Chapter 13
Unprepared
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Clara,
I know I’ve scared you. I have no right to ask you to be with me. There are risks, more than I’ve let on about, but I can’t release you. I’m afraid that even if you tried to run now I wouldn’t let you go. I crave your body. The touch of your skin. The sweet silk of your thighs against my face and the taste of you on my lips. Even as I warn you away from me, know that you are mine and I protect what is mine. Even from myself.
X
It’s my fourth attempt at a note to her today, and I’m running out of time. I must have suffered a temporary bout of madness earlier when I asked her to go to the party with me. I’d left out a few important details.
Tonight isn’t simply a ball. That would be too easy. It’s my father’s birthday party. I’m not certain who I’m trying to send a message to: her, him, or myself. I don’t want that kind of attention on her, but if we’re going to do this, it’s inevitable.
Which means it’s time to send the sodding note. There’s no way to prepare her for this. Sliding the card into a red envelope, I use my personal seal to ensure this message is only read by her. It’s archaic compared to text, but I can’t stomach the idea of the press twisting our words—or knowing the private details of our sex life. Clara’s body belongs to me. I’ve made that clear. I don’t want to share it with anyone, even a tabloid headline.
“Can you deliver this to Clara’s flat?” I ask Norris.
He crooks a bushy eyebrow as he accepts the card. “A love letter?”
“A warning.” It’s a much more accurate description of the contents. I’m throwing her into the water well aware there are sharks. In my family, there are no safe spots to learn to swim. This is the closest I can come while still protecting her.
“If you don’t mind me saying so.” Norris pauses to clear his throat and I suspect he knows I will mind whatever he’s about to say. “You could try to romance the poor girl.”
“Romance? Are you getting sentimental on me?” If I’m being honest, Norris has never struck me as the type.
“Old dogs know the best tricks,” he advises me. “And getting a girl to fall in love with you is the oldest trick in the book as well as the hardest.”
My blood turns to ice at his words, freezing me to the spot. “I don’t want her to fall in love with me.”
I mean it with every ounce of my body. Falling in love with me would be the worst mistake Clara could ever make.
Norris doesn’t respond but I see doubt reflecting in his pale, blue eyes. I try to see the situation as he does. I’ve gone after this woman repeatedly, I’ve broken my promise to stay away, I’ve invited her to meet my family.
“I’m not in love with her,” I tell him.
“You don’t have to convince me.” He sounds…amused.
“But you’re probably right,” I continue ignoring the laughter he’s obviously suppressing. “If she has to put up with my family this evening, she deserves more than a note. Do you have any suggestions?”
This is new territory for me. I’ve rarely done so much as buy a woman dinner in the past. It’s never been requisite to getting one into bed and I’ve never felt the need to have a second go with a woman once I’d had her. I suppose dating requires a bit more in the activity department. Although I doubt she’ll complain about the orgasms in her future.
“Flowers, sir,” he says. “Flowers are always well-received.”
“Will we have time to pick some up?” I could always go to the garden and find some myself, but I can guarantee the staff will gossip. I’d rather my father not know that I’m bringing a date tonight. The element of surprise is all I have working in my favor. With any luck, he’ll be too shocked to be rude.
I don’t hold high hopes for this method.
“Allow me. I need to deliver this after all.” Norris flashes me the card. “What kind of flowers do you want to give her?”
I recall when I was very little and my mother helped me address valentines to my primary school class. We chose one for each student based on my whims. She would look at the list of children’s names and say, “What makes you think of Annie, darling?” At the time, my answers were selfish or stupid or some mixture of the two.
My mother would like Clara. She’d tell me what flowers to give her or help me decide. I can almost hear her ask me now: what makes you think of Clara, darling?
I think of the blush that creeps over Clara’s porcelain skin when I say something filthy to her, of the color of her lips after I kiss her for hours, of the way I imagine her delicate flesh would redden under my palm.
“Red roses. I’ll give her red roses.” Beautiful and delicate like her, but with thorns as dangerous as this arrangement.
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