Page 17 of Prelude To You

“You know what will make me happy.”

We’d had this conversation so many times before, the same words and the same tone more or less, and it frustrated us both, albeit for different reasons. If only Sergei knew how much I wanted to fall in love with him, and feel for him the same raging desire that Stranger had awakened in me.

“I’d better go,” I said shutting down the chat. “I have to get up early.”

Sergei rose with a gracious, fluid movement, and held out his hand to help me up. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Pauline watching us curiously. I pulled my hand from Sergei’s.

“Let me take you home,” he said.

“I’m fine. I need the walk. Besides you have a pretty girl to charm.”

“No one is prettier than you.”

I gave Sergei a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks, making a big show of the casual friendship for Pauline’s benefit.

As I walked to the exit, I shared a quick smile with her. She nodded back at me. She was different from the normal girls Sergei bedded, and I wished he would fall in love with her because she was clearly besotted with him.

I was hoping the walk home would put the final nail in the kiss coffin, but my hopes were dashed the second my mind wandered back to the damn bookshop. My fatigue was defeated by a surge of new thoughts that had nowhere to go. Even if I did find out who Stranger was, what was I supposed to do with that information?

He walked away.

That was it. There was no option other than to wait patiently for this madness to pass. One thing I’d learned was that time held the cure for everything in life that didn’t go as planned. How long it would take for this feeling to dissipate was anyone’s guess. But hope sprang eternal.

At home in the shower, I turned down the hot water, hoping the cold water would put out the fire still raging through my veins. Meg hammered on the bathroom door and yelled through the door. “Exactly how long do you need to shower? I think you’re clean now.”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I yelled back, hoping that by morning and some miracle, I’d have forgotten all about Stranger and could go on with my life.

5

ROMAN

Tonight I’d bury myself in work. Sleep was out of the question. Every time I closed my eyes I saw The Dancer, got a whiff of her scent, tasted the sweetness on her tongue and felt every dip and curve of her body molding perfectly into mine.

I stopped short of imagining her without her clothes, because that would send me down a path of reckless thoughts.

To expel her from my mind was not just necessary but essential. There was no denying that something much stronger than my will was at play here. It was such a freakish and isolated incident. Dominating my thoughts, interfering with my business and my sleep.

Not that I was much of a sleeper, but at this point I didn’t need anything distracting me from the business. Even so, the harder I pledged to banish all visions of The Dancer, the more they plagued me.

For a man who’d successfully hidden any and all emotion behind a rigid mask of controlled composure, it was a puzzling feeling to encounter someone capable of causing even the smallest fracture in that mask. A fracture through whichfeelings could escape. A fracture that desperately needed to be cauterized, before it grew bigger.

I poured a glass of whiskey. I preferred Glenmorangie Signet, chilled with two stainless steel whiskey stones. The stones allowed the whiskey to cool to the same room temperature found in the castles where the Scottish kings enjoyed theirs. There were few things I indulged in with no apologies. Great whiskey was one of them.

I put on Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2, Second Movement, and paced the length of my office. It was my sanctuary in this house, and the place where I spent most of my time.

On my twenty-first birthday, these vast rooms on the first and second floors became mine to transform as I pleased. Since I knew I’d spend the rest of my life here, I decided to make the room on the first floor my office. A place that gave me the comfort that my work itself didn’t always afford me.

One entire wall was exposed brick, and French windows overlooked the front terrace and the North Atlantic. The massive circular desk was African Blackwood, and even in this vast room, it occupied centerstage. The wide Chesterfield couch, where I took much-needed naps during many working days and nights, was the same one my grandfather once had in his office.

Overstuffed club chairs flanked the Art Nouveau tile fireplace, and ancientkilimrugs added warm colors to the office. When pacing the room, which I did often, I sometimes wondered about the people who’d made these incredible rugs with their intricate and colorful designs.

I was pacing tonight, but not with those thoughts milling through my mind. As the haunting notes of Rachmaninov filled the air, I was instead transported back to the bookshop. And all I could do was replay the scene in my head. There was that first moment The Dancer floated in, seeming to walk on air.

And when she pressed her nose against the glass door where the first editions were kept. Her surprise when the cabinet door popped open made me smile all over again. If she’d left the bookshop at that moment, I would have remembered her for her loveliness and nothing more.

But then I discovered she was a smartass with unparalleled nerve—a complete contradiction to the graceful, delicate creature I first observed in that dreadful coat.

I drank some whiskey, closed my eyes and allowed the flavor to suffuse my palate. All I could see were those two big emerald eyes staring up at me and those full pouty lips, soft and inviting. I gave her the choice, to kiss or not to kiss. The challenge in her gaze told me everything I wanted to know.

---