Listed: Volume III (12 page)

So
Emily was having dinner with them, and Paul was in the library trying to work.

He’d
just hit send on his fourteen-trillionth email that day when someone knocked on
the library door.

“Hi,
Tim,” Paul said when he saw one of his bodyguard. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,
sir,” Tim said. “Ruth just arrived, and she wanted to unpack your luggage. She
was wondering where to put everything.”

“The
master bedroom.” Paul raised his eyebrows as he spoke, since his staff didn’t usually
trouble him with unnecessary inquiries like this.

Tim
shifted from foot to foot, looking strangely awkward for such a stoic, beefy
man. “And Mrs. Marino’s luggage?” he prompted.

Enlightenment
dawned as Paul realized what they needed to know. In the apartment, he and
Emily had separate rooms, although she’d been sleeping in his bed every night
for more than a week. Ruth obviously wasn’t sure whether her stuff should go in
the master bedroom with Paul's or in one of the guest rooms.

Paul
thought quickly. It would make the most sense to keep their normal arrangement,
but the master bedroom in this house was in a wing of its own. The guestrooms
were all on the opposite side of the big, sprawling house, which would mean
Emily would have to traipse through long stretches of hallway to get to his
room to sleep at night. Or she would have to just sleep in her own bed.

“You
can put her stuff in my room too. Thanks.”

Tim
nodded, not conveying any reaction on his impassive countenance. “Thank you,
sir.” He left Paul alone in the library.

Paul
told himself it was silly to go through the pretense of separate rooms if Emily
continued wanting to sleep with him every night. They might as well just share
the room here.

If,
for some reason, she didn’t like that arrangement, they could move her stuff to
one of the guest rooms before she went to bed tonight.

With
that issue resolved in his mind, he tried to focus on work again. He’d managed
to reply to and delete the last of his emails when he saw a new one come in. It
was a daily update from one of the public relations people at Simone’s on what
was being said online about the Marinos or the company.

This
update was longer than normal, with half of the news stories and blog posts being
about the conviction of Vincent Marino and the other half being about Paul’s
marriage to a dying teenage girl.

Most
of the stories about his marriage in the last few days had run a now notorious
photograph of him nearly kissing Emily in the ice skating rink.

They
hadn’t known anyone had recognized them and snapped the picture that afternoon
until it appeared in the local paper the following day.

In
the photograph, Paul’s arms were wrapped around Emily with a kind of intimate
entitlement, and she was pressing herself against him, her face turned up for
his kiss. His head was tilted down toward her, an expression on his face that
had encouraged the stories of tragic romance that were going around the gossip
circuits. An expression that made Paul extremely uncomfortable.

He
wasn’t embarrassed exactly, but that expression seemed to reveal certain things
about him that he’d prefer to not be shared with the world at large.

The
photographer had caught him in the moment before the kiss, but he would rather
the picture have been his kissing Emily for real. At least that would be
physical. The photo as it was conveyed something more emotional than physical.

It
made him cringe every time he looked at it, overwhelmed with an appalling
feeling of being completely exposed.

Emily
had taken the picture in stride, quipping that her only problem with it was
that her ass looked way too big.

Her
ass hadn’t looked too big. She’d looked curvy, feminine, and vulnerable somehow
with her blonde ponytail and hands clutching at his shirt as she waited for his
kiss.

If
Emily wasn’t worried by the photo, then Paul shouldn’t be either. But it seemed
ridiculous and offensive that so many people thought they had a right to know
and discuss what he did with his own wife on a random Saturday afternoon.

He
stopped scanning through the links in the email since they only served to annoy
him more.

It
took a while, but he managed to focus on his work again, and he was surprised
by Emily’s voice from the doorway sometime later.

“You’re
back early,” he said, smiling in response to her friendly greeting.

She
frowned. “It’s almost ten.”

“Is
it?” He glanced over at the panel of windows and was surprised to see that they
were no longer lit by the sun. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah.
It was pretty good.” She’d walked into the library. She was dressed casually in
jeans and a black top and she looked a little tired, a little pale.

“Are
you sure? They treated you well, didn’t they?”

She
smiled at him, almost fondly. “Of course, they did. They’re good people. It was
nice. It was really nice to see them again.” She paused and slanted him a
diffident look. “You could have come too, you know.”

“I
know. I had a lot of work to do.”

“Okay.
But…”

“But
what?”

“I
just wanted to make sure you know that I would have been happy if you’d come
with me.”

Paul
wasn’t sure what to say in response, so he just said, “Thank you.”

“Did
you get a lot of work done?”

“Yes.
I’m mostly caught up now.”

She
peered around, evidently taking note of the empty coffee cup on the desk. “Did
you eat anything for dinner besides coffee?”

Paul
rubbed a hand through his hair and tried to remember. “I guess so. I must have
had something.”

Emily
rolled her eyes but didn’t pursue the matter.  “Well, I’m kind of tired. I’m
going to take a bath and go to bed.”

“Okay.”
Then realizing he’d better explain their sleeping situation, he added casually,
“I had them put your stuff in the master bedroom, if that’s okay.”

“That’s
fine.” She exhaled visibly. “It’s kind of strange to be back in the neighborhood,
isn’t it?”

“Yeah,”
he agreed, gazing around the familiar room and trying to feel like he was at
home here again. He’d been raised in this house.

“It
seems like ages ago now,” she added.

It
did seem like ages ago—endless, aching miles. “It hasn’t really been that
long.”

“Yeah.
I guess.” She gave him a tired smile and turned to leave. “Don’t work too
late.”

Paul
wasn’t planning to work very late, and he hurried through the rest of the things
he needed to finish this evening.

About
ten minutes later, someone brought up a sandwich for him, explaining that Mrs. Marino
had made it clear that he was supposed to eat it since he hadn’t had dinner.

So
he ate the sandwich as he finished up.

*
* *

Emily was still in the
bath when he came into the bedroom almost an hour later. She’d either taken a
particularly long soak, or she hadn’t started immediately after she’d left him.

It
wasn’t even eleven yet, but Paul was feeling tired and decided that going to
bed a little early wasn’t a bad idea.

He
looked around the bedroom. The large, four-poster bed was beautifully made up
with elegant bedding. There was a Renaissance tapestry on one wall, and a huge,
Edwardian, gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall above the dresser.

He
took off his shoes, socks and belt and glanced over at the closed door that led
into the connecting bathroom. When Emily came out, he would need to take a
shower and not just because he’d had a long day.

It
was getting harder and harder for him to keep his feelings for and responses to
her under control. Telling himself rational truths about her age, her illness,
and the shortness of their marriage didn’t seem to work like it used to. He
used to have strong defenses against the temptation she posed to him, but his
defenses were getting more and more battered.

It
felt like Emily was
his
.

And
Paul wanted to make her
his
all the way.

He’d
reached behind his back to grab a fistful of his t-shirt to pull it off when
Emily came out of the bathroom.

“Hey,”
she said, “Did you eat?”

“I
ate. I didn’t dare risk your wrath otherwise.” He dropped his arm and turned
around to look at her as he spoke with a teasing quirk of his mouth.

She
was laughing softly at his comment, and her blond hair was hanging in pretty
waves around her shoulders, but she wasn’t wearing any of her normal pajamas.

She
wore a little nightgown. It was simple and casual—made of gray cotton knit with
thin straps. Its only ornamentation was a slim ribbon that tied just under her
breasts, but the simple silhouette flattered her small, lush figure, and the
flutter of the fabric around her thighs made him gulp.

There
was no way to mistake the gown for an attempt to be seductive or tempting. It
was just as casual as most of the other nightwear she wore.

But
it worked on Paul anyway. His body immediately tightened at the sight of her,
and he felt an almost painful tug of desire at his groin.

Afraid
she would recognize his reaction, he turned around to face the dresser. He took
off his watch and set it down, mostly for something to do.

“I’m
not really very wrathful, you know,” she said, responding to the earlier
comment he’d almost forgotten. She obviously had no idea how absolutely
irresistible he was finding her at the moment. “At least, as long as you do
what you’re supposed to do.”

He
gave a huff of amusement, since he knew that was the appropriate response. He
was having a world of trouble not leering at her reflection in the wall mirror.

“Sorry
I took so long in the bathroom,” she said, “Were you waiting long?”

“No.”
His voice was too hoarse, but he couldn’t seem to clear it. “I just got up
here.” To give credence to his words, he grabbed the back of his shirt again
and this time actually pulled it off over his head. He opened a drawer to find
a pair of pajama pants to wear to bed.

Emily’s
breath hitched audibly. “Oh, Paul,” she murmured, the words almost a caress.

He
looked at her over his shoulder in confusion before he remembered it was safer
not to look at her at the moment.

“Your
back,” she explained, obviously reading his puzzled expression. She walked over
until she was standing behind him. “I’d forgotten how awful those scars are.”

He
swallowed and looked down into his drawer again. “You see me without a shirt
every night.”

“But
you’re always in bed already, and it’s dark.” She reached out and lightly
touched his shoulder, tracing the line of what he knew was a scar.

He
hated those scars on his back. They reminded him of his father, and he knew
he’d have them for life. “Probably better not to spend much time staring at
them,” he muttered, self-conscious about Emily’s eyes on his mangled back.

In
general, his body was nothing to sneer at, and he’d been working out a lot
lately so his muscle development was even better than normal. But naturally
Emily would be diverted to the ugliest part of his anatomy.

Emily
gently stroked another scar, her fingertips light, soft, triggering nerve
endings that made Paul’s body tighten with even more carnal interest.

He
was about to pull away. It was like the last time she saw his scars in New
York—his physical response mingling with his emotional response to her deep
sympathy and then leading to the utter undoing of his control. He just couldn’t
risk it. Not when they were sharing a room, sharing a bed. Not when she was
looking like that.

But
Emily was still caressing his back, gliding her fingers over the sensitive skin
and scar tissue, arousing him deeply. His partial erection hardened so quickly
it hurt. “I’m so sorry he did this to you, Paul. I can’t stand that he did this
to you.”

Paul
lowered his head, closed his eyes, clenched his hands around the edge of the
drawer as a last ditch effort to maintain control. He wanted her compassion,
her understanding, her tenderness—as much as he wanted her body.

And
the fact that all of that—all of
her
—was just behind him, reaching out,
caressing him, was almost more than he could resist.

His
arousal throbbed painfully in his trousers, and he felt his face break out in a
sweat.

He
was actually shaking with the restraint it took for him to hold himself back
from grabbing her, kissing her, carrying her over to their bed so he could
slake his need in her at last.

“Emily,”
he said, his voice noticeably thick. “Emily, please don’t.”

Her
hand dropped. “What’s wrong?”

He
couldn’t move, couldn’t let go of the drawer, or he would let go completely. He
felt her eyes on him intently. She might be inexperienced, but she wasn’t a
fool. He didn’t think it was possible for him to hide his response from her.