Page 15 of Pandora's Pleasure

He studied me for a long time. “Ten years ago, yes.”

“Was her name Madeline Rhodes?”

“You’ve discovered Google, bravo.”

“Were you in love with her?”

“I was twenty-two.”

That didn’t answer my question.“Are you seeing anyone now?”

“You mean other than you?” He dragged his palms over his face in frustration.

Bastard.

He could have answeredno.

Pivoting, I hurried out of the kitchen, my heart freezing over because he didn’t care about me. Not really.

I could find another lover and cheat—if this was going to be an open marriage. Or I could just give up on finding love altogether. Give up on the chance of happiness.

Climbing the carpeted staircase to the top floor, I began searching for a landline.

I’d call my parents and beg them to extract me from this place. The Godmans weren’t the only ones with a fleet of helicopters.

What looked like the master bedroom was lavishly decorated. Gray and white bed linen covered a king-size bed. Window drapes hung from the ceiling and kissed the floor, giving this room a warmer feeling than those downstairs. More modern artwork hung on the walls. It was impossible to make out what the artist was trying to achieve.

Godman’s eldest son had a favorite artist or maybe this had been picked out by his designer. She probably hated him, too, and this was the only way she could secretly show it—by framing pretentious art that reflected his personality; dead-hearted imagery.

In the bathroom en suite, there were no prescriptions in the cabinet. No heart tablets hinting of a health issue to give me hope. Unfortunately, he looked like he was in prime shape.

I stepped back into the master bedroom with its oceanfront vista, a moving painting that went on forever. I’d get to wake up to this.

Lucky me.

If this was his weekend home, I’d be living in a house as lonely as his father’s back in the city. It made me wonder what that place would be like.

I headed for the bedroom door, my heels clicking on the well-polished floorboards, and paused when I saw a silver picture frame on the mahogany cabinet.

A chill ran up my spine.

I walked over to the photo, my mouth dry as I picked it up. This had been taken the first night I’d danced with Damien at the Debutante Ball in April. His arm was wrapped around my waist possessively. That blissful expression on my face revealing I was overwhelmed with joy to be so close to him. I’d believed my prince had come to rescue me from the tower. How could I have known I was escaping one confining existence to be immediately imprisoned in another?

My lips quivered at the swell of conflicting emotions I was feeling—those crashing waves outside the window reflecting my inner turmoil.

I jolted, realizing that I was no longer alone.

Damien was leaning against the door watching me, his big frame filling the space. I liked him the most when he didn’t speak. It was easier to admire his gorgeous face and suave demeanor and pretend he was a different man.

A tremor went through me as I sensed him undressing me with those dark eyes.

“I want my life to mean more,” I said.

“Not an uncommon desire.” His expression hinted at empathy for our situation.

“How long have you had that?” I pointed to the photo frame.

“Since it was taken.”