Chapter 2 - The Scent of Citrus and Smoke
For forty-eight hours following the kitchen incident, the Moretti estate existed in a state of suspended animation.
Dean Russo was noticeably absent. Rumors circulated through the basement laundry room that he had been assigned to the cold storage facilities in Jersey City—a demotion reserved for men on the verge of being terminated permanently. The rest of the security personnel treated Claire as though she were manufactured from high-grade dynamite.
Where guards had once ignored her or made pointed remarks as she squeezed past them in narrow hallways with baskets of heavy linens, they now flattened themselves against the wallpaper.
“Morning, Miss Bennett,” one would mutter, looking strictly at the baseboards.
“Excuse me, Miss Bennett,” another would say, stepping out of the elevator before she could even reach for the button.
Claire hated it. Invisibility had been her sanctuary. For five years, she had survived in the world by making herself small, quiet, and indispensable through labor rather than presence. Her previous employer, an elderly socialite on Park Avenue, had fired her after Claire gained twenty pounds during a winter of severe depression, claiming that “a girl of your proportions makes the antique French chairs look flimsy.”
She had learned to carry the shame like a second spine. She wore uniforms one size too large, kept her thick, wavy hair bound in a tight, unyielding bun at the nape of her neck, and avoided mirrors whenever possible.
Yet, here in this sprawling stone fortress on the Long Island Sound, Adrian Moretti had shattered her anonymity with a single command.
On Thursday afternoon, Claire was dusting the library on the third floor. The room was massive, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves housing rare first editions, ancient legal treatises, and leather-bound ledgers. The air was rich with the scent of beeswax, old paper, and lemon polish.
She stood on the third rung of a rolling brass library ladder, reaching for the upper molding with an ostrich-feather duster. Her skirt had ridden up slightly, exposing the curve of her calf and the thick, sturdy turn of her ankle. She felt exposed, even though the heavy oak doors were closed.
“You’re reaching too far. You’ll tilt the balance.”
Claire gasped, the duster slipping from her fingers. It fluttered down like a wounded bird, landing on a leather armchair below.
She spun around on the ladder, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Adrian was standing near the fireplace, an unlit cigar between his fingers. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit without the jacket, his white sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms crisscrossed with old, faded knife scars. He had entered through the hidden annex door—the one that led to his private study.
“Mr. Moretti!” Claire scrambled to descend, her foot catching on the hem of her skirt.
“Careful,” he said.
Before she could slip, he was at the base of the ladder, his large hands planting firmly around her waist.
Claire’s breath caught in her throat. His hands spanned her sides, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh above her hip bones. She was fully prepared for him to recoil—to realize the sheer mass of her compared to the lithe, athletic women who frequented his private dinners—but Adrian did not pull back. Instead, his grip tightened, firm and possessive, as he lifted her down from the rung and set her onto the Persian rug.
He did not let go immediately. His thumbs grazed the linen of her apron, resting right against the warm curve of her ribcage.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his dark eyes searching her face.
“No,” she whispered, her lips parting. She was hyper-aware of the heat radiating from him. Up close, she could see the faint silver threads at his temples and the small, jagged scar that bisected his left eyebrow. “I’m fine. I’m sorry for disturbing your study.”
“You didn’t disturb me.” Adrian slowly lowered his hands, though his fingers brushed lingeringly against her hips as they dropped. “Dean will not be returning to the main house.”
Claire lowered her gaze. “You didn't have to do that, Mr. Moretti. He was just... talking. People talk.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his bronze skin. “No one speaks to the women under my roof that way. Least of all a soldier who owes his life to my family.”
“I’m just the housekeeper,” she murmured, the old defense mechanism rising unbidden to her lips.
Adrian stepped closer, closing the small distance between them until Claire had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The library seemed to shrink, the walls closing in until there was nothing left in the world except his overwhelming presence.
“You are not ‘just’ anything in this house, Claire,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made her toes curl in her shoes. “And you will stop looking at the floor when you speak to me.”
Her breath trembled. “Yes, sir.”
Adrian stared at her mouth for one long, agonizing second, his eyes darkening to the color of wet slate. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked back into his private study, the door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a prison gate.
Claire sank onto the nearest leather armchair, pressing her trembling palms against her burning cheeks. Her heart was beating so hard she could hear the blood roaring in her ears.
May you like
He had touched her waist. And he hadn't let go until he was forced to.
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