Love Redesigned (8 page)

She felt the warm skin of his chest against her back, and her eyes drifted to the mirror on the opposite wall. She watched, fascinated, as his thumbs flicked her nipples, and she arched into his hands. Liquid desire spread through her veins, coated her skin. His erection nudged her bottom, and she shifted her hips, rubbing against him. He groaned, and a shiver danced down her spine.

“
Mon Dieu
, what you do to me,” he whispered in her ear, his voice dark and husky. One hand traced slowly down her stomach to slip beneath her panties. He stroked one finger inside her, then spread the moisture between her folds. He groaned. “So wet. For me?”

A rush of intense yearning burst through her blood, and she moaned, even as she nodded. Shards of pleasure shredded her reserve. Excitement coiled within her, and she was about to spiral out of control. She trembled.

He’d ignited an inferno, and it raged through her body. She hadn’t been this close to anyone in a very long time. No one else made her feel the way he did, or could draw the pleasure from her so quickly.

“You are so ready for me. I need you, need to be with you, Genevieve.”

She heard the tremor in his voice and turned in his arms. His eyes were nearly hooded, luminous with passion. Burning, yearning for him, she kissed him, pulled him toward the bed. The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she sank onto it.

Unbuttoning his slacks, she slowly slid the zipper down, pushed them down even as he removed his shoes. His erection jutted forward, long, thick, and hungry. For her.

He wanted her.
Her
. Knowing it, seeing it, empowered her to be bold, brazen. To take what she’d been aching for the last few days. Hell, the last fifteen years if she were honest.

She held him gently in her hand, traced her fingers over the velvety steel. Licking a droplet off the head, she tasted the sweet and salty tang that was his essence. Her lips opened, and she circled him, using her tongue to please him.

He sucked in a harsh breath, fisted a hand in her hair, pulled her head back gently. “You are torturing me. I won’t last if you keep touching me. I want to come inside you this first time.”

His gruff admission washed over her, made her impatient. The breath backed up in her lungs, and she lifted up enough to take her panties off, then scooted backward on the bed.

Roman knelt on the bed, staring at her. She felt exposed, even in the darkened room, and moved to cover herself, uncertain now. He took her hands, gently pulled them away from her body. He leaned toward the lamp. “I want to see you in the light.”

She stopped him. “Leave it off. I—I want the candlelight.” She wanted him—she did. But the butterflies turned into bats and pinged around her stomach.

He sheathed himself with a condom. Leaning over her, he sank slowly onto her body. He kissed her, his tongue sweeping inside to dance with hers.

His taste drove her wild, and she kissed him back with the hunger of fifteen long years.

He lifted up enough to kiss her breasts, licking each nipple before pulling it in to suck on it. Sharp arrows of desire raced through her to gather in her core. She cried out and arched, her fingernails digging into the skin of his back.

He nudged her knees apart and fit himself between them. The tip of his hard length entered her, stretched her wide. He filled her, and she bit her lip, her eyes widening. Her whole body tensed, strung tight as a bow.

He stopped moving, muscles rigid. Held himself back. “How long has it been?” he ground out. Sweat popped out on his forehead from his restraint.

“A long time,” she shifted, embarrassed . . . no, mortified was more like it. “A really long time.”

His heart stuttered, and he dropped his forehead to hers. He didn’t know whether to be shocked or exultant. “We can stop if it hurts too much.”
Please, God, I don’t know if I can stop.

“N-no . . . it’s okay. Just give me a-a minute.”

Relief swept through him. For three days he’d been so angry, since he realized she was back in France. But he’d spent every moment since then wanting her. Needing her. Bracing himself on one forearm, he looked down at her. So lovely, the candlelight flickering over her skin, turning it a tawny shade. He wanted to make this special for her . . . for them.

He leaned down and kissed her, the taste of her drugging his senses. He pulled back, sliding out of her, and she relaxed. As hard as it was, as hard as
he
was, he would have to go slow.

She’d been a virgin when they first met, and he’d been honored she chose him to be her first. He’d have to take the same care now as he had so long ago.

Brushing the hair back from her neck, he spread it across the pillow . . . just the way he remembered. He licked the shell of her ear, whispered in her ear what he wanted to do to her, with her.

She rewarded him with a shiver, gasping.

The curve of her neck tasted delicious as he traced it with his tongue. The valley between her breasts elicited a heady intoxication as he breathed in the scent of her skin. A forgotten memory surfaced when he kissed beneath her breast—her skin tasted like spun sugar in just that spot.

He could explore her body for days, never tiring of uncovering her secrets. But right now he wanted to lavish his attention on her breasts. He teased her, licking, stroking everything but her nipple, until it was pert and hard as a berry. A berry he could no longer resist.

He touched it with the tip of his tongue, blew lightly on it. Her hand slid over his shoulder, cupped the back of his head. He drew her nipple into his mouth, stroking it with his tongue, suckling her.

She gasped again, arching beneath him. “Oh, God.” She held him to her, whimpering.

He smiled to himself, pulled back and transferred his attention to her other breast. She’d always loved the way he made love to her there, and he was happy to see that hadn’t changed, that she was still so responsive. He fixed his lips to her nipple possessively, happy no one else had been there recently.

Using his hands, his mouth, he continued his exploration. No part of her was left untouched as he learned the feel of her curves again, the seductive flavor of her body.

He marveled at the texture of her skin, as soft as the silks he had once found in India. She sighed and writhed beneath him, murmuring his name.

He kissed his way down her legs, spread them wide, and breathed in her arousal. He stroked his tongue between her velvety folds, her flavor exploding in his mouth, and a possessive animal lust consumed him. He held her hips steady, and she trembled at his onslaught.

Taking his time, he savored her, as he would a gourmand’s delight. He aroused her, listening for every intake of breath, remembering what she liked, and discovering new depths to what pleasured her as the woman she had become.

Her hands fisted in the sheets, and she arched, crying out his name. He held her steady as she came, and he wanted to take her up again and again, if only to hear her claim his heart again and again. He still felt as if he were dreaming her return to France.

Is this real?

He glanced up and met her eyes.

She smiled, an enchantress smile, and held her arms out to him. “Take me, Roman. I need you.”

He moved swiftly up her body, fitting himself to her entrance. He slowed, pulsing, inch by granite inch, letting her body adjust to him. She was on fire, and he’d never been happier to feel that heat. Her heat. It took all his will and strength to remain still. He’d never been this hard or out of control.

He tried to think of something to take his mind off the urge to thrust. Mentally he cut the pattern on his newest design, trying to keep that urgent need reigned in. But a moment later, she wrapped her long legs around him, rising up to meet him, and he thrust deeper.

Her velvet heat clamped around him, and tremors shuddered through her body. She was slick and hot, convulsing around him. He wanted to last longer, but couldn’t help it. He was going to explode, all too soon. But not before he brought her more pleasure first. He kissed her possessively, driving her to another orgasm, until she tore her mouth away and cried out.

His hunger for her surged, and he lost control. The orgasm roared through him, searing his soul.

She’s mine.

Completely spent, he couldn’t move until he forced himself to roll to the side so he wouldn’t crush her, then pulled her close.

He glanced at her face, caught her watching him, biting her lip. Her face looked completely blank, and she closed her eyes. She curled into him, resting her cheek on his shoulder, hiding her face.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm hmm,” she murmured, her voice distant. “Fine.”

He lifted his head up to look down at her, caught a blush rising in her cheek. Doubts assailed him. Was she regretting their intimacy already? He knew she’d been satisfied. She could not have faked her responses to his lovemaking. For as reserved as she could be, she had a passionate nature, and had always responded to him.

“Are you sorry?”

She shifted, but didn’t look at him. “For what?”

“About what just happened? Because I am not. It was incredible to me.”

She was quiet for long moments, and he began to worry.

“No, I’m not sorry.” She pulled the sheet up, covering herself. “Honestly, I think it was inevitable, considering our past. But sex doesn’t change anything. It can’t.”

He wanted her in his life, not just his bed. This was not just sex, was it? But could it be love? Not just the love he’d had for her so long ago, but a new love. A love redesigned by their experiences apart in the intervening years.

He was beginning to think so, to hope it was. For the first time in a very long time, he was hopeful.

Later that evening, Roman stared out the window of the hotel room at the city lights, waiting for her to finish getting ready. As much as he loved Paris, the way the city and the fast pace energized him, he still wanted to be in his new home. With her by his side.

But would she want him? There had been so much pain separating them over the years. She had a life in America, and friends, wanted to start her own business. He had just returned to France, ready to move his business here, begin showing in Paris again.

Her bedroom door opened, and he turned around she crossed the room. His heart raced.

She was stunning, like a Grecian goddess come to life. A long white satin dress draped her in elegance and sophistication. A simple neckline framed her delicate collar bone. A silver beaded belt accentuated her hourglass figure. Her hair was pulled up into a loose chignon, a few soft tendrils floating around her face. Long diamond earrings sparkled at her ears, and drew attention to her graceful neck.

The dress was simply icing on the cake. It was the woman inside that captivated him.

“Do I look okay? I had to borrow this from Connie Sue.” She slowly turned around and looked at him over her shoulder. Her smoky eyes watched him, as if begging for his approval.

The front of the dress was sedate, simple. The back made him want to strip the dress away and keep her in bed. Forever. It was seductive, daring, and completely bare. The fabric draped to the sides, leaving her elegant back exposed almost to the base of her spine.

He crossed the room to stand behind her. “Words fail me. You are stunning, and so damn sexy.” He nuzzled the spot behind her ear, trailed his lips down her spine, kissing each vertebrae.

She shivered.

He turned her around, and she looked up at him. He read the doubts in her eyes. He’d never been able to convince her she was beautiful, and even now, she just couldn’t see it.

“You are beautiful in your chef coat and jeans, you are beautiful in an evening gown. It doesn’t matter what you wear because it is your essence. It is you. I do not want to share you with anyone, but if we don’t leave now, we will never make it out of this room.”

Her eyes flashed with an unknown emotion. He reluctantly let her go. Didn’t want to push her any more than he had. The whole night stretched before them, and he planned to spend every minute of it worshipping her, body and soul.

He picked up the tuxedo jacket and slipped it on.

“You clean up pretty good yourself,” she said, her Southern accent charming him.

He glanced at her, found her staring at him.
Is that hunger in her eyes?

“I’ve never seen you in a tux. You’ve come such a long way. You’re hugely successful, and have really made something of yourself. You should be proud.”

Instinct had him withdrawing, and a sliver of disappointment sliced through him. A great many women had complimented him over the years, since he became wealthy, but it was always about what he could do for them. Surely she was not like
them
?

Chapter 11

A glass elevator whisked them to the ballroom level. She knew she’d made a mistake sleeping with Roman. But she’d been drawn to him, couldn’t stay away from him . . . his touch. She wanted to go forward, have a good relationship with him, one of friendship. But they’d had sex, and sex always complicated things.

But then she’d walked out of the bedroom and saw the expression on his face . . .

She could admit it now, to herself—she’d wanted to wow him tonight. She’d put the dress on, and God, she felt naked and exposed. But the desire and appreciation on his face had shored up her confidence. For the first time in a long time, if ever, she felt she could actually compete against the women he normally dated.

The doors opened, and they stepped out onto a red carpet. Lights flashed, momentarily blinding her. She blinked to clear the spots. Paparazzi lined the red carpeted walkway. She hesitated, and Roman glanced at her, raised an eyebrow in question.

He smiled, and she stepped up beside him. He skimmed an arm around her, resting his hand low on her back, his touch eliciting sparks on her bare skin. Little spikes of yearning darted through her, and it was all she could do to refrain from pulling him back upstairs.

A short man wearing headphones and holding a clipboard greeted Roman and gestured to the walkway. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but followed when he started walking again. They were led toward the door to the ballroom, walking the path as flashbulbs constantly strobed. Reporters jostled microphones and elbowed each other as they tried to attract Roman’s attention. He blithely ignored them, even when they began shouting questions at her, asking her who she was.

Roman tucked her closer to his side, shielding her from the pack. They stood in line at the door, waiting to get in.

Everywhere she looked, it seemed as if people were staring at her, whispering. She finally could see inside the ballroom. Hundreds of people sat at tables or stood in groups talking. What happened to the small banquet he had told her about?

She tapped Roman on the shoulder, leaning closer to him. He bent his head down to hear her. “I thought this was a small banquet.”

He shifted his head to speak in her ear. “It is small, only three hundred or so were invited.” He nibbled on her earlobe.

She frowned.

“You’re the only one I want to spend time with. We will be as brief as possible, I promise. Thank you for accompanying me.”

She met his gaze, and the look on his face said it all. He leaned down and kissed her, hard and fast.

Light bulbs flashed again.

I think I’m in the weeds now.

The little man holding the clipboard reappeared, and guided them through the crowd towards the front of the room.

She really hoped they weren’t sitting too far in front. She’d rather be anonymous.

But they kept walking until they reached a long table. In the front of the room. The one with the speaker’s podium and microphone smack dab in the middle.

Well, crap on a cracker.

Roman held a chair out for her, then sat to her left. She looked out at a sea of people, most of whom seemed to be staring at her. Little Miss Nobody.

She leaned closer to him. “Are you
speaking
at this banquet?”

“Yes, I have to make a speech after they present the award.”

“What award?”

“Did I not tell you? I’m being honored as designer of the year, and for mentoring new designers as they begin their careers.”

“No, you didn’t tell me.” She clenched her teeth together, strove for calm. “Congratulations. But why didn’t you tell me about this?”

He frowned. “Didn’t I tell you? It is not a big thing. I have to attend many banquets a year, so I really did not think about it. I apologize.” He pulled her hand through his arm, leaning closer to her ear. “Forgive me?”

She hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to be drawn into his world. He looked so contrite that she finally nodded.

Someone touched his sleeve, and he turned away to shake hands.

She silently cursed. Just one more nail in the coffin cementing the difference in their worlds. She was always behind the scenes in her job, never in the limelight, except for that TV show, which she’d hated doing.

She watched him greeting people, and he seemed to be in his element. Yes, he made sure to introduce her, and tried to include her in conversations. Her innate shyness kept her quiet, tongue-tied. Definitely out of her comfort zone here.

The host of the evening asked the guests to take their seats. The lights dimmed, and upbeat music poured forth from hidden speakers. Models strode down the runway splitting the room, and an announcer explained these were dresses from each of the collections Roman had designed over the last decade.

The models came forward, each dress more spectacular and flawless than the last. The fabrics were lush and exotic, the designs brilliant.

The show ended, and the room erupted into a standing ovation. She all but leapt to her feet, so proud of him she would either combust or burst into tears.
He is a true design genius!

One of the models approached the table and took his hand, leading him to the stage. He waved at the crowd, looking at ease.

He rejoined her at their table again, and leaned toward her. “I never like that part of shows.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“Having to walk out on stage after the models are finished showing the clothes.”

She studied his face, and noticed his cheeks stained red.
He’s shy about the praise?

“Well, you deserve the accolades, you really do. The clothes you’ve designed are brilliant, and gorgeous. You should be proud of your accomplishments—”

A waiter leaned between them and set a plate down in front of her, and she had to move back. She’d tell Roman later how proud she was of him.

After a gourmet dinner was served, the speeches began. She enjoyed hearing the young designers praise Roman for his efforts and support as they launched their careers. Every one of them extolled his patience and kindness, guiding them on their individual paths to their own dreams. He had given them the confidence they needed to make it in a competitive business and reach their goals.

The host of the evening stood up to introduce yet another speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen. It is my great pleasure to introduce a surprise guest. The person who helped Roman himself launch his own career.”

Beside her, Roman stiffened, and his hand clenched around hers under the table. He leaned close to her, his jaw tense.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was invited.”

“What do you—”

The host spoke again. “Please help me welcome Patrice Toussaint.”

The applause became a dull roar in her ears, and she wanted to sink into the floor and die.

She
walked out from behind the curtain and stood at the podium. Not a silver hair out of place on her perfectly coiffed head. The evil she-wolf turned to Roman and they shook hands. Patrice leaned forward as if to kiss him, but he subtly sidestepped. Her glance fell on Genevieve. Recognition dawned, and her gray eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, and she detected a crack in Patrice’s icy facade.

They hadn’t spent much time around each other back in the Paris days, but she could tell the older woman had wanted him for her own little toy.

Patrice had been a cougar before the term was coined.

Calculating the passing years, she guessed Patrice had to be in her mid-fifties by now. The woman oozed elegance, poise, and sophistication. She was cool under pressure, determined to have everyone kowtow to her.

But this devil always wore Chanel.

Patrice began speaking, her voice low and modulated. “I first met Roman when he was a young man of seventeen, at the home of his aunt, and my dear friend. He was always drawing in a sketchbook, his head buried in it for hours. I finally had the opportunity to see what he worked so diligently on, and I was amazed at his talent for designing clothes. As his aunt and uncle entertained, he would linger in a corner, and draw the guests. But the clothing he always altered, with subtle lines, or variations on the color and silhouette.”

Patrice laid her hand on his shoulder, and Genevieve wanted to yank it off him.

“I finally asked him one time why he always changed the clothing on guests. He explained the changes made the women look better, more elegant, more refined. And he was inevitably correct. I encouraged him to begin designing clothes on his own, incorporating his own ideas. I once had to attend an important tea at the
Palais Royale
, and asked him what I should wear. He designed the perfect outfit for me, and I was the best-dressed woman there. I eventually encouraged him to attend the Paris Fashion Institute for formal training, and once he graduated, I dropped a few words to a design house, and launched him on his career in fashion. And the rest is history!” The audience rose again for another ovation as Roman stood to accept his award.

So proud of him it hurt, and as much as it galled her to admit it, he wouldn’t be where he was today without Patrice. And she herself might never have met him in Paris.

At the end of the dinner, people swarmed Roman, congratulating him on the award. The models all flocked to him, and he greeted each one warmly, and by name. They were all beautiful, tall, elegant, and exotic.

What the hell is he doing with me?
Jealous spikes darted up and down her spine, surprising her with the intensity.

Pushed away from him by the throng, she signaled to him she’d be back.

He nodded and continued talking to the people surrounding him.

She headed toward the restroom, but turned back to glance at him. He stood head and shoulders above the crowd. So handsome. He took his celebrity in stride, as at ease in the crowd as he was when alone.

Pushing open the door to the ladies room, she was relieved to see no one. At last, a quiet refuge from the crush of people and photographers. She settled on one of the cushioned stools in front of the mirror to repair her lipstick. Pulling her smart phone out of her bag, she scrolled through the emails, hoping to see the one she’d been waiting for all month. Still nothing.

The door opened, and someone walked in, sitting a couple of stools down from her.

“Georgina, isn’t it?”

Dammit, she knew that silky voice. She’d just had to listen to it gushing about Roman and how
she’d
discovered him.

“No. It’s Genevieve,” she corrected Patrice, icy disdain evident. “Not that you’ll remember it five seconds from now.”

“My. You’ve grown some claws over the years, haven’t you?”

Genevieve slipped her phone back in her purse and snapped it closed as she stood up to leave.

“You do realize you’re only a novelty, do you not? A fling from his past?”

Her hand froze on the doorknob. “Excuse me?”

Patrice continued. “You would have held him back from the brilliant career he was destined for. He would not be the man he is if you had stayed. Do you really think you will fit into his world now? You may be dressed up this evening, but we both know you are not right for him. What do you want? Money? Is that why you came back?”

Genevieve’s hand itched to slap the cotton stuffing out of the older woman, and the rage roaring through her was as foreign to her as a teetotaler at the VFW Hall on St. Patrick’s Day.

She rounded on Patrice. “You
bitch
,” she said, her voice low. “I know you were responsible for discovering Roman and encouraging his talent, and it’s because of you he got his chance to become a designer. But you couldn’t leave it at that. We know you lied just to break us up. You wanted him for yourself. Well fat lot of good it did you. You caused more damage than you’ll ever know.” Opening the door to leave, she made sure to close it quietly, and not slam it.

Leaning against the wall, she shook, unable to control the tremors.
I’ve never spoken to anyone that way. My mama would be ashamed of me. Or maybe not, considering the damage Patrice did to us.

A group of women were heading her way, and she needed to leave. She pushed off the wall and headed for the elevator. She kept her gaze lowered and didn’t make eye contact. The long ride to their floor only prolonged the agony of knowing Patrice was right.

She was nobody, and he was better off without her.

Roman opened the door to the suite and scanned the opulent room, near frantic after realizing Genevieve had been gone well over half an hour. He checked the small kitchen, then headed toward her bedroom. As he opened the door, he heard the water running in the bathroom, and relief warred with guilt. He should have noticed much earlier she hadn’t returned to the ballroom, but the number of people he had to speak to kept him distracted.

Steam fogged the mirror, and he loosened his tie. He grinned. Why not join her in the shower? His body tightened, thinking about running his hands over her soap-slicked body. He slipped his jacket, tie, shoes, and socks off, anxious to hold her again.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he opened the frosted glass door, and almost reeled back in shock. She crouched on the floor in the corner of the shower as the water streamed over her. Her hands covered her face and her shoulders were shaking.

“Genevieve! What is it? What is wrong?” He stepped into the shower, cool water pelting him. He shut the water off, and knelt before her. He ran his hands over her lightly, checking for injuries.

She looked up at him, startled, her eyes rimmed in red from crying. She hiccupped. “You’re . . . getting y-your clothes . . . w-wet,” she said, her breath hitching.

“It does not matter. You matter. Please, tell me what is wrong.” He picked her up in his arms, holding her shivering body close to his warmth. He stepped out of the shower and snagged a towel off the rack. He set her down gently on the low bench and wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Grabbing another towel, he gently squeezed the excess water from her hair.