Zoya Hart has been eluding her gold-digging stepmother for the last few years. Knowing that this woman will do anything to gain control of her and her late father's company, Zoya finds herself hiding out on a farm. Now, with a PI on her trail, Zoya'...
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An hour earlier, when Zoya disappeared into the house, all Roman could do was wait and rehearse what he'd say to her.
The wind picked up and scattered leaves from beneath the maple trees lining the street, creating a swirl of red. It wouldn't be long until the weather turned cold for good and he'd thought about lying in front of the fireplace with her curled against him. But what if she didn't want him anymore? Served him right. He'd put stupid rules in place, but they'd been for her protection.
He glanced at his watch, got out of his car, and ambled across the street. Shrubs hid the view of the stairway from the main house, and he settled on the second step. A catering van sat in the drive, so they must be having a party. There were no sounds of music, laughter or conversation but that didn't mean anything. It could be a small gathering. Shit. Zoya might even have a date. She was dressed for one.
He texted Flynn and Ophelia. Wanted them to know he'd found her and promised an update later. Then he turned off his phone so he wouldn't have any interruptions once he had her alone.
From across the way, a door closed. Footfalls. A cadence he recognized. He sucked air into his lungs as she rounded the corner, then eyed her from head to toe, trying to make her plain, back at the farmhouse in jeans, digging in the dirt, planting flowers. No luck. Not with the bottled blond hair, fashionable clothes, and dangling earrings. She wasn't Zoya Hart anymore, not as he knew her. She was Dove St. Clair. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Rich. And he wasn't good enough.
"Roman." Her hand flew to her chest. "What are you doing here?"
"You left without saying goodbye." His voice cracked.
Her breath hitched. "There wasn't time." Unsteady, she grabbed onto the railing.
Even in the dim light, he saw how pale she was and wanted to touch her. Feel the softness of her. Have her arch against him as he buried deep inside her. Whisper his name. Beg him for more. "Are you okay?"
"Champagne went to my head."
"You've been drinking?" He frowned, trying to align this girl with the one he knew in his head.
"A little. But I'm all right. Let's go inside."
He turned for her to pass, and the closeness made him dizzy. She pushed the door open and stepped in with him right behind. "You really shouldn't leave your place unlocked. Never know when an ex-con might show up on your doorstep."
She faced him. "Are you being sarcastic?"
"Yeah. You're getting good at recognizing that." He scanned the room, his eyes settling on the painting of a half-naked man. A young, handsome dude. Clean cut. Looked to be about her age. Roman leaned down and studied the guy's cuticles. Hell, he couldn't tell if they hugged his fingernails or not. He nodded toward the canvas. "Somebody important to you?"
