Page 81 of Inferno

After a while, Stan had gotten up to take Maddox’s soiled clothes downstairs to the washing machine. After sending the others to bed—Manning had graciously offered to sleep in the basement so that Mason could have his bed in case Maddox was contagious—Stan had returned to the boys’ room to find Prissy fast asleep.

As he stood in the doorway gazing at mother and child, a fierce wave of protective tenderness washed over him. His family meant the world to him. He couldn’t bear the thought of being removed from their lives. It was unimaginable.

Swallowing a hard knot of emotion, he walked over to the bed and leaned down to press a tender kiss to his son’s warm forehead.

Feel better, champ, he silently mouthed.

Then, moving carefully so as to not waken the boy, Stan lifted Prissy into his arms, switched off the bedside lamp and strode from the room.

As he carried Prissy down the staircase, her eyes slowly opened and focused on his face above hers. His heart thudded as he met her gaze.

She didn’t speak, and neither did he.

Reaching their bedroom, he closed the door and carried Prissy over to the bed. He set her down gently,thenknelt before her. He knew she was exhausted. She’d stayed late at the office nearly every night this week gearing up for the bond election, and then she’d been out past midnight helping to decorate the hotel ballroom. In all likelihood, she’d spend the rest of the weekend nursing Maddox back to health while Stan was at work.

Holding her gaze, he reached under her silk gown and began peeling off one thigh-high stocking. Prissy closed her eyes as if she were in pain.

As he slowly rolled the sheer nylon down her smooth leg, she stopped him.

“I can take it from here,” she murmured.

Stan hesitated, then nodded and reluctantly moved back.

She finished removing the stockings, then slid off the bed and started across the room.

Stan sat on the floor with his back to the bed and watched as she went through the motions of undressing by unzipping her gown from the back and dragging it down her body. After draping the dress over a chaise lounge, she reached up and painstakingly unpinned her hair, letting the thick black tresses tumble about her face and shoulders. When she stood in her strapless lace bra and panties, Stan’s groin heated, and he lamented that their evening would not end with passionate lovemaking, as he’d hoped.

He stared at Prissy as she unhooked her bra, then crossed to the cherry dresser and opened the top drawer. Instead of reaching for one of his CFD T-shirts that she’d long ago confiscated, she chose a long cotton nightshirt.

Stan hung his head, suffering the subtle sting of her rejection.

When she’d finished changing, she reached up to remove her diamond choker. But her fingers were trembling, and she fumbled with the clasp until Stan got up and walked over to help her.

He didn’t release the catch right away, stealing a few moments to inhale the sweet fragrance of her hair and her warm, silky skin.

When he lingered too long, she reached back impatiently. “I’ll do it.”

“No,” he murmured. “I got it.”

Slowly he slid the necklace off, letting his knuckles skim the nape of her neck. She shivered at his touch,thenreluctantly turned to accept the choker from his hand.

They stared at each other.

“Baby—” he began.

She abruptly stepped past him, crossing the room to return the necklace to her jewelry chest.

Pushing out a deep breath, Stan unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and tugged the shirttail out of his waistband as Prissy padded into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wrap her hair in a satin scarf.

When she emerged a few minutes later, Stan was perched on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped between his legs, debating how to tell her that he’d come to believe he was going to die in a fire, and so strong was this premonition that he’d recently taken out a second life insurance policy to doubly ensure that she and their children would never want for anything long after he was gone.

Prissy walked over to the bed and sat down to perform her nightly ritual of moisturizing her feet with cocoa butter. Before she could open the jar of cream, Stan picked it up and set it down on her nightstand.

As she stared at him, he sank to his haunches in front of her, bringing himself to eye level with her.

“Pris.”His voice was low, husky with suppressed emotion. “I need to talk to you.”

She raised a weary hand. “Please,” she murmured. “Not tonight.”