Julianna

Almost fourteen years… and I still haven't gotten her justice.

I'm sorry, mama.

I laid down white peonies against her pale headstone and stepped back to stand at the base of her plot. I folded my fingers together in front of me, staring at the elegant clusters of still-closed petals, a brush of pink at the tips. They had been her favorite. She used to dress the house in them, generous bunches spilling over the tops of clear vases set on the surface of every table. She'd brush the petals lovingly every time she passed them, the same way she used to brush against my cheek. My heart squeezed. For a second my emotions threatened to spill over.

I wrestled them into control in a tight space in my chest. Fourteen years. Fourteen years and it still hurt that she wasn't here anymore, the wound as raw as it was when my heart was first torn open. It could not heal without answers, answers I'd failed to deliver. There was no moving on without closure. The need for justice still burned through my veins.

"Happy birthday," I whispered to the silent earth. She would have been forty-seven today if fate hadn't taken her away from me. I would have woken up early and snuck over to my parents' house. My father and I would have made a huge stack of blueberry pancakes and fresh coffee and crowded them onto a tray. My father would have carried it into the room that my parents' shared, me in front holding the pot of milk and jug of maple syrup. She would have pretended to still be sleeping as we burst in, waking her up with my off-key singing and my father's magnificent alto voice, one that rivalled Pavarotti. My mother was always up at the crack of dawn, except for her birthday, when she "slept in" to let us surprise her. She would have sat up in bed, the most beautiful woman in the world, even without a stitch of makeup, clapping her hands and laughing as we jumped in around her and spoiled her with flowers, gifts and breakfast in bed that we shared from one plate using three forks.

I never heard my father sing again after she died.

I glanced at my watch before looking around the deserted cemetery. Where was my father? He was supposed to be here by now.

On sunny days this place looked peaceful, but on days like today, the overcast clouds made the gravestones seem all the more solemn and dull. I felt very, very alone, the only heart beating in a field of dust and silent memories.

A sound made me turn my head. Someone was approaching and approaching fast. A tall, dark figure came leaping out past the corner of the huge mausoleum before me. I opened my mouth to let out a noise of surprise. Until I saw him.

My breath was trapped under the thick knot that developed in my throat. Everything above it—my mouth, my tongue, my lips—all went dry. My heart began to thump against my ribs. I could hear the glugging sound of my blood in my own ears. Suddenly I felt dizzy, my mind going blank except to focus solely on the sight of him. Was I having a heart attack? Surely not. I was only twenty-five for God's sakes. What was happening to me?

Somewhere deep inside, I was vaguely aware that I was staring. I should look away. I should say something. Anything.

I opened my mouth and…

Nope, nothing. How curious. My voice seemed to have stopped working.

My eyes kept working, though. They drank in the sight of him from head to toe as he pressed his back against the mausoleum, his hands gripping the stone. He was so beautiful that it hurt to look at him. Like I was staring at the sun, his image burning a permanent mark on my brain.

His dark hair was long, almost too long, curling over his collar, tousled and messy like he'd run his hands through it a few too many times today. It was done in a way that looked incredibly sexy, like he'd just rolled out of bed. His deep-set, hooded eyes were dark, either deep chocolate or black; I couldn't tell from where I was standing. Framed by thick black lashes and dark brows, they were much too intense, like two black holes drawing my awareness towards him. The features of his face were expertly put together like an artist had sculpted him: straight nose, high cheekbones, smooth light-brown skin, a hint of stubble shadowing his strong square jaw.

He was tall, his wide shoulders and thick torso evident even through the tailored black suit jacket he wore unbuttoned, showing a white shirt underneath and a slim black tie which sat slightly askew. Even this didn't make him look unkempt but rather roguish instead. His trousers matched, fitting perfectly, showcasing strong thighs. His black leather round-toed shoes were expensive; I guessed Armani or Gucci.

He had a sophisticated polish to his air, like he was born wearing a suit and yet… there was something dark about his demeanor. Something rough. Aggressive. Like he'd fit just as well in a boxing ring or wearing a black leather jacket and straddling a bike. Like he'd give me a run for my money in a shoot-out.

What a curious combination. One I'd never seen before. I'd met plenty of men. They were always one or the other. Either educated and well-mannered yet almost feminine in their polish. Or coarse and brutishly aggressive without a scrap of sophistication.

He raised a hand and pressed a finger to his lips, making a shushing motion. God, those lips. Even from here I could see they were thick and pillowy; the kind of lips that were made to suck and nibble on.

Whoa. Julianna. Where did that thought come from?

Heavy footsteps came towards us, echoing off the gravestones. I tore my eyes off this curious stranger. On one side of the mausoleum a wiry man in a dark suit and black leather gloves approached, a nasty-looking scar going from his left ear across his cheek and to the corner of his lip.

Instinctively I leaned back. All my years as a trained police officer gave me a second sense for bad men. He was one of them. It was something in the cruel whip of his mouth, in his eyes… they were dull and flat, like no spark of life or humanity was left.

I fought a shiver, my fingers going to my hip. Shit. No gun. I was off-duty today. I had a piece in my car parked in the lot about a ten-minute walk from here, but it was no use to me now.

Scarface halted at the sight of me, pausing for a second, probably wondering what to do now. I dropped my gaze, hoping he would ignore me.

"You." His voice was harsh and rough like someone who'd spent too many years smoking cigarettes. He spat out his words as if he was angry that I was even here.

I looked back up to him, willing myself to remain calm even as he glared at me as if he was picturing cutting me into little pieces. I would not attack first, but I would defend myself.

"Did you see a man coming by here?"

It clicked into place. Scarface had been chasing the beautiful man still hiding against the mausoleum wall right in front of me. A man that Scarface would see if he took two steps forward.

A protectiveness rose inside me. Scarface could not have him.

"I did," I said. Even though I took pains not to glance in his direction, I could sense the beautiful stranger flinching, no doubt wondering if I was going to give him away. I had to speak fast so he wouldn't do anything stupid. "He went running that way." I pointed out towards my left, towards the other side of the cemetery.

Scarface glanced over to where I had pointed. He looked back to me, doubt clear in his narrowed eyes. "That way? You're sure?"

"Good-looking guy in a black suit, running bent over? He went that way," I said casually as if I didn't care whether Scarface believed me or not.

"Good-looking," Scarface muttered. He snorted. "Yeah, that's the bastard."

He turned and ran through the gravestones in the false direction I had given him. He didn't even say thanks. Rude prick. In case he decided to glance back, I lowered my eyes back to my mother's grave.

My awareness drew back to the beautiful stranger. I could feel his eyes on me, making every inch of my skin become super-aware; I could sense where the air met my bare forearms, feel my hairs standing on end, feel the way my breath caught in my lungs. Or was I just imagining that he was looking?

I glanced up. Sure enough, his eyes were focused on me. My stomach did a shaky little flip. Why was he staring? It was making me feel…weird.

I forced my eyes back down to the grave. I wasn't sure I could stand to maintain eye contact with him while he was looking at me like that. Maybe if I ignored him he'd go away?

Not a chance. The stranger pushed off the stone and strode towards me, causing my gaze to jerk involuntarily up to him again. He moved like a panther, proud and prowling, powerful strides making me want to back up. My heels wobbled in the grass and I longed for something to grab on to.

He stopped at the back of my mother's headstone and placed his hands lightly on the top of the gray stone. We were only meters away from each other now, separated only by a grave's length. It felt too close. His eyes were intense, focused on me, yet revealing nothing, while I felt like an exposed wire, an open book.

Say something, Julianna. Something. Anything!

Weirdly, my voice had stopped working. Why was I reacting this way to him? I had never reacted like this to anyone before.

He spoke, breaking the silence. "You didn't have to help me."

Holy shit. That voice.

I learned in high school science about how sounds at certain pitches could make a tuning fork hum, but only at the perfect frequency. Whatever frequency his voice was, I had been tuned to it. It sent a vibration through my body unlike anything I've ever felt before. Deep and raspy, it was the kind of voice you'd hear on an old-time jazz vocalist. The kind of voice that induced images of sultry summer nights, soft sheets and nothing but skin on skin. It wasn't fair. That voice on this man. It was too much. Too much beauty. Too much…sex.

Somehow my voice kicked in. "I know I didn't have to help you." I gave him a half-smile. "Obviously, I have a soft spot for damsels in distress."

He laughed. The sound was glorious, rich and rolling and full. I wanted to weave his laughter into a blanket and wrap it around me. I grinned at him like a fool, pleased at myself that I could elicit such a warm response from such a stunning-looking man.

"Well," he said after his laughter had faded, "thank you, my valiant knight." He bowed low, making me blush.

I turned my face towards the direction where Scarface had disappeared to. "I don't suppose you'd tell me why you're running from him?"

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."

"Try me."

His lips twitched before he spoke. "I just arrived in town for a funeral. I thought I could fly in, come straight here and fly out tomorrow without having to see my father but…he's determined to pin me down."

His father? I tried to picture Scarface birthing the god before me. I couldn't. How could such beauty come from such ugliness? "You're right. I don't believe you. That man looked nothing like your father."

He looked like he was about to say something else about it, but he didn't. "Are you here visiting someone?" He indicated the grave between us, firmly changing the subject.

The sadness I'd been feeling before he showed up leaked back in. Funny how it seemed to have disappeared around him. I nodded down at the grave, pinpricks behind my eyes. "Yes."

"You loved…him?"

"Her. My mother. Deeply."

"I know what that's like." His voice was tight and low, pain squeezing out between his words. "I lost my mother too."

Strangely, my pain eased, soothed by the silence that descended over us. A shared silence. A moment of perfect understanding, when you both spoke without words. I'd only ever shared these moments with my mother, who had been my best friend when she'd been alive. Now I was having this moment with a perfect stranger…a beautiful, intriguing stranger.

I was about to blurt out everything I had been thinking about perfect moments when my phone rang, saving me from myself. My heart sank when I saw the name across the screen. I knew what was coming. I should have expected it.

I answered the call, feeling the beautiful man's eyes on me. "You're not coming, are you?" I said into the receiver, my voice working around the golf ball at the base of my neck.

"Sorry, honey," my father said. "Work."

"Of course." It was always work. My chest tightened.

"I'll come by later for dinner, okay? Your place? About sevenish?" Which meant I'd be lucky if he arrived by nine p.m.

"Sure." I hung up, staring at my mother's grave again, gripping my cell in my hand. Her fucking birthday and he couldn't make this one day a priority. He couldn't make me a priority. Work needed him so he went. Work always needed him. What about when I needed him?

I let out a curse as bitterness flooded over the back of my tongue. Before I could stop myself, I threw my phone. It hit the ground and bounced once before half disappearing in a cluster of untrimmed grass. I could feel the beautiful man's gaze on me like a cloak. I pressed my hands into my face to avoid his scrutiny, embarrassed that I had let a stranger witness this rare show of emotion from me. He probably thought I was mental.

"Are you okay?" The concern in his voice was a finger plucking on my heart strings.

I sucked in a breath and wiped under my eyes before lifting my head. He'd walked between the gravestones over to my phone, picking it out of the grass. I didn't move to take it from him.

"It's my father," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "He was supposed to meet me here. It's her birthday. Was her birthday today." I didn't know why I was telling him. I didn't even know his name.

"But he's not coming."

I shook my head, a fresh wave of anger causing me to grit my teeth.

"I'd be angry too."

"I'm not angry…" I was lying. It was probably so obvious to him. I sighed. "Fine. I am angry."

"And you have a right to be." He paused. "My father…angers me too."

"Which is why you run away from him." I shook my hair out of my face. "I only wish that my father noticed me enough to chase after me."

I had said too much. I had said too much to a beautiful stranger who made me feel unsteady, like my world was tipping, who somehow made me talk so openly. If I spent any more time with him I just might spill all the deepest, darkest secrets of my heart.

"I should go," I said suddenly.

Something in my chest let out a disappointed thud, even though I was the one instigating goodbye. I realized I wanted him to stop me.

He nodded. "Thanks again for throwing him off my trail. You didn't have to. I'm glad you did."

I sagged a little. He wasn't going to stop me. How silly. Saying one thing, wanting another.

"You can pay it forward." I turned to walk away. Before I could take a step, I heard him clear his throat. When I looked back he was holding out my phone, a tiny smirk on his face.

Right. I needed that.

He didn't move, forcing me to close the distance between us. I walked on unsteady feet, choosing my heel placements carefully so that I didn't trip, the tightness in my chest growing the nearer I got to him.

I stopped before him. This close I could see his eyes were a deep, rich chocolate, tiny flecks of amber in them. I could smell him, an intoxicating mix of spicy wood and a hint of citrus; pure masculinity. I was suddenly overcome with a ridiculous urge to push my nose into his jacket.

He dangled my phone out in front of me. I reached out to take it. He snatched it out of my reach. "First, your name," he said, his eyes twinkling with playfulness.

"Julianna Capulet," I said.

He spoke my first name, drawing out the ahhh in Julianna like a moan. It caused a strange sensation in my lower belly.

"And yours?" I managed to squeak out.

"Roman. Roman…Lettiere."

Roman. I repeated the name in my head, trying to taste it on my tongue but daring not to speak it, like perhaps saying his name would somehow curse me, binding my soul to this beautiful devil forever.

"I suppose I owe you your phone back." With his eyes still on mine, he held his hand in front of him and opened his fingers. My phone was sitting in his palm like a treat. I was a dog being coaxed to come closer. I will not be intimidated, I lectured myself. He's just a man.

No, not a man. A god and a devil in one.

As I closed my fingers around the phone, I brushed his palm with my fingertips. An electrical current leaped from his skin, traveling up my arm. Before I could yank my hand away, his other hand closed over mine, trapping me in his large, warm hands.

"Julianna?" The way he said my name sounded like a caress. I sucked in a breath as a strange wave of heat ran through my body, radiating from the place where he touched me. "A few of us are having a few drinks tonight at Club Luxe at ten o'clock. You should stop by."

I felt like I was floating on a sea of his voice and his touch. I think I gave him a shaky, uncommitted nod/shake of my head.

"Words, Julianna. I need words."

I managed to snap partially out of my reverie. It was his touch! How could anyone concentrate with this man's hands on them? "Maybe." It was all I could promise. I wasn't sure if I could handle being so affected like this.

"If you don't show up, I'll be incredibly disappointed. I'll have to come get you," he said, in a calm yet firm tone.

What?a part of my brain screamed at me. His casual dominance was unnerving. Usually, I was put off by such cocky, domineering alpha-hole men. He made it seem…sexy. He did it in a way that made me feel…wanted. Not owned.

"What do you say, Jules?"

Jules. He had nicknamed me. I loved it.

No, how dare he presume to nickname me. I should be offended.

"Fine," I said, so he would let me leave. I wouldn't go. Going to a club alone, in a sea of faces, to meet him? He'd probably forget about me the second I walked out of his sight. His casual threat was empty anyway. He had no idea where I lived. Because of my job, my address was unlisted.

"‘Fine' what?" he asked, still not letting go of me.

This man was sharp. I doubted anyone ever pulled the wool over his eyes.

"Fine, I'll come."

He grinned, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. I realized too late that what I'd said had been taken the wrong way. "Oh," he said with a chuckle, "I have no doubt you will."

A hot flush went through me. Liquid heat pooled between my legs, making me tense. This wasn't a heart attack. This was early menopause. Can a woman get menopause in her twenties?

He bent over, his eyes still drilling into mine, to brush his full lips across each one of my knuckles. That single touch was enough to elicit a soft moan from me. I promptly cut it off by snapping my mouth together. Jesus Christ. A heart attack and menopause.

I snatched my hand holding my phone from his. "Well. Bye, then." I spun and walked off as fast as I could without toppling over in my heels. Well, that was…odd. Glad that was over. I felt his gaze burning into my back.