Free A Lion After My Own Heart by Cassie Wright Page A

looking back.
    "You have a place here? I thought -"
    Alexander gives me a look over his shoulder that I can't decipher. Bitter amusement? Defeat? Wry acceptance? "I knew that I'd come back one day. That I might never truly escape. No matter how hard I fought. Come."
    And so I follow.
     

Chapter 9
     
     
     
    I don't know what to expect, but somehow his place defies my imaginings yet seems more perfect than anything I could conceive. I'd envisioned some kind of ostentatious penthouse, impossible as that might be in this small town, or a mansion, but instead Alexander's place is a brick-walled loft in a converted building across from the Conway Studios, right by the river. The wood floor is the color of honey, and a black iron chandelier hangs from the high ceiling way overhead. A corner of the loft is a minimalist kitchen, and black iron stairs like a fire escape rise up to a small second floor that must house his bed and little more, and which opens to look down on the ground floor.
    It's gorgeous, perfect, small yet airy. Sunlight pours like molten gold through the high windows as the sun dips toward the western mountains. An L-shaped brown leather couch faces a fireplace, a thick white rug like a polar bear skin beneath it.
    There's nothing else here. No dining table. No framed pictures. No knick-knacks, none of the stuff that people collect as they go through life. And yet, the few elements that are here speak to who Alexander is. The sunlight. The open space. The brown leather couches. The fireplace, old coals in the grate. Simple. Light. Warm.
    The door swings behind me and Alexander moves to the kitchen where he opens a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. Not turning to me, he unscrews the cap, pours two fingers into a glass, and then looks over at me, one eyebrow raised. I shake my head, and he screws the cap back on and then turns, glass in hand, to lean against the counter and stare at me.
    I drift into the center of the room and pause by one of the couches, tracing its contours with the tips of my fingers. The couch looks and feels delicious. Sleeping on it must be a pleasure. It's large enough that I could stretch out and still not be cramped. Then again, I'm not very tall.
    "So." I turn to him. The momentum I had from before has dissipated, and now I feel awkward. "You were going to tell me about your past?"
    Alexander sips his drink, eyes gleaming over the edge of his glass, and doesn't respond.
    I swallow, trying hard to not make it a gulp. I have the urge to fidget and adjust my clothing. Yet I can't look away.
    "Um. Do you want me to ask questions?" Still no answer. I'm starting to get really nervous now. I lick my dry lips, my throat having turned to sandpaper, and something in his eyes seems to quicken.
    "Why are you here?" His voice is almost dangerously soft.
    "Why? Because - because I have a story to -"
    "No." His voice cuts me off with complete confidence. He sets his glass down and begins to walk toward me. My heart does a back flip, and I almost trip as I stumble back. "Why are you here?"
    "What?" My mind is racing. "I told you, I have a story to write. My editor -"
    "No, Myra." It's the first time he's used my first name. "I look in your eyes and I see more than a story. I can smell you, and your scent burns with need. I can hear your heart racing. Tell me. Why are you here?"
    My tongue is a block of wood. He's stalking toward me, a lion with no rush, approaching prey so mesmerized it doesn't know it should run. "I - I want to give you a chance to tell -"
    Then he's right there in front of me, an inch separating his broad chest from mine. My skin feels flushed, and I can't tear my eyes away from his face. His body. My panties are wet, and I stand stock still. If I move, I'll grab him by his golden hair, rake my nails across the golden fuzz that burns across his jaw.
    "Tell me." His voice weakens my knees and my will. He looms over me. I've never met a man this demanding, this authoritative,