Her skin was so soft against his palm and he could still taste her in his mouth, and he was so hard he hurt. And he didn’t know why he was talking to her when all he wanted to do was fuck her. But it felt like understanding her was more important. More important than anything.
He’d never felt this way about another human being before and he wasn’t sure he liked it. No, scratch that, he fucking hated it. But hating it didn’t stop the feeling inside him or the need. As if she was a strange and unknown country he was desperate to explore every inch of.
There was a look in her eyes that he couldn’t decipher, though it had a soft element to it that he felt like a caress. “There’s nothing much to know,” she said after a moment. “I’m just an English girl who fell in love with an American and came to live in New York. Full stop.”
“No, there’s more than that.” He knew that much. He could sense it. “Why did you come here?”
She opened her mouth and her stomach rumbled, making her blush suddenly.
Of course. Dinner. She needed to eat.
He pushed himself away from her, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Tell me while I organize James to heat up the dinner.” He didn’t wait for her to respond, typing in a quick message to James to come and collect the plates. Then he turned back to her and slid an arm around her waist, drawing her away from the door and over to the couch.
She went with him without protest, leaning into him, which he liked. And when he sat down on the couch and pulled her down beside him, she didn’t resist.
Keeping an arm around her waist, he reached out to the bottle of wine he had brought up with the dinner and poured a glass. Then he sat back, tucking her in close to his body, because he wanted the warmth of her right next to him, and handed her the glass of wine. “Talk,” he ordered. “Why did you come to New York? Why didn’t you want to stay in London?”
Phoebe settled against him, nursing her wine glass. “Charles’s work was important, and he didn’t want to leave New York. And I thought I needed to get out of London for a bit.”
There was a slight catch in her voice. He stared down at her face, trying to work out whether it was pain he saw there or something else. “Why?”
She sighed. “My parents. My father is very . . . exacting, shall we say, and my mother is a bit of a basket case. She needs a lot of emotional support—which Dad doesn’t do—and so I had to provide it for her. It’s fine, I don’t mind doing that, but it got a little draining. So when Charles asked me to come to New York with him, I said yes.”
“That seems like a good plan.”
Phoebe took a sip of the wine, her gaze directed at the glass. “Yes, but Mum was very upset and Dad was angry. He wanted me to stay and look after her. According to him, he could never get anything done while she was around because she was so demanding.”
“But you didn’t stay.”
“No. I needed . . . a break. But I still get constant calls from both of them. Dad keeps wanting me to come home and so does Mum, for different reasons.” She took another sip of wine. “They don’t actually want to see me, though. They just want me to be around to make their lives easier.” Her expression twisted all of a sudden. “That doesn’t sound very grateful, does it?”
He didn’t like the bitter note in her voice, the echo of pain. It felt painful to him, too. Tightening his arm around her, he tucked her even closer, finding somehow that holding her helped. “Why should you be grateful?” he said roughly. “They sound like assholes.”
She gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “They’re not that bad.”
He disagreed, though he only said, “Don’t you have any brothers or sisters to help?”
“No. I’m . . . I want to say I’m an only child, but I’m sort of not.”
“What does that mean?”
“I had a sister, Lily, but she died before I was born. She had leukemia. My mother had me pretty soon after Lily died, and she didn’t have any more kids, so it’s only me.” She paused, swirling the wine around in her glass, and he had the feeling she was going to say something important so he stayed quiet, watching her pale face. “Mum told me that she had me to fill the gap left by Lily’s death, because she needed something to love. But Dad didn’t want another child. He’d never got over Lily’s death and was angry with Mum for getting pregnant with me.”
Nero felt all his muscles tightening. “Did he . . . do anything to you?”
Phoebe glanced at him in surprise. “Do anything to me? Who? Dad?”
“Yes.” He knew asking the question had given something away, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know. Fathers could be assholes, and he suddenly found the thought of Phoebe’s father hurting her absolutely impossible.
“What do you mean do anything?” There was a faint crease between her brows.
Ah, fuck, he shouldn’t have asked the question. Especially when it was clear now that Phoebe’s father hadn’t hit her or abused her or any of the other terrible things fathers did to their children. Because if he had, she wouldn’t have needed to ask what he meant.
“Did he get angry with you?” Nero asked instead, hoping like hell Phoebe wouldn’t have picked up on his tension.
Phoebe glanced down at her wine again. “Oh, Dad was always angry. He liked things done a certain way, and he didn’t like fuss, didn’t like emotional displays. Which meant my mother was constantly disappointing him.” There was another pause. “I think I constantly disappointed him, too. Actually, no. He would have had to care about me in order to find me disappointing, and I don’t think he cared enough. I wasn’t Lily, and the most important thing about me was that I deal with Mum so he didn’t have to.”
Again, that bitter note in her voice. It hurt her that her father didn’t care.
“That upsets you,” he said carefully, watching her expression.
She tilted her head, looking up at him. “Of course, it upsets me. I mean, I’ve come to expect it now, but still . . .” She lifted one shoulder. “They’re my parents. And you can’t help hoping for more from them.”
She said it like it was obvious, something that everyone knew. Except he didn’t. It had become clear early on to him that he could never expect anything from his parents. His mother hadn’t been able to leave his stepfather because of her debts. And his real father . . . Fuck, his father hadn’t even acknowledged his existence until Nero had been discovered and the media went apeshit, forcing Cesare into a response.
Nero hadn’t been upset by that. His mother had no money and needed his stepfather to help her, and as for his actual father, well sure, he was angry that the guy had known about him yet hadn’t ever come looking for him. But he wasn’t upset. And he certainly didn’t hope for more because what more was there?
Phoebe’s forehead creased. “You do know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do,” he lied, irritated with himself that he didn’t understand. “But you shouldn’t care about what they think. Why should you when they don’t care about you?”
Her gaze dropped to her glass again. “Mum kept telling me I wasn’t a replacement for Lily. But sometimes, when she was very upset, she’d drop comments along the lines of how I’d never take her place or why couldn’t I be more like her? Or how much better everything would be if she was alive today . . .” Phoebe stopped. “Is our dinner coming soon, do you think?”
It was a blatant change of subject but this time Nero knew why. This whole conversation was upsetting her. She loved her parents, that was obvious, and it was just as obvious that they didn’t deserve her love. They’d lost a child, but even so, they had a child right in front of them. A generous, warm, giving child who from the sounds of it only wanted to make them happy.
And they’d ignored her.
Anger coiled tight inside him, and he found himself reaching for the glass in her hand, taking it from her, and putting it on the coffee table. Then he took her face between his hands, turning her resolutely back to him and looking into her lovely brown eyes. He didn’t know what to say to her, but he had to say something. “They don’t deserve you,” he said fiercely. “Not your mother or your father. No, you weren’t the daughter they lost, but you’re still their daughter. They shouldn’t have said those things to you. They shouldn’t have hurt you.”
She blinked. “I’m not hurt.”
“You are. I can see it in your face.” And he could. It was obvious to him now. Just like it was obvious that she was trying to hide it. “And I think you don’t want to care, but you do.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed, her gaze flickering away from his before coming back. “It’s silly,” she said thickly. “I shouldn’t let it get to me. Lily was my sister, and of course my parents loved her. Of course, they grieved over her. But . . .” She trailed off.
“But you wish they saw you, not her,” he finished.
Those lovely eyes of hers came sharply back to his, and she just looked at him in silence for a long moment. And he saw, with a sudden jolt, the glint of tears. “Yes.” Her voice was little more than a scrape. “That’s exactly what I wish.”
His chest tightened, and he wanted to say something more, something that would make it better, take away her tears. Because Phoebe crying felt wrong on just about every level there was. But he couldn’t think of the right thing. He’d never had to comfort anyone before, and he didn’t know how to do it.
So all he said was “I see you, Phoebe. I see you.”
A tear slipped out and slid down her cheek, and he thought maybe he’d said the wrong thing. But then she rose up and kissed him, warm and open-mouthed and sweet. And he thought that maybe he hadn’t said the wrong thing after all.
At that moment, James arrived with apologies for being late, not that Nero had noticed, bustling in through the doorway to collect the plates with the cold food on them, and Phoebe pulled abruptly away, flushing bright red and obviously embarrassed to be caught kissing him.
Nero didn’t give a shit. He pulled her into his arms, holding her there as James moved about, gathering the plates before leaving the room. If the old man had noticed Nero holding her, he gave no sign. Which was exactly what Nero paid him for.
“You shouldn’t do that,” Phoebe said, even as the resistance bled out of her and she relaxed against his chest. “It’s not a good look for me to be seen like this with you.”
“James doesn’t care, and, anyway, I pay him to be discreet.”
Nero had never held anyone before, not like this, and he decided he very much liked it. Having her warmth and her soft weight against him made him feel like a lion with a kill. Christ, if anyone tried to take her away from him, he’d probably bite their head off.
“You’re my boss, though.”
“Yeah, and?” He tightened his arms around her. “Tell me more about you.”
She put her head against his shoulder, the red-gold silk of her hair trailing all over his white shirt like spilled brandy, angling her face so she was looking up at him. “I think I’ve said quite enough about me. Do I get to hear why you lit all the candles in here and got the chef to make my favorite dinner?”
It pleased him that she’d noticed. “Because I thought you might like them, that’s all.”
Her mouth curved. “I do like them. How did you know the steak was my favorite?”
“It wasn’t hard. I asked the chef.”
“And the candles? I hope James didn’t have to go far for them.”
Something about the sentence jolted him. The assumption that he’d sent James rather than getting them himself, maybe?
You couldn’t have gotten them yourself. And she knows that.
“James does what I pay him to do.” The words came out as a growl.
Phoebe’s gaze flickered.
There was a moment’s silence.
Then she said, very carefully, “You always get other people to get things for you, don’t you?”
Something unsettled twisted inside him. “I’m very busy.” He couldn’t keep the slight edge from his voice. “I don’t have time to do a lot of things myself.”
“Of course.” She looked down at his chest and put her hand on it, stroking him with her thumb through the cotton of his shirt, the way she had earlier that day. Soothing him. “Did you think about going to look for me? This afternoon, I mean.”
“I was just about to send James around the hospitals, so yes.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her lashes rose, her clear gaze looking into his. “I mean, did you think about going to look for me.”
He didn’t quite understand what she was getting at. “What do you mean?”
“You were worried about me.” She said it like it was a fact. “But you didn’t go out to look yourself.”
A cold sliver of awareness slid down his spine, but he resolutely ignored it. “I wasn’t worried.”
“Then why were you so angry?”
“Because I couldn’t get hold of you.” The words sounded hollow for some reason, which made him irritable. “And I’m paying you to be available 24/7. I don’t like wasting my money.”
Her attention remained on his chest, her hair a curtain around her lovely face. “So that’s all I am to you? A waste of money?”
“No, that’s not what I said.” He scowled and tightened his arm around her, pressing her more firmly too him. “I don’t like not getting what I want when I want it, especially when I’m paying for it. And you weren’t there where I wanted you.”
She didn’t say anything, only nodded her head as if accepting this.
His irritation deepened, though he wasn’t sure why. “What are you trying to say, Phoebe?”
There was another moment of silence
“You see me, Nero. But . . .” She lifted her head and looked at him. “I don’t see you. And I’d like to.”
The unsettled feeling wound deeper, the awareness he tried never, ever to think about, shifting inside him. “But you do.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me about you, Nero.” The stroking thumb paused. “Tell me why you can’t walk down your hallway without breaking into a sweat. Tell me why you never leave your house.”
* * *
Phoebe’s heart was beating very fast and she knew as soon as she’d said the words, she shouldn’t have. Because the expression on Nero’s face abruptly hardened, every muscle in his body tensing.
You’re an idiot. You shouldn’t have opened your stupid mouth.
No and now she’d destroyed this moment. A moment that had turned out to be the last thing she’d expected when she’d walked through the door of her sitting room to find Nero standing by the window.
She’d never spoken to anyone about her parents, about Lily and her fears that she was only ever a poor substitute for the daughter they’d lost. She hadn’t even realized it herself until she’d told Nero. She still wasn’t sure why she had, either. He’d been looking at her with those dark eyes, his focus so intense, as if what she said mattered to him very much. And it had just come out.
She’d felt ridiculous afterward, preparing herself for him not to understand, because there seemed to be so much that he didn’t. Yet he’d taken her face in his hands and told her he saw her.
How he’d managed to say the very thing she needed to hear, she had no idea. But he did. And she knew it for truth, because he was the only person who didn’t see her as anything else but herself. Yes, she was his assistant, but the way he looked at her, the way he studied her, made her feel as if he saw past the cool, calm facade she put on for everyone else. Saw the woman she was behind that. A flawed woman, it was true, as needy as her mother in some ways, and yet that didn’t seem to bother Nero. He even seemed to like it.
That made her feel good. Made the absence of Charles, the silence in her life after the accident, less acute. And it made her feel connected to someone in a way she never had.
But she wanted it to go both ways. If he saw her, she wanted to see him. See below the surface of his power, his energy, his charisma. His arrogance and his apparent selfishness. Because that wasn’t all he was. A truly selfish man wouldn’t want to understand. He wouldn’t ask her about her life and say things to her that made her heart feel tight. He certainly wouldn’t have gotten her dinner and lit candles for her.
He seemed broken, and yet there were hints that he wasn’t quite as broken as he appeared. And she wanted to know why. She wanted to know what had happened to him, what had led him to this point. To living in four rooms of a huge house, surrounded by paintings and photographs of landscapes. To not stepping outside his home for ten years.
Nero looked away from her as James abruptly appeared in the doorway, bringing with him the same meal, only this time it was hot. Reflexively, she tried to put some distance between her and Nero, but the arm around her didn’t move, holding her securely against him. She had no choice but to relax against his big, hard body as James fussed around with the meal.
She didn’t look at Nero, but then she didn’t have to. She could feel the tension in him. The topic of conversation was very obviously not to his liking.
Maybe she should let it go. It had been a long time since she’d eaten dinner with someone, a long time since she’d been held in someone’s arms outside a bedroom, and that felt good, too. She and Nero hadn’t had any opportunity for plain old conversation, and she liked the thought of sitting here with him, talking as they ate dinner together.
James topped up the wine glasses, made last-minute adjustments to the plates, and then left the room.
A deep silence fell.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Phoebe murmured, wanting to keep hold of the moment, not shatter it. “It’s none of my business.”
Nero removed his arm from around her waist and sat forward on the couch, pulling the plates toward them and dealing with the napkins. He remained silent.
So he didn’t want to continue the conversation. Well, she couldn’t force him. Sure, she’d told him all about her issues, but that had been her choice. She hadn’t had to do that.
“I already told you I don’t like people,” he said unexpectedly. “And I prefer not to have to go out if I don’t need to.” He glanced over his shoulder at her suddenly, giving her a challenging stare. “It’s no big deal.”
He hadn’t denied it. Which meant . . . the rumors were true. Not that it was any big shock to her. She’d seen the sweat on his brow, heard the rapid sound of his breathing in the hallway, felt how cold his fingers had been in hers. She’d guessed already.
He hadn’t been outside for ten years, and, worse than that, he now lived in four small rooms in his giant house.
But he’s here, now, in your sitting room. He came for you.
Warmth moved through her, deep and slow, though she tried not to let him see it as she held his ferocious black stare. He didn’t want her to see his weakness, that much was clear. He was a wounded animal, trying to protect himself.
“Okay,” she said easily. “It’s no big deal.”
His gaze narrowed, as if she’d disagreed with him. “It’s not.” There was a note of warning in his rough voice, a note of anger. As if she was touching on something exquisitely painful.
Phoebe swallowed, a subtle pain spreading out inside her. It wasn’t right that this intense, vital man hadn’t stepped outside once in ten years. Had difficulty even leaving his office. Why? What had happened to him? He didn’t look like he’d be afraid of anything or anyone and yet . . . Was it agoraphobia? Or was it something else? What had triggered it? Had he ever had anyone treat him for it?
Nero turned away again, back to the food on the coffee table, giving her his broad, muscular back. And Phoebe’s chest grew so tight she almost couldn’t breathe.
He was a beast, this man. A lion. Terrifying in his strength and power. But he had a thorn deep inside him and it was hurting him, she could see that now. He had retreated to his lair to nurse the wound, but it wasn’t getting better. Whatever was hurting him was stuck inside and he couldn’t get it out, and now his life was growing around that thorn, curled in on itself, becoming stunted.
Tears started in her eyes, which was insane since she hardly ever cried. She’d only shed tears for Charles, and yet now she was crying for Nero, because she could see the similarity between the two of them. Nero, like Charles, was trapped. Not in his own body, but in his house. He was shut away from the world, from sunlight and laughter and love. Shut away from everything that made life worth living. And what made it worse was that he’d chosen this. For reasons she’d couldn’t even begin to guess at, Nero had walked into this house, closed the front door, and had never come out again.
Her heart squeezed tight, and she tried to blink away the tears, because she didn’t want him to see them. But she couldn’t not do something for him, so she reached out and placed her palm in the center of his back, between his shoulder blades, and rested it there. His muscles shifted beneath her palm, stiffening.
He didn’t want her to acknowledge his pain, and she knew that if she did, if she broached the topic again or asked him any questions, he’d probably get up and leave the room.
She didn’t want that. She wanted to have this quiet moment with him instead. She wanted to have him hold her, to feel someone’s arms around her. To be reminded of what it was like to feel safe and protected, to be supported instead of being the one who always did the supporting.
Yes, the lion was hurting, she knew that. But if she wanted to be Androcles and extract the thorn, she was going to have to wait until the right moment.
That moment wasn’t now.
She slid her hand up his back and threaded her fingers through the silky black hair that brushed over his collar, instead. “Can you pass me my knife and fork?” she asked. “I’m starving.”