Postcards From Rome. Maisey Yates

legs were shaking and that she had no idea how she was supposed to walk in heels that were tantamount to stilts.

      He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, propping his chin on his knuckles. “Of course, some people obey more quickly than others.”

      “Did you want me to break an ankle? Because I guarantee you if I walk any faster I’m going to.”

      He moved swiftly, his movements liquid, his grace making a mockery of her own uncertain clumsiness. He stood, reaching across the space between them and sweeping her up into his arms. Then he turned, depositing her in the chair he had occupied only a moment ago.

      She pressed her hand to her heart, feeling the rapid flutter beneath her palm. Her throat was dry, her head feeling dizzy. Her body felt warm. As though she had been burned all over. His arms had been wrapped around her, her shoulder blades pressed up against that hard, broad expanse of his chest.

      That was what stunned her most of all. Just how hard he was. There was no give in him at all. His body was as unbending as the rest of him.

      He turned away from her, facing the rack of clothing and the stack of shoes that was beneath it. “If you cannot walk then you will not present a very convincing picture. We don’t want you to look as though you were only polished today.”

      “Why? Why does it matter?”

      “Because I associate with a very particular kind of woman. I do not need my parents thinking that I swooped in and corrupted some innocent, naive backpacker.”

      It took her a moment to process that. She wondered if he really believed that she was naive and innocent. She was. It was just that he had never seemed particularly sold on that version of her.

      “They would believe that?”

      He laughed, not turning to look at her. “Oh, yes. Easily.” Then he bent, picking up a pair of bejeweled, flat shoes before facing her again. He moved back to where she was sitting, dropping to his knees before her and making a seeming mockery of her earlier thought that he was unbending.

      “What are you—”

      He said nothing. Instead, he reached out, curling his fingers around the back of her knee. The warmth shocked her. Flooded her. He let his fingertips drift all the way down the length of her calf, the touch slow, much too slow. Something about it, about that methodical movement, seemed to catch her at the site of their contact and spark through the rest of her. Reckless. Uncontrollable.

      She fought the urge to squirm in her seat. To do something to diffuse the strange energy that she was infused with. But she didn’t want to betray herself. To betray that his touch made her feel anything.

      He grabbed hold of the heel on her shoe and pulled it off slowly, those searching fingertips dragging along the bottom of her foot then as he removed the shoe.

      She shivered. She couldn’t help it.

      He looked up then and a strange, knowing smile tilted the corner of his lips upward. It was the knowing that bothered her more than anything else. Because she was confused. Lost in a sea of swirling doubts and uncertainty, and he seemed to know exactly what she was feeling.

      You do, too. You aren’t stupid.

      She gritted her teeth. Maybe. She really wished she were a little bit more stupid. She had tried to be. From the first moment she had laid eyes on him, and he had looked back at her, she had done her very best to be mystified by what all of the feelings inside her meant.

      She wasn’t going to give a name to them now. Not right now. Not when he was still touching her. Slipping the ornate flat shoe onto her foot, then moving on to the next. He repeated those same motions there. His fingertips hot and certain on her skin as he traced a line down to her ankle, removing the next stiletto and setting it aside.

      “A little bit like Cinderella,” she said, forcing the words through her dry throat.

      Not that she’d been allowed to read fairy tales growing up, but a volume of them had been one of her very first smuggled titles.

      “Except,” he said, putting the second shoe in place, then straightening, “I am not Prince Charming.”

      “I didn’t think you were.”

      “Good,” he returned. “As long as you don’t begin believing that I might be something I’m not.”

      “Why would I? I’m actually not just a stupid backpacker. I already told you that my family situation was difficult.” She took a deep breath, trying to open up her lungs, trying to ease the tension in her chest. She wasn’t bringing up her family for him. She was bringing them up for her. To remind her exactly why being bound to someone—anyone—was exactly what she didn’t want.

      She wanted freedom. She needed it. And this was a detour. She wouldn’t allow herself to become convinced it was anything else.

      She would enjoy this. The beautiful clothes, the expertly styled hair. She would enjoy his home. And maybe she would even allow herself to enjoy the strange twisting sensation that appeared in her stomach whenever he walked into a room. Because it was new. Because it was different. Because it was something so far removed from where she had come from.

      But that was all it was. It was all it would ever be.

      “But now,” he said, looking down at her feet, “you will be able to walk into my parents’ home tonight without falling on your face. That, I think, will be a much nicer effect.”

      He stood completely and held his hand out. She hesitated, because she knew that touching him again would reignite that burning sensation in the pit of her stomach she had when he’d touched her leg. But resisting would only reveal herself more. And she didn’t want to do that.

      And—she had to admit—she had perversely enjoyed it. Even though she knew it could never come to anything. Even though she knew there was nothing she could do beyond enjoying it as it was, as the start of a flame and nothing more, she sort of wanted to.

      And so, she reached out, her fingertips brushing his palm. Then, his hand enveloped hers completely, and she found herself being pulled to her feet with shocking ease. In fact, he pulled her to her feet with such ease that she lost her footing, tipping forward and moving her hands up to brace herself, her palms pressing flat against that rock-hard chest.

      He was so... He was so hot. And she could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath her touch. She hadn’t expected that. She wondered if it was normal for him. For his heart to beat so fast. For it to feel so pronounced.

      And then she had to wonder if it was related to her. Because her own heartbeat was thundering out of control, like a boulder rolling down a hill. It wasn’t normal for her. It was because of him. And she couldn’t pretend otherwise, not even to herself.

      Was that why? Was that why his heart was beating so fast? Because she was touching him? And if so, what did that mean?

      It was that last question that had her pulling away from him as quickly as possible. She smoothed the front of her dress, doing her best to take care of any imaginary wrinkles that might be there, pouring her focus into that, because the alternative was looking at him.

      “Yes,” he said, his voice hard, rough, infused with much less ease than seemed typical for him. “Tonight will go very well, I think.” And then he reached out, taking hold of her chin with his thumb and forefinger. He forced her to look at him, stealing that small respite she had attempted to take for herself. His eyes burned, and she wasn’t sure if she could still somehow sense his heartbeat, or if it was just her own, pounding heavily in her ears. “But you will have to find a way to keep yourself from flinching every time I touch you.”

      Then, he dropped his hand, turning away from her and walking out of the room, leaving her alone. Leaving her to wonder if she had imagined that response in him because of the strength of her own reaction, or if—somehow—she had created movement in the mountain.