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Elizabeth knew she’d never find out.
“Now can we discuss what happens when those feelings end?”
“You’re like a terrier with a rat, aren’t you? Pursuing the thing past the point of exhaustion.”
She regarded him, unaffected by his mockery. “Something like that.”
“Do you want me to be the villain?”
She wasn’t completely sure if he was the hero, but he’d been placed in the role of bad guy far too often.
“Since the engagement is supposed to repair your reputation,” she said, “that would be counterproductive. Can’t we mutually decide it’s not going to work?”
“I really think it would be better if you broke my heart.” Roark took her hand and placed it on his chest.
Her emotions tumbled as his heart thumped hypnotically against her palm. “And why is that?”
“Because I don’t want to ever hurt you.”
The tone of the conversation had gone from flirtatious to serious so fast it took her brain a second to catch up.
“That’s chivalrous of you.” She tugged to free her hand, but not hard enough to break his grip.
His fingertips trailed along her cheek, setting her skin ablaze. “I mean it.”
“I know you do,” she assured him, pulling his hand from her face. “But you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be just fine.”
* * *
Roark stood in the middle of his living room and marveled. Chased out at eight that morning b
y the phalanx of workers that had descended on the loft, he’d stayed away until he could no longer bear the curiosity.
In seven hours, Elizabeth had transformed the monochromatic, sterile space into a Moroccan dream. Using the room’s height, she’d fashioned a tent of sorts. Gold-shot, jewel-bright fabric, attached to the ceiling and walls, masked the room’s industrial feel. She’d removed his white couches and replaced them with chaise lounges. A hundred pillows, all different sizes and colors, covered the plush oriental rugs. Three large punched-metal lamps hung down the center of the room, spilling soft light over the décor.
At the center of all the decadent color and texture stood Elizabeth, classically elegant in a simple navy pantsuit, her hair smoothed into her signature French roll, as she directed last-minute touches of lavish flower arrangements and bowls of apples, dragon fruit, mangos and star fruit.
The urge to ease her down onto a spill of floor pillows and mess up her perfection overtook him. In fact, he took three steps in her direction before he awoke to the realization that they were not alone in his loft. His intention must have been written all over his face because a slim brunette in her mid-thirties stared at him with wide eyes.
“Hello,” he said, reeling in his lust. “I’m Roark Black.”
“S-Sara Martin. I’m helping Elizabeth with your event.”
At the sound of her name, Elizabeth turned and noticed him for the first time. Her serene satisfaction, so dissimilar to the chaotic emotions thundering through his body, increased his craving for her.
“What do you think?” Elizabeth questioned, obviously pleased by the results she’d achieved. “Hard to believe it’s a loft in Soho, isn’t it?”
The longing to feel a smidgeon of her delight caught him off guard. That whole stop-and-smell-the-roses thing had never been on his agenda. He’d jumped from one adventure to another without pause, almost as if he was running from something. What? Boredom? Loneliness?
What had he gained from his travels except for questions about his character and a bunch of trinkets?
“You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“I hope your friends think so.” The tiniest flicker of uncertainty clouded her deep blue eyes.
“They will love it.” And her. Conscious of their audience, he stepped into her space and felt her muscles tense. “Relax,” he murmured. “Everyone is going to know about us after tonight.”
“I know.” She lifted her chin and gave him a wobbly smile.
