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LOUISA
Ipeer out one of the two small windows that face the rear. Somewhere beyond the building behind us, morning is coming, but the studio remains cast in shadows. It will stay like that until just after noon, where, for about an hour, the sun will be at the right angle in the sky for it to shine directly inside.
It’s an event I witnessed only a handful of times in the past. Something about the rays streaming through the old glass and onto the even older hardwood floor and the specks of dust floating in the air like tiny fairies made it seem magical to me. Could have also been that I was so madly, stupidly in love.
When I told Rowan about it, he made a suncatcher for me. It was the first time he’d ever soldered, and the glass burned in some parts, but to me, the misshapen butterfly was perfect.
That was the thing about him, what made him so easily able to seduce me. He was a good listener, like the time he filled the studio with red tulips because I casually mentioned they made me happy. Or the time I screwed up a common American saying because English was my second language and when I was growing up, we mostly spoke Spanish at home, so he gave me a little book on English idioms.
Damn Rowan for being so thoughtfully smart.
Lifting my fingers, I touch the spot where the suncatcher once hung. It pisses me off that though the studio is mostly the same, it makes me sad that this one thing is different. Did it break during the time Rowan and I were apart? Did he take it down because it didn’t matter to him the way it did to me? Or maybe it just got lost along with the book.
And he’s not even here for me to ask.
It’s been over two hours since he left in a rage when he discovered I’d slept with the man I was going to marry. It still makes no sense to me, other than it hurt his male ego. Threatened his masculinity somehow to learn that I didn’t fall apart when he left me—well, not completely, anyway—and swear to wait for him to change his mind.
But it’s not him I should be concerned with. It’s Peter. This doesn’t bode well for him. As angry as Rowan seemed, I’m afraid he’ll give him the beating of a lifetime.
And poor Peter… He can’t fight for shit. At least I never thought of him as a fighter. It’s part of what I liked about him, how nonthreatening he was. Fortunately for him, he lives in the penthouse of a well-secured building.
Damn Rowan. Damn him, damn him, damn him!
What the hell is he doing that’s taking so long? Why hasn’t he come back?
After I chased him down the block wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet, I was forced to concede that I’m not a fast runner and return to the apartment. Phil, the very same guy who guarded my room at the house, tried to hide his grin as I walked past him to the front door.
“Is this funny to you? Do I look funny to you running down the street in a fucking sheet like a crazy person?”
He shook his head furiously. “No, ma’am.”
“Is there another car I can use?”
“We were left strict instructions that you were to remain here.”
I arched a brow and scanned the area but was unable to see the other men. Doesn’t mean they weren’t there. “You didn’t go after me just now.”
Looking sheepish, he said, “I didn’t believe you’d get far in that.”
Spinning on my heel, I went back to the studio and practically tore the place apart searching for something to wear. There were a pair of jeans and couple of shirts in the closet for him, but all I could find for me were a few negligees in the top drawer of the nightstand. New ones that I bet Rowan thought I’d be willing to wear for him.
Well, I’m wearing the white slip nightgown, not because he wants me in it, but because it’s the least revealing. Besides, when I tried on his jeans, they slipped right off and I had nothing to secure them with.
I considered trying to sneak out. But the likelihood of my being successful is minimal at best.
So, instead, I take a seat on the bed. And I wait. Again.
* * *
A few hours later, I’m lying down when I hear heavy footsteps coming from the hall. I sit up just as the door opens.
Rowan steps in, his expression just as feral as it was when he left, maybe even more so.
He glances at me, his eyes cold as slate. Without saying a word, he begins to undress, taking off his crimson-stained T-shirt and dropping it on the floor as he makes his way to the bathroom.
“Where have you been?” I spy the discarded article of clothing warily.
The glass shower door squeaks when he opens it, and the pipes rattle and hiss as he turns the water on. Then he slams the door shut.
