Love Entwined (32 page)

“You are a delicacy.” He rooted deeper and her legs fell wide.

“Roman…” she grabbed him, lifting her knees trying to pull him into her.

When he finally rammed into her she gasped, “God, yes…” She wrapped her legs around him and let him take her away from her fears and the stalking terror that surrounded them.

They strained against each other, her hips gyrating to his driving rhythm.

He rode her hard and fast.

She gripped his buttocks, writhing against him in release.

With a savage grunt, he followed her. She clung to him, her face buried in the slick curve of his neck as he ground her into the bed.

* * * *

Amelie sighed and leaned her head against Roman’s chest as he washed her hair. Her eyes closed as she listened to the soothing cascade of water that came down all around them from magical little spigots in the shower ceiling.

“I have a confession to make. I came to New York to bring you to England.”

“Are you just realizing that now?” she asked.

He stopped massaging her scalp. “I mean when we first met.”

“
Oui, monsieur
, you brought me to Yorkshire so you could have your way with me. Are you ashamed of yourself?” She turned in his arms to face him.

“I can’t say that I am. That would be a bare-faced lie.” He wiped an apple-scented foaming glob of shampoo off her cheek.

She kissed his dimples. “Naughty boy.”

“When I saw your designs in a catalog I thought you were copying the Cardiff collection. I was coming to expose you. I am sorry, my love.”

“I am not sorry,
mon cœur
, for it brought you to me.” She kissed him. “Roman, I was different as the High Priestess. I was a witch, with powers. I was able to move things, and he and I…we read each other’s minds.”

He grinned, but she shook her head. “I’ve tried but I can’t read your mind. If I could, I would have known you love me and I would never have left. Thank God, my soul chose to deny what I was in that life, but what if he still has his powers? I am weaker than he is. He knows this.”

“You are not the blood-thirsty sorceress anymore, but you are still the Artisan. Emil needed you to create the designs. Do you remember what you did to create the designs?”

“That’s what I don’t understand…I didn’t do anything special. Jacqueline told me to remember, but I really don’t. My powers are gone and I think they have been for centuries.”

“And yet Emil needed you.” He took her hands and clasped them in his. “He needed a true artisan’s hands. Don’t worry, we’ll get this person.”

She nodded. He was just trying to put her at ease, but she was done with such grim talk. She needed his soothing touch. She took up a bar of soap and lathered his chest in slow, beguiling motions. But that did not last very long.

When he picked her up and speared her, she wrapped her legs around him and held on. He moved her up and down and she felt every hard, ridged inch of him as her muscles pulled him in. The warm water made them slippery smooth, chest-to-chest, hip to thigh, bringing them both to a searing release, locked against each other in ecstasy.

* * * *

That evening after Terrence’s jazz band performed, they went to
il Ducato.
The waiter seated them in a private balcony with soft lighting and Mozart playing over the speakers.

After the waiter took their order, Amelie pulled her chair closer to Roman’s. “I treat myself to dinner here every time I complete an especially harrowing project. You must taste the tiramisu. It melts in your mouth.”

“Amelie, I thought that was you.” The blonde man dressed in a tux stood near their table. His black eyes flickered to Amelie’s hand, which rested on Roman’s.

“Nigel! I missed you at the office today. Do you know Roman Cardiff?”

Nigel extended his hand for the greeting. “We haven’t met, but it is a pleasure.”

“Nigel is the head of the marketing department at Penrods,” she said.

“Would you like to join us for dinner, Nigel?” he asked.

“That is kind of you, but I am waiting for my party to arrive. I just wanted to say hello.”

“Well, then, you have a few minutes,” Amelie said hopefully. “I want to tell Roman what a lifesaver you were on the campaign we completed before I left for England.”

Nigel sat down opposite him. “I do not want to disturb your dinner.” A waiter came by and Nigel ordered a drink. “That campaign was all your idea. I just added a catchy phrase or two.”

She chuckled. “Those catchy phrases led to a spot on national television featuring my designs for
Pandora’s Box
.”

Roman leaned over to kiss her. “Ah, Beauty, I should have known that was you.”

Nigel picked up his Scotch in a silent toast. “But it was the jewels that got her no less than two covers on
Pandora’s Box.
That was our little darling’s work, not mine.”

It wasn’t the pet name Nigel called Amelie that got to him. It was the note of regret in the man’s tone. He wondered what place regret had in this past successful venture.

Nigel’s glance met his. “Well, this must be the celebratory dinner. Is your work completed, then?”

“No, we have many things to cover yet. I am afraid our little darling will be busy for some time to come. With me. In England.” Roman picked up her hand and kissed it.

Amelie’s cheeks had turned a dusky hue. She cleared her throat and still Roman waited as Nigel’s expression tightened at the sapphire and diamond engagement ring on her finger. The man’s black eyes darkened as he stared at Roman.

Until now, they had kept their relationship a secret from her co-workers; that is what she wanted. Roman had gone along with it, but the time had come to end the farce. He loved Amelie and a traitorous part of him wanted to broadcast that fact on network television. To Nigel.

He was also rankled by the fact that this man, who had spent so much time working with Amelie, knew of her personal indulgence to treat herself to dinner at
il Ducato
. Did she and Nigel have dinner together?

Nigel finally broke eye contact.

Amelie’s glance swung back and forth between the two of them. “Tell me about the Sweet Life campaign. Have you and Dora come to blows yet?”

Roman leaned back in his chair and lifted one corner of his mouth in semblance of the reassuring smile she seemed to be looking for.

“Oh, I just follow the golden rule; whatever Dora wants, Dora gets,” Nigel said.

That made Amelie laugh, a carefree breeze, which fanned his ire in Nigel’s direction.

“Dora took over a project I was working on.” Her warm breath brushed his ear, making him a feel a bit more civilized.

“We finished early, as a matter of fact. With her browbeating me, we managed it all before she went to London,” Nigel said.

“Dora was in London? When?” Amelie asked.

“Some weeks ago, I think. Took off to see her granddad. Sick. He won’t last much longer, I hear.”

“That is terrible,” she murmured. “I thought Dora was from New York.”

“Dora was raised here. It is where she fell in love with fashion.” Nigel’s saccharine grin disgusted him. It was as contrived as the highbrow accent he could not manage under stress.

In that moment, Roman knew all he needed to know about the man. The Black Country dialect had shone through in Nigel’s last mocking word: fashion. English Midlanders garbled the
sh
so the word became “fa-yan.”

Nigel had done very well for himself in life. However he had escaped the inner city of his coal-mining ancestors, Nigel had maneuvered his way into society’s higher circles, had probably even studied at a very fine university.

“Well, your dinner is on the way and I must go.” Nigel stood. “Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Yes. See you tomorrow.” Her smile was overdone as he and Nigel ignored one another. Nigel moved through the crowd.

“Well, he’s certainly gagging for it.”

“Nigel? I am not his type,” she chuckled, shaking her head.

“Tell him that.”

“It is just that he’s taken me under his wing, like a big brother. He is a strange combination of gentleman and cynic. His tongue has a wicked edge that grows on you. I see him with someone more sophisticated than me.”

He barked out a laugh, and she glanced at the couple at the nearest table who watched them. “Ah, that is what he loves about you, Beauty, your naivety. It inspires him.” When she did not respond to the jab, he caught her hand. “What’s the matter?”

“Dora was in England when I had the accident. She hates me.”

“I’ll see what I can find out about her,” he said, even though he thought it unlikely that Dora was responsible for what had happened to Amelie.

No, whoever it was had to be a very skilled intruder to get on his property unannounced. Planning a trap like that would have taken some time.

Besides, he never brought women home. His employees knew that and would be wary of one showing up on the doorstep without him. Unless that woman was Amelie.

Amelie was the first and the last.

“Didn’t he say he was waiting on someone?” he asked. She looked up at him. “Your marketing beau, he just left the restaurant.”

New York City – May 15, 1988

“Leaving?” Harold Jarvis was staring at the check Roman had just handed him.

“My resignation is effective immediately.” Amelie sat next to Roman on the Burberry divan.

She tried in vain to curb the excitement in her voice. It just occurred to her that Harold would not consider this pleasurable news. The head of design looked as if he had been duped.

Roman was paying off the Penrods contract so that she would be free.

Free.

Just a few months ago, that word had not been a part of her vocabulary. Now that word meant love, collaboration, and a whimsical manor in Yorkshire with its own matriarchal ghost. It was Jacqueline’s manor after all, built in her name.

“Please accept our invitation to the wedding,” she added in a small voice this side of guilt.

“Wedding?” Harold peered at her over his spectacles. “Well, I must say this is quite a surprise. Amelie, I thought you…” Harold pointed at Roman, but stopped just short of accusing her of hating one of Penrods best clients.

She smiled to herself as he closed his mouth and adjusted his bowtie. She felt more than saw that Roman was ready to respond. He was like a warm tide swelling against her at the provocation in Harold’s tone. He truly was a damned CEO, but she wanted to handle this and put a hand on his knee to silence him.

“We know this must be a shock to you, Harold. Our actions were a bit misleading,” she said. “We will be getting married in England.”

“Yes, well, I had no idea.” Harold said. “You have quite a following here, you know. We hate to lose you, Amelie.”

“That is kind of you to say, Harold.” She glanced at Roman, feeling the excitement bubbling up again. “But we have a few ideas for a collection of our own.”

Roman stood and helped Amelie up from the divan. “Someone will come by for Amelie’s things later.” He was walking out the door when she grabbed his hand. He came to a halt, but just barely.

She turned back to the head of design. “Harold, thank you.”

“For what?” Harold asked.

“For insisting I take the Cardiff project.” She waved goodbye as Roman led her out of the office.

* * * *

Central Park’s trees swirled like waves on an emerald ocean. Birds called to one another and flitted from branch to branch in a mating ritual on the isle of Manhattan’s orderly tree-lined avenues.

Amelie and Roman were just as busy inside Madison Avenue Towers, packing up her apartment. The task would have to be done at some point, and since they were in New York, now was as good a time as any.

She suspected Roman did not want her having any second thoughts about returning to England. He need not have worried. Of all the things she had loved about living in the city, it was her work at Penrods that kept her there.

Now she had Roman and their work together, and Penrods was just no comparison to creating what you loved most with the one you loved.

Besides the designs, they were about to embark on their own investigation. While Chief Bryant and his team handled the criminal aspect, she and Roman would investigate the other less human possibilities. Upon their return to England, they would do their own research to find out who or what wanted them dead and why, and hoped to beat the killer at this game.

When they finished packing, there was a pile of suitcases and garment bags in the center of the living room floor. A few sentimental pieces of furniture she was taking with her, but everything else would be sold. St. Clair Manor had all that she wanted in the way of furnishings. It was as if the home had been decorated to her taste and she loved it. Amelie said her goodbyes to the security guard after the moving company picked up everything to be shipped to England.

“You will take good care of Ms. Laurent, won’t you, sir?” the guard asked.

Roman gave a curt nod, meeting Amelie’s eyes. “I will guard her with my life.” With a suitcase under each arm, he went out to the waiting limo.

Amelie kissed the red-faced guard on the cheek. She hadn’t really known anyone else in the building, what with the hours she kept. She had lived at work and was always coming or going. “We will send you the wedding photos. I will miss you. What is the word of the day?”

“There is only one word for a day like today, Ms. Laurent, L-O-V-E.”

A tortuous squeal of tires outside lifted the hair on her neck.

In tune to the frenetic city, she turned in slow motion, drawn to the impending crash that sound denoted.

When it came, it was the most terrifying crush of finality she had ever heard. The crunch of metal upon metal rang in her ears like a never-ending death knell, dulling her other senses and blinding her with fear.

When it was over, Amelie was clutching the edge of the granite counter. She unfurled her fingers and listened to terrifying silence after that devastating crash.

The guard sprinted past her, faster than she had ever seen the middle-aged man move.