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The first night they’d slept together, she’d known it would be this way. Their desire would tangle them and bind them, but her self-respect would suffer. And he had said then that her self-respect was her own problem. He had washed his hands of any notion of caring about her self-opinion or regard.
She moved like a ghost into the room they’d shared, and opened the palatial closet. As she reached for a cardigan to pull on, her eyes were drawn to a familiar image and with a sense of sadness, she moved her hands to it instead.
The BFG. It had been discarded carelessly, perhaps when they’d first arrived from London, and he hadn’t bothered to open it once. She ran her finger over the familiar cover with its archetypal Quentin Blake illustration and frowned. It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet somehow it was the ultimate clue that he didn’t care for her. Did he?
Finn didn’t find the decision easy, but she did find it. Finally. With hands that shook, she packed, simply to pass the time. She couldn’t leave without speaking to him, but leave she must. Only one sentence would entice her to say: one statement. Three small words that her heart needed and body craved more, even, than his.
Did he love her?
Did he feel for her what she did for him?
That would keep her by his side.
Otherwise, this was futile.
Her heart was torn in shreds, and yet she waited.
She didn’t watch television or use her phone. She couldn’t do anything but stare out of the window and wait. Imagining that they had been together for the last time filled her with a bitterness that would surely make her back away from her intention if she weren’t very, very brave.
And so she slid herself into a sort of emotional stasis and stared, unseeing, at the glorious patchwork of lives below, unfolding first in the winter’s afternoon and then the night. Lights glistened and shimmered beneath her, forming a sparkling network of life, and still Finn waited.
It was the stroke of midnight when he returned.
He’d loosened his tie at some point and it hung around his neck like two snakes. His hair was dishevelled as though he’d been running his fingers through it. Or perhaps another woman had. Marlena? Her stomach rolled.
Soon it wouldn’t be her problem.
She couldn’t live with that fear.
It wasn’t Seraphina’s way.
He walked into the dimly lit lounge without any expectation of seeing her. That much was obvious from the way he slid his shoes from his feet and then shrugged out of his jacket. He placed it carelessly over the back of a chair then planted his hands on his hips and began to stare, as she had, at the view of Manhattan.
Finn saw then that he had a weight on his own shoulders. A burden he was trying to ease, if only the answer could be found through the window.
Finn blinked. Could she really do this? She sucked in a deep breath, hoping she’d find courage in it.
His eyes chased the slight, small sound. Proof of her presence. He pinned her easily, standing in the darkest corner, her arms wrapped around her slender waist. “Jesus, Finn. You scared the shit out of me.”
She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a pale sweater. Her feet weren’t bare. A frown tugged at his lips. “Have you bee
n out?”
She shook her head slowly. “No.” Another breath, seeking strength. “I … I need to speak with you.”
Caradoc’s day had been a success. The fruits of a long, hard two years had finally ripened. And all he’d been able to think about was this woman. This enchanting, distracting, far-too-desirable Seraphina.
“Sure.” He didn’t want to talk, though. He wanted to feel. He wanted to hold her. To breathe in her scent and taste her sweet lips.
The moonlight was casting a silver glow over his face. It made him look half angelic, half cast from stone and ice. A perfect analogy for this man, capable of such passion and such coolness at the same time.
She blinked her eyes closed, and her lashes formed two perfect black fans across her soft creamy skin. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”
The air crackled between them. Silence was caustic. It eroded her hopes and dreams, and left only despair and certainty in its place. He didn’t love her. And this, therefore, was over.
“You … what? Why are you telling me this?”
His words rang with derision. His voice was sharp. His tone, if anything, offended.
