Modern Romance March 2021 Book 5-8 by Carol Marinelli (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

as sea-themed, there were hints of his passion and calling everywhere in the space—an original from Picasso’s Blue Period, an intriguing piece of smooth, polished driftwood to bring a piece of his private island, Yancy Grove, to Calla, a subtle wave of Chihuly glass in the same swirling blues and grays of the Mediterranean during a storm, low-profile furniture and vast windows filled with open sky. Everywhere he went, he took the sea with him.

“It’s lovely,” she whispered, voice low.

Caught off guard by the husky thickness of her voice after going so long without words, he started.

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head. “I take my sanctuaries seriously.”

A soft smile, gentle and distracted and completely new to him, lifted the corners of her lips. “I can imagine...”

A wicked grin lit his expression “What else can you imagine?”

He hadn’t meant to tease her, to flirt or lure. Not yet. But then he’d watched her explore his space and see him in it.

She snorted. “Not what you’re imagining,” she retorted.

“And what’s that?” he asked, keeping his face as innocent as his question was leading.

“I think we both know,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.

He shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re implying.”

“I’m sure.”

“Bathhouse? Another massage? Dessert?”

Her mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you can even think of dessert yet. I’m still so stuffed I can barely move. But...” Her eyes took on a speculative look.

“What?” He asked, eager for her to make another request of him, eager to once again give her what she wanted—the surest means to unlocking a heart that he’d yet to find.

Looking around, she said, “I’d love to play a game of poker.”

It was the last thing he expected her to ask, and absolutely perfect. Innocent that she was, she didn’t realize the doors she was opening, but he did. That she’d chosen a tool he loved so well—poker—felt like a sign that things were looking up for his little plan.

Snapping his fingers, he smiled. “Done. Anything else?”

She nodded, plucking the fabric of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. “How can I get rid of this dress?”

CHAPTER FIVE

“EASILY,” HE SAID with a smile.

He could get her whatever she wanted.

Much like her father had always been, Drake was a king in his kingdom. Hel was increasingly wondering what was going on with her. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen the similarities between Drake and her father—in their complete dominance, in their utter assuredness in their own way, in their ability to reduce her to emotions and reactions. And yet she was here with him, had chosen to go along, was challenging him even now to sit with her, get closer and more personal than they should, play a game that acted like a superconductor to sexual tension.

Outside, she had the wherewithal to make a joke about her dress.

Inside, her blood thrummed like a live electrical current rather than something as mundane as human ichor.

She was playing with a box of matches beside a powder keg—walking a delicate tightrope while the metaphoric wind kicked up.

But really, she hated dresses.

Sending word to the staff through his watch, he looked up at her and her breath caught, but he just asked, “What are you looking for and what size?”

“Tank top and shorts, and a small, please,” she said.

He relayed her request and asked also for a deck of cards, then said, “That will be everything, thank you.”

He might have had his aristocratic life stolen from him, but he certainly hadn’t lost any of its nature. And for that, she was grateful. That anything remained of him after what her father had done was a wonder. That he was still—as more and more memories resurfaced, jogged loose from her time with him—so much the same young man she’d once known was nothing short of miraculous. That must have been what it was that so captured her attention about his eyes—they revealed that the same honorable, brave and kindhearted boy she’d looked up to as a child remained in the man.

Faster than she would have assumed possible, they had not only the cards, but also the change of clothes.

Her instructions had been taken quite literally. Drake handed her a plain white tank top in lovely soft cotton and a pair of black shorts. Both items were of high quality and very small.

Entering the bathroom he’d pointed out to her, Hel quickly stepped out of the dress, replacing it with the top and shorts.

Both fit, though that fit would be better described as high-performance workout wear than loungewear.

The shorts were the crevice-creeping type and the tank top hit her just below the belly button, but they were better than a dress. In these, at least, she could move.

She stepped out of the bathroom and found him waiting for her, coffee table and cushions set up for their game.

Eyes locking with his, she couldn’t miss the appreciative light that lit in his gaze as he took in her attire, or do anything to stop the strange tightening of her skin in reaction.

He hadn’t brought up their kiss, or the fact that she’d punched him, or their moment on the tennis courts, or really any of their physical encounters, nor had he made any further moves, all of which implied that, despite the obvious wine-and-dine attempt and his words to the contrary, he respected her vow.

Now, she just needed to stop feeling disappointed by that fact. It was a good thing—it meant she could relax and actually enjoy this unplanned vacation by smashing the gorgeous man at her side in poker.

He might have had seduction on his mind with the picturesque market and decadent dinner, but to Hel, the true seduction was the downtime. He’d told her to treat the week as an enforced vacation, and that’s what she planned to do.

Not that she intended to cooperate with her own seduction. She simply hadn’t had the opportunity to relax in so long.

She couldn’t remember when. And while they would be worried back