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gaze on me.
    “You’re dying with curiosity,” he drawls in that husky baritone. “Come on, Ms. Lynch, spit it out.”
    I should have known. Roman could never relax that much, beyond the ability to observe and notice every little detail.
    And I wasn’t going to probe. Now that he’s given me permission, though… “How are you related to the Kleighnorms?”
    He blinks, and the expression on his face tells me this was not the probe he’d been expecting. “I’m not.”
    “Okay, it’s just that when Connor spoke about his wife… It doesn’t matter.” What exactly did he think I was curious about? “I didn’t mean to pry.”
    “It’s not a state secret, Ms. Lynch.” He sips from his glass, watching me over the rim. “I lost my family when I was young. My parents and my elder sister.”
    “Oh, Roman…”
    “I was seven,” he cuts in smoothly. “It was a long time ago. The executors of my father’s estate decided it would be best to place me in permanent boarding at Bishops.”
    At the age of seven? My heart goes out to him, but this time I swallow the words that sound too much like pity.
    “Jean and my mother were close friends and Connor petitioned, unsuccessfully, for custodial guardianship,” he continues. “They were, however, granted visiting privileges and from then on, I spent my holidays and half terms here at Kleighnorm.”
    “You’re not related,” I say softly. “But he is family.”
    Roman throws back the remaining inch of amber whiskey and brings his glass down. “The last of what I have left.”
    There’s no edge to him in this moment. He’s not irritable at having shared his family history. He’s not laying down any more ground rules or preparing to deliver a lesson.
    He’s just a man looking at me with the unmistakeable depths of want and exposed hunger in his eyes.
    The air thickens, that heated look stretching as he closes the distance between us in two slow steps. Every second tightens another thread of desire pulling low in my stomach.
    I know what he sees in my eyes. The hot mess of my own want, need, longing.
    His hand lifts, his fingers feathering through my fringe and down my temple, over my cheek, beneath the line of my jaw with a firmness to keep my chin nudged high although I have no inclination to drop it whatsoever.
    The back of my knees soften.
    My lips feel swollen and he hasn’t even lowered his mouth a fraction.
    He presses the pad of his thumb to the corner of my mouth, dragging my lower lip slightly down. “I’m not going to kiss you, Ms. Lynch.”
    The words aren’t spoken harshly, but they have a finite ring. This isn’t a rejection. The grey in his eyes has turned to silver fire. He wants to kiss me, but he will not. The decision has been signed and sealed, boxed and stored.
    “Why?” A moan of frustration and disappointment escapes me. “Why not?”
    “Because I think you would be very…” That thumb drags over my lower lips, then falls away, “…very bad for me, Ms. Lynch.”
    I’m the bad influence in this relationship?
    What relationship, Keegan?!
    This is what Roman does to me. He melts my body and turns my head inside out. He is very, very bad for me. But I don’t have his iron self-control. I could make the decision, that’s the easy part, but there is no way in hell I’ll resist the next time he traps me alone.

 
    9
     
     
    A LIGHT DUSTING of snow covers the ground the next morning. The view from my bedroom window looks over the courtyard and stretches up the dramatic slope of a mountain that disappears into the black, churning sky. The promise in those heavy, burdened clouds triggers my happy mood. I’m pathetic when it comes to snow.
    I slip into jeans, a fresh long-sleeved tee, and a thick jumper that creeps up my throat to cuddle my chin. My boots are the opposite of sexy, but fur-lined and toasty on my toes.
    Roman Rocchi can bite my butt.
    That’s the big decision I make while I dress.
    I don’t expect that decision to