He chuckles at my comment. “There is nothing princely about me.” His brow arches into his dark, luxurious hair.
I shrug. He may not be a prince charming, but not every girl wants a prince. Some want a brainy geek; some want a rock star, and others want an alpha male who makes them scream his name at the top of their lungs while the most earth-shattering climax rips through their body so hard they see nothing but fireworks exploding before their eyes.
Feeling my composure waving, I question, “How long have you lived here?”
I occasionally need to rein in my desires and participate in other activities with Isaac that don’t involve sex. He places my hand within his and walk us toward the curved glass French doors at the front of the mansion.
“I’ve owned this house for nearly three years.” He stops his long strides when he reaches the front door and pivots around to face me. “This is my private residence.”
My heart warms, loving that he is inviting me into his private sanctuary.
“I don’t think you fully understand what I'm saying. This is myprivateresidence. I don’t let anyone come here. Hugo has only been here a handful of times.”
Oh.
“Anything you hear or see behind these doors has to stay behind these doors.” He motions his head to the front door. “I share enough of my private life with the public. I’m not willing to give them any more of myself than I already do.”
“I understand.” A broad smile spreads across my face making my cheeks ache.
He shifts his head to the side, and his brow bows high into his hairline, as if to ask why I’m grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
“Youlikeme.” I overemphasize the word “like.”
He shakes his head at my bold comment, but the smallest curve of his lips reveals his true reply. My heart skips a beat when he walks us through the front door, not attempting to refute my claim.Yes!
The inside of Isaac’s house is just as spectacular as the outside with beautiful antique furniture, rich and luxurious material draped over arched French doors, and even priceless paintings and sculptures adorning the walls of each room. My impromptu private tour of his private oasis ends in his impressively large black and cherry oak kitchen. Releasing my hand, he strides toward the refrigerator.
“What do you feel like eating for supper?”
Snubbing my grumbling stomach, I reply, “You.”
Isaac’s head pops out of the fridge. Tremors shake through me when his sultry eyes absorb my body. My pulse quickens when he murmurs, “You’ll be dessert, but first, I need to feed you so you can keep up with my stamina.”
I chew my bottom lip, lessening the intense fire building in my womb. Isaac winks before returning his attention to the refrigerator.
“Being Saturday, our options are limited. So it is either Catherine’s lasagne or chicken parmigiana,” he offers.
My lips purse as I struggle to work out which meal sounds more enticing. My brain is in such a lust-filled fog, I can’t decide which I'd rather eat.
Sensing my reluctance, Isaac makes the decision on my behalf. “Lasagne it is.”
My eyes track him as he places two containers of lasagne inside a convection oven. After hitting the reheat button, he walks to an overhead cupboard located above a wine fridge and pulls down two china plates. He places them on the island bench on my left before proceeding toward a stack of drawers next to the double sink to remove a pair of cutlery. Even watching him do something as simple as setting the table is an exhilarating experience.
Once he has the island bench set for an intimate dinner for two, he motions for me to join him. A girlie squeal spills from my lips when he lifts me to sit on a high-backed breakfast stool. Flashbacks of him doing the same thing six months ago in the business class lounge come rushing to the forefront of my mind.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask, my tone apprehensive.
Isaac freezes for the quickest second before replying, “Can we have dinner before the interrogation begins?”
I remain quiet while watching him remove his jacket and sling it on the beautiful wooden bench. Once he has his cufflinks undone, his eyes lift to mine. Our gazes lock and hold for several electrifying minutes. There’s no doubting the sexual connection between us, but there is also something much greater drawing us to each other.
I grin when he asks, “What do you want to know?”
“What did you think when I tumbled at your feet at the airport?”
Relief washes over his face before he smirks. “You continue to surprise me every day, Isabelle.”
“Why, what type of question were you expecting?” I’m equally confused and intrigued.
