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All thoughts ceased when she pressed a button for a lift and they stepped into it. A delicate scent assailed his nostrils and he didn’t hesitate to breathe it in. To infuse his senses with it. Hunger was clawing its way through his veins when the doors slid open and she hurried out, her own nostrils flaring delicately as if she’d been unable to help herself but to breathe him in too.
Forcing himself to concentrate, he dragged his gaze from the bouncy pertness of her ass, still enshrouded in that peculiar green sequin, and glanced around the space he purportedly owned.
The muted shades of rich dark wood and gold trimming and cream tiles followed them everywhere. It pleased and soothed, the theme striking a note of satisfaction that compelled him to believe he’d chosen this decor himself. He must have if he’d named the yacht after his mother.
‘My parents,’ he asked abruptly, his senses skittering in a different, urgent direction, a part of him shamed that he hadn’t thought to enquire until now. ‘Are they alive?’
She stumbled, then froze. The eyes that darted to his held an even greater measure of apprehension.
Just what the hell was going on?
Before he could grit that question out, her eyes shadowed, then dropped to the floor. Even before she spoke his gut was clenched against what he suspected would be unwelcome news.
‘I’m sorry. They’re not. Your father died about twenty years ago and your mother not long after that.’
Shards of loss cut through him. He breathed through it, his senses suddenly frantic for more information. ‘Any other relatives I should know about? Sisters? Brothers?’ His gaze dropped to her belly and an astonishing spear of yearning dug deep into him. ‘Do we have children, Imogen?’
Her green eyes shadowed in shock. She swallowed and again shook her head. ‘No, we don’t. And...you’re an only child so no siblings. You have a few very distant relatives working for you at Diamandis but, from what I see, you’re not close to any of them.’
Not close to his relatives.
No best friends or even close friends.
No parents.
The hollow in his gut expanded. Before he could come within a whisker of feeling sorry for himself, he suppressed the emotion. Just how he was adept at doing so, he refused to examine in that moment.
‘So you’re my only close attachment?’
Her eyes flew to his. Widened. As if it hadn’t occurred to her. Then her head jerked forward, threatening once again to dislodge the bun at her nape. ‘I guess so.’
As he absorbed the information, she grew restless again, her arm sweeping out to indicate the wide hallway behind her.
‘Shall we?’
‘One last question. How old am I?’
‘Oh. Um...you’re thirty-four. You turn thirty-five next month. On the tenth.’
He absorbed that for several seconds, nodded, then approached where she stood. Unable to resist, he raised his hands, drew a caress down her cheek with his knuckle. ‘And you, sweet wife?’
Her breath emerged shakily, gratifying him with the knowledge that he wasn’t experiencing his urgent, emotional unbalancing alone. ‘Me? I... I’m twenty-five. I’ll be twenty-six this Christmas.’
‘Twenty-five? And managing a global corporation on your own while chasing down your missing husband? Impressive.’
Again her eyes widened. And he could’ve sworn she was on the verge of blushing at his compliment when that wariness returned with a vengeance, snatching what felt like a prize right out of his grasp.
Disgruntlement settled deep within him when she stepped away, then pivoted her whole body from him. ‘Thanks.’
The response was cool. Almost flippant. As if she refused to allow herself to accept it. He reflected on that as they toured a vessel he’d named after a mother he couldn’t remember. As he was shown a level of wealth he knew most of the people he’d left behind on Efemia would give a limb to possess.
But what struck Zeph most as he grasped the burnished steel handles of his personal dressing room, in a stateroom fit for kings, and pulled a partition open to observe row after row of dark bespoke, impressive suits, priceless watches and hand-stitched shoes, was the stark emptiness he suspected wouldn’t disappear even if his memories returned. Because it was an emptiness shrouding that recurring dream every night since his rescue.
That of a boy abandoned to loneliness, pain, devastation. And fury. A lost boy seeking that samemeaningwith a desperation that had Zeph tearing awake with a thundering heart and an empty soul.
Perhaps it was to deny those substantial emotions that he turned, reached out, and did what he did.
Everything inside Imogen shrieked awake when Zeph lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers.
