wide and with a look of alarm on his perfect face. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘My mother,’ I breathe. ‘I think I saw her.’
‘Her ghost?’
I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts. Or maybe I do now. With no obvious answer, I just shrug.
‘At Heathrow?’ he pushes.
I nod.
‘When you were exhausted, emotional, and being kidnapped by an ex-escort with a terrible temper?’
My eyes narrow on him. ‘Yes,’ I push through clenched teeth.
‘I see,’ he muses, glancing away briefly before returning his eyes to mine. ‘And this is why you’ve been so quiet and cagey?’
‘I realise how stupid I sound.’
‘Not stupid,’ he argues quietly. ‘Grief-stricken.’
I frown at him, but he continues before I can question his conclusion.
‘Olivia, we’ve been through so much. Both of our pasts have been very much present in recent weeks. It’s understandable that you’d be feeling lost and confused.’ He reaches forward and rests his lips on mine. ‘Please confide in me. Don’t let your troubles weigh you down when I’m here to ease them for you.’ Pulling away, he smoothes his thumbs across my cheeks and melts me with the sincerity that’s shining from his extraordinary eyes. ‘I can’t see you sad.’
I suddenly feel so very stupid, and with nothing left to say, I close my arms around his shoulders and pull him into me. He’s right. It’s no wonder my mind’s a jumbled mess after everything we’ve been through. ‘I don’t know where I’d be without you.’
Accepting my fierce embrace, he inhales into my hair. I feel him locate a lock and start to twist it around his fingers. ‘You’d be in London living a carefree life,’ he muses quietly.
His sombre statement pulls me from the warmth of his body immediately. I didn’t like the words and I definitely didn’t like the tone. ‘Living a hollow life,’ I counter. ‘Promise you’ll never abandon me.’
‘I promise.’ He says it without a second’s hesitation, yet right now it doesn’t feel like enough. I’m not sure what else I can make him say that will convince me. A bit like his acceptance of my love. That wavering is still showing signs and I don’t like it. A repeat of him leaving, even if he didn’t want to, is still something I live in fear of.
‘I want a contract,’ I blurt. ‘Something legal that says you can’t ever leave me.’ I realise my stupidly in an instant and I cringe, slapping myself all over Central Park. ‘That came out all wrong.’
‘I hope so!’ He coughs, almost falling to his arse in shock. I might not have meant that the way it sounded, but his clear disgust is like a slap in the face. I haven’t given a second thought to marriage, or anything beyond today. There’s too much shit blocking dreams of futures and happiness, but now I’m really thinking. His clear abhorrence to the idea is making it hard not to. I want to get married one day. I want the kids, the dog, and the cosy family house. I want mess everywhere from children running riot, and I know in this moment that I want it all with Miller.
Then reality crashes down on me. He obviously finds marriage unspeakable. He hates mess, which puts my chaotic family home right out of the picture. And as for the children? Well, I’m not going to ask and I don’t think I need to, because I remember that photograph of a lost, grubby little boy.
‘We should go,’ I say, standing to meet him before I say anything else stupid and have to face another unwanted reaction. ‘I’m tired.’
‘I concur.’ The relief rolls off him in waves. It doesn’t help my despondency. Or my hopes for our future . . . once we can finally focus on our happily-ever-after.
Chapter 3
Things have been awkward and tense since we left Central Park. Miller left me to entertain myself when we got back to the suite, choosing to disappear into the office space that leads off the balcony. He had some business to see to. It’s not unusual for him to take an hour to make his calls, but it’s now been four hours, with no word, appearance, or indication that he’s still alive in there.
I’m on the balcony, the sun warm on my face, and I recline back on the lounger, silently willing Miller to emerge from the study. We haven’t gone this long without some kind of physical contact since we’ve been in New York, and I’m craving his touch. I was dying to escape the tense vibes when we returned from our stroll, was quietly relieved when he muttered his intention to deal with some business, but now I’m feeling more lost than ever. I’ve called Nan and Gregory and chatted idly about nothing in particular, and I’ve read half of the history book that Miller bought me yesterday, not that I can recall any of the information.
And now I’m lying here – into hour five – twiddling my ring and getting all worked up over our Central Park conversation. I sigh, remove my ring, put it back on again, twist it a few times, and then freeze when I hear stirring from the other side of the office doors. I see the handle shift and snatch my book up, burying my nose in it, hoping to look engrossed.
The doors creak, prompting me to glance up from the random page I opened the book to, and I find Miller standing on the threshold, watching me. His feet are bare, the top button of his jeans undone, and his shirt has been discarded. His dark mop of waves is a dishevelled mess, like he’s been raking his hand through the curls. And I know once I seek his eyes out that’s exactly what he’s been doing. They’re brimming with despair. Then he tries to smile, and I feel a million bolts of guilt stab at my fallen heart. Placing my book on the table, I sit up and pull my knees to my chin, wrapping my arms around my legs. The tension is still thick, but having him close again is rekindling my lost serenity. Fireworks crackling beneath my skin, working their way deep, is familiar and comforting.
He spends a few silent moments with his hands resting lightly in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe, thinking. Then he sighs and without a word comes over to straddle the lounger behind me, encouraging me to move forward before he settles, slides his arms over my shoulders, and pulls my back to his chest. My eyes close and I absorb all of him – his feel, his heartbeat against me, and his breath in my hair.
‘I apologise,’ he whispers, pressing his lips to my neck. ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad.’
My hands start working in slow circles across the material of his jeans. ‘It’s OK.’
‘It’s not OK. If I had one wish,’ he begins, working his slow-moving lips up to my ear, ‘I’d wish I could be perfect for you. No one else, just you.’
I open my eyes and turn to face him. ‘Your wish must have come true.’
He laughs a little and moves a hand to my cheek. ‘You must be the most beautiful person God’s ever created. Here.’ His eyes journey around my face. ‘And here.’ Then his palm rests on my chest. He kisses my lips tenderly, then my nose, my cheeks, and finally my forehead. ‘There’s something on the desk for you.’
I instinctively pull away. ‘What is it?’
‘Go see.’ He encourages me to stand before resting back and gesturing towards the doors of the office. ‘Chop-chop.’
My gaze flicks from the doors to Miller, back and forth, until he cocks an expectant eyebrow at me, kicking my cautious feet into gear. I pad warily across the balcony, filled with curiosity, feeling blue eyes burning into my back, and when I reach the door, I look over my shoulder. There’s a hint of a smile on his perfect face.
‘Go,’ he mouths, taking my book from the table and flicking through. My lips are clamped together as I make my way to the regal desk, and I release my breath once I’m settled in the green leather chair. But my heart begins to bounce off my breastbone when I see an envelope positioned in the centre, perfectly placed, the bottom square with the edge of the desk. I find my ring and begin to spin it on my finger, worried, cautious, curious. All I see when looking at this envelope is another envelope – the one on Miller’s desk in Ice, the one containing the letter he wrote to me when he abandoned me. I’m not sure I want to read it, but Miller put it there. Miller wr
ote whatever’s contained inside, and those two combinations make for one very curious Olivia Taylor.
Scooping it up, I work the seal open, noting the adhesive is still damp. I pull out the paper and slowly unfold it. Then I take a deep breath and brace myself for his written words.
My sweet girl,
I will never do anything less than worship you. Every time I feel you or touch your soul, it’ll be etched on that beautiful mind of yours forever – and beyond that. I’ve told you all of this before. There aren’t words in existence that could justify my feelings for you. I’ve perused the English dictionary for hours looking for them – nothing. When I try to express myself, nothing seems adequate. Yet I know how profound your feelings are for me. And that makes my reality almost impossible to comprehend.
I don’t need to stand before a priest in God’s house to validate how I feel for you. Anyway, God never anticipated us when he created love.
There’s nothing that could or ever will compare.
If you want to take this letter as my official promise to never leave you, then I’ll have it framed and hung above our bed. If you want me to say these words aloud, then I’ll do it on my knees before you.
You are my soul, Olivia Taylor. You are my light. You are my reason to breathe. Don’t ever doubt that.
Be mine for eternity, I beg you. Because I promise I am yours.
Never stop loving me.
Eternally yours,
Miller Hart
x
I read it again, this time with tears trickling down my cheeks. The words, so elegantly written, hit me harder still, making me truly comprehend Miller Hart’s love for me. So I read it again and again and again, each time my heart warming and my love for him intensifying further until I’m an emotional wreck, sobbing all over the posh desk, my face sore and puffy from my relentless tears. Miller Hart expresses himself perfectly well. I know how he feels about me. Now I just feel silly and guilty for faltering . . . for making such a big deal of it, even if I did it silently to myself. But he saw my internal turmoil. And he’s acknowledged it.
‘Olivia?’
My eyes snap up and see him in the doorway, a distressed look on his face.
‘I’ve made you sad?’
Every aching muscle liquefies, my emotionally exhausted body sinking into the chair. ‘No . . . I . . . it’s just . . . ’ I raise the paper, waving it in the air as I wipe my eyes. ‘I can’t . . . ’ I gather the strength to utter something comprehensible and spit it out. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I rise from the chair, forcing my legs to hold me steady, and approach him. My head’s shaking a little, angry with myself for making him feel the need to explain when I already know how he feels.
When I’m only a few feet away, his arms open, welcoming me into his embrace, and I practically throw myself at him, feeling my feet leave the floor and his nose head straight for its favourite place. ‘Don’t cry,’ he soothes, tightening his hold. ‘Please don’t cry.’
I’m unable to speak through my emotion, so I return his fierce cuddle, soaking up every familiar sharp edge of his body against mine. We remain a tangle of limbs for an age, me working hard to gather myself, Miller patient while I do so. He eventually attempts to detach me from his body, and I let him. Then he drops to his knees and tugs me down to join him. That beautiful smile greets me, his hands pushing my hair from my face and his thumbs collecting the tears still escaping my eyes.
He goes to speak but purses his lips instead, and I see his internal struggle to voice what he wants to say. So I speak instead. ‘I never doubted your love for me, no matter how you chose to say it.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘I didn’t mean to make you feel shitty.’
His smile stretches and his eyes sparkle. ‘I was worried.’
‘Why?’
‘Because . . .’ His eyes drop and he sighs. ‘Every woman on my client list is married, Olivia. A blessed ring and a certificate signed by a holy man mean nothing to me.’
His admission doesn’t surprise me. I remember William saying loud and clear that Miller Hart struggles with morality. Sleeping with a married woman in exchange for money probably never cost him a scrap of shame – until he met me. I rest my fingertips on his dark jaw and bring his face to mine. ‘I love you,’ I affirm, and he smiles, but it’s in between sadness and happiness. It’s light and it’s dark. ‘And I know how fascinated you are with me.’
‘You couldn’t possibly know how much.’
‘I beg to differ,’ I whisper, bringing his letter between our bodies.
He looks down at it and silence falls, only very briefly, before he drags lazy eyes to mine. ‘I’ll never do anything less than worship you.’
‘I know.’
‘Every time I feel you or touch your soul, it’ll be etched on that beautiful mind of yours forever.’
I smile. ‘I know that.’
He takes the letter and casts it aside, then holds my hands and my eyes. ‘You make my reality so hard to comprehend.’
I suddenly realise he’s voicing his written words, and I draw breath to halt him, to tell him it isn’t necessary, but I’m hushed when the tip of his finger meets my lips.
‘You are my soul, Olivia Taylor. You are my light. You are my reason to breathe. Don’t ever doubt that.’ His jaw is tense, and even though this is a shortened version of his letter, hearing him speak his declaration hammers it all home more forcefully. ‘Be mine for eternity, I beg you.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a small box. ‘Because I promise I am yours.’
My eyes are rooted on the tiny gift box, despite the urge to maintain my comfort from keeping our stares locked. I’m too curious. When he takes my hand and places the box in the centre of my palm, I finally rip my eyes from the mysterious leather box and look up at him. ‘For me?’
He nods slowly and rests back on his haunches, as do I.
‘What is it?’
He smiles, showing a glimmer of that rare dimple. ‘I love your curiosity.’
‘Should I open it?’ My fingers reach up to my mouth and I start to nibble at the tip of my thumb, all kinds of feelings, thoughts, and emotions running riot in my mind.
‘I might be the only man who can sate that unyielding curiosity within you.’
I laugh a little, flicking my eyes between the box and Miller’s pensive form. ‘You spike that curiosity, Miller, so my sanity relies on you sating it, too.’
He matches my amusement and nods at the box. ‘Open it.’
My fingers are shaking and emotions are rushing through me as I open the lid. I risk a peek at Miller, finding his blue stare centred solely on me. He’s tense. Nervous. And that makes me feel nervous, too.
Slowly, I pull the lid up. And lose my breath. A ring.
‘It’s diamonds,’ he whispers. ‘Your birthstone.’
I swallow hard, my eyes running over the length of the thick band that rises to a subtle peak in the centre with a brilliant oval-cut diamond flanked by a teardrop-shaped stone on each side. Smaller stones surround the band, all sparkling beautifully. The white gold is cut, making each encrusted piece look like it’s detached from the main diamonds. I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘Antique?’ I ask, abandoning the beauty for another beauty. I look up at him. He still looks nervous.
‘Art nouveau – 1898, to be precise.’
I smile as I shake my head in wonder. Of course he’ll be precise. ‘But it’s a ring.’ I finally steel myself to say the obvious. After today, Central Park, the tension, and Miller’s letter, this ring has just thrown me for a loop.
The box is suddenly gone from my grasp and placed to the side. He shifts to his backside, claims my hands, and tugs me forward until I’ve walked on my knees to between his thighs. I rest back on my haunches again and wait with bated breath for his words. I’ve no doubt they’re going to penetrate deeply, just as his crystal blue eyes are doing right now. He picks the box back up and holds it between us. The sparkles shooting o
ff the exquisite piece are blinding. ‘This one here –’ he points to the diamond, the centrepiece – ‘it represents us.’
My palms cover my face, not wanting him to see the tears building in my eyes again, but I’m not blessed with privacy for long. He takes my hands and guides them to my lap, nodding his handsome head slowly in understanding.
‘This one –’ he points to one of the brilliant teardrop stones flanking the showpiece diamond – ‘is me.’ Then his finger drifts across to the matching one on the other side. ‘And this one represents you.’
‘Miller, I—’
‘Shhh.’ He places his fingertip on my lips and raises his dark eyebrows in gentle warning. Once he’s certain I will fulfil his wish to let him finish, he takes his attention back to the ring, and I can do nothing more than wait for him to finish his interpretation of what this ring signifies. His index finger rests on the teardrop diamond that represents me. ‘This gem is beautiful.’ The pad of his finger drifts across to the matching teardrop diamond. ‘It makes this one brighter. It complements it. But this one, the one that represents us –’ he rests his touch on