Blindfolded Read Online Free Page A

the bloody hell was wrong with her? She reprimanded herself. She was his prisoner!
    “Y-you promised to describe the room,” Regan whispered, eager to change the subject as he lifted her up to sit cradled in his arms again.
    He tucked her face under his chin, and she inhaled his scent. It was like his voice… warm, comfortable, and very seductive. He also had some stubble that scratched lightly against her face. She resisted the urge to nip him. Stockholm Syndrome? No, not this soon. It was the wine and her despondence that made her so vulnerable to him. She vowed never to drink alone again…
    “Let's see…The sense of the entire house is largely Mediterranean. Light, airy, with touches of blues. This is the living room. I would say it is about sixteen-hundred square feet, and the two main entrances are framed with smooth marbled columns supporting arches. There is a cathedral ceiling with an original hand-painted Di Sotto in Su fresco. The decor is very eclectic, and the center point is my favorite painting. The Kiss, by Gustav.”
    “That's my favorite, too,” Regan muttered, trying to picture the room. “I never wrote about that. How did you know…?”
    He ignored her question, holding her against his warm chest as though he had known her for years. Regan struggled against the fact that it felt… good. She fit perfectly against him. He continued to talk quietly. “She's so content, isn't she? And that tiny smile on her lips says everything is right in the world.”
    “It's because of how he is touching her. She's putty in his hands,” Regan added, her mind recalling the details in the portrait. “He's so gentle, yet she trusts him to hold her upright. Her legs are collapsing underneath her.”
    “And they are in a field of flowers. She's intoxicated by his love. Theirs is a love everyone only dreams of.”
    Regan was silent, surprised by the sensitivity and passion in his voice. “What else is in the room?” she asked quietly.
    “There are large potted palms in wide mouth pots that look like giant, white urns, and a dark wood-grained grand piano stands alone in the corner, next to a vase of forsythias, pussy willows, and daffodils.”
    “Real ones?” she asked, her childlike question was mingled with hope.
    “Yes, darling. Real ones. You make me smile,” he said. “When was the last time you saw those?”
    “When I was a little girl and lived in Long Island. There was a giant hedge… Tell me more about the room.”
    “Tell me about the hedge, Regan.”
    “It’s not important. Please, finish describing the room.”
    “After you tell me about the hedge.” His words were a command, not a request. Regan shivered, pulling into herself.
    “My grandfather used to pick me up after school, and we’d always take the long walk home so we could go by the flowers when they bloomed. There used to be so many different kinds,” Regan said softly, “irises and tulips, lilacs and daffy-ducks.”
    “Pardon?”
    Regan laughed sadly. “I always called the daffodils that. It made him laugh.”
    “You loved him very much, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, more than anyone. He died when I was ten, and my parents wouldn’t let me say goodbye. So every time I see a flower from back East, I think of him.”
    “It’s important to hold onto things like that when we have our sad days, honey. They make us smile,” he said kindly, squeezing her. He continued to describe the room. “The floor is white marble, veined in shades of blue, and is covered by a large, round Persian carpet.”
    “What color?” Regan asked, musing that this was her dream home as he described the cool hues of cream, along with golds, whites, and sharp blues. He went on to tell her about the furnishings, all large and shades of white and gold, low to the floor with touches of wood and iron, massive throws and floor pillows, a tiled fireplace housing a hand-carved hearth, and the whimsical figurines of tiny birds. Regan smiled with