirt, and faded blue jeans with frayed hems.
I swear there’s going to come a day when my belly doesn’t make a fast break for my feet when I catch sight of him. Or my heart doesn’tthrow itself against my sternum like a groupie at a rock concert with just a glimpse of that wicked, lush mouth and its slightly cruel edge. Or my sex won’t quiver like a virgin with the vapors at the glimpse of her first bare male chest.
Apparently, lust transforms me into the queen of metaphors.
He continues to silently stand in the doorway, a hand palming each side of the frame, and his gaze trails over me. It requires the strength of Hercules not to fidget. Not to pat my hair as that inspection glances over my bun or tug my long cardigan sweater closed over my black tank top. When he returns to my face, every part of me tingles from the visual caress of his narrow-eyed study. Hell, even my knees, bared by the rips in my black jeans, prickle with sensitivity.
Whew, boy. Whatever this evening entails, it’s going to be long.
“So do I require a password to gain entrance to the house?”
He doesn’t reply to my snarky question, but if I’m not mistaken, the corner of his mouth twitches. I can’t confirm as he steps back inside the house, silently granting me permission to enter. Inhaling a deep breath, I move forward.
“Shit,” I breathe, pausing in the foyer next to a floating staircase and in front of a spacious living room that flows into a dining room with a masterpiece of a chandelier and continues on to what appears to be a minilibrary or reading nook, complete with a comfy chair and upholstered window seat.
At least ten-foot ceilings soar high above me, and church organs and pipes wouldn’t be out of place. Another stunning chandelier hangs above my head, and to my right on the far wall loom a stone fireplace and mantel.
It’s a combination of modern and classic styles. Elegance and comfort. Luxury and coziness.
It’s gorgeous.
Cyrus glances over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry.” I cough. “Nothing.”
He scans my face for a long moment, then finally turns back around. And I release my pent-up breath.
“I wouldn’t say my house is shit.Theshit, maybe.”
I scowl at his wide shoulders. Damn the man and his bat ears.
Seconds later, he leads me to what can only be described as a man cave. But with roid rage. Of course, the requisite theater-size mounted television, entertainment center, and huge sectional that stretches half the length of the room. But a fully stocked wet bar and a refrigerator claim one wall, actual eighties’ arcade games another. Gaming chairs, consoles, and another huge screen take up a corner in the back of the room.
Even Levi couldn’t find fault with this room. Shoot, he might hole up in here for life and bar anyone from entering.
“Your home is amazing,” I say, spinning in a half circle.
Curiosity still dogs me about why he needs all this house. The question leaps on my tongue like a kid in a bouncy castle. But I quell it. Asking him personal questions means opening the door for him to pose those same inquiries to me. And I can’t allow that to happen.
A sour swill curdles in my stomach, inching toward the back of my throat.
His terms had included complete honesty, no lies. I’d violated that stipulation even before I’d agreed to his deal. Not in words, no. But in my silence. In my complicit agreement to his assumptions. I can mitigate my dishonesty only by not lyingmore. It’s the only out he’s left me.
Because not agreeing to this arrangement wasn’t—and isn’t—an option. Not only because Cyrus nailed it—my own guilt wouldn’t allow me to walk away. And it’s silly, really; this is my job. But being behind the desk allows me distance. And there’s no point in denying to myself what I can’t—absolutely refuse—to admit to anyone else. None of my other clients stirred this ... connection, this draw that I have toward Cyrus.
Then there’s the other side of him ...
I don’t doubt for a moment that Cyrus, with his eyes that can go from summer sky to winter storm in seconds, could be ruthless if the situation called for it. I could easily attribute it to the nature of his career, but ... I don’t know. It seems deeper than that. As if the profession grants him the freedom to use what’s already inside him and excel in it. And though he didn’t confirm that he would tell Val that I had fucked up in breaking up with him, he hadn’t denied it either. I have to do whatever it takes to keep my name out of his mouth when it comes to Valerie Summers. Because if he discovers I’ve been lying to him about my job, about my very identity, I have zero doubts I will see that other side of him.
The thought of that ruthlessness sends a shimmer of anxiety rippling down my spine. But quick on its heels is a current of that excitement from earlier. I need my head examined. And apparently my vagina too. Is a pussy psychologist a thing? If not, it needs to be.
