Page 102 of Morally Black Betrothal

Brendan shoved a hand through his hair and massaged his neck. “I, ah, should show you your room.”

“You mean my floor?”

One side of his mouth twitched. “I suppose. My bedroom is upstairs, and there is a kitchenette up there too. If you want to keep things separate, the only time you’ll have to see me is when I get the elevator.”

He almost looked sad. Like some kind of hope had been dashed.

“Brendan, no. I was joking. This place is palatial, and there is plenty of room for us both onbothfloors, obviously.” I looked around the kitchen. “Besides, I’ll need someone to eat the practice recipes. Don’t you want to taste the fruits of what you’ve installed here?”

That full mouth quirked again. Maybe the bashful smile might make a comeback one more time.

“I might. This way.”

I followed him back to the entrance, where he grabbed my suitcase. On the other side of the elevator, a hallway led to other rooms blocked from the rest of the airy apartment: a gym, an office he said was the “spare”, a sauna, a miniature movie theater, a library, and three guestrooms—one of which had apparently been designated mine.

Brendan stopped outside the last door. “There’s a bathroom en suite. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “You don’t want to come in here with me? Are there plush bathrobes or cupcake-shaped pillows that are going to make me cry again?”

“You…want me in your bedroom?”

Yet again, the levity disappeared, replaced by something much more potent. I didn’t understand it. It wasn’t like this was Victorian England and a man coming into my bedroom would cause some terrible scandal. Still, just the suggestion caused all sorts of visions to skip through my head. One of those large hands slipping around my waist again, pushing me backward into the room. Brendan’s lips on mine as we tumbled onto a bed. My skirt, pushed up my thighs as he stepped between them…

“I…”

That forested gaze met mine with such intensity, I backed into the door as if he had pushed me.

“I suppose not,” I breathed.

He examined me for one moment. Then, ever so slowly, he leaned in to feather a kiss across my cheek. His stubble scraped next to my ear. “Good night, Simone.”

I shivered. “Good night, Brendan.”

I had edged inside, half hoping he might snatch me back out and devour me the way I’d just been imagining. He didn’t, but when I closed the door, the remnants of his shadow pooled from underneath it. I watched that shadow for a solid minute before it finally receded. Then I turned and discovered the last surprise of the night.

It wasn’t the furnishings or the view, though both were as gorgeous as the rest of the apartment. Nor was it the king-sized bed or the bathroom a girl could host a party in.

No, it was the way the suite was completely and utterly…mine.

All my things were here. Photo albums, well-worn books, the few pieces of art I had on my walls. Even a jewelry box, full of my mom’s old pieces that would never fit in with Brendan’s crowd, sat on the bureau next to the maple-shaped necklace tree from which my mother’s pearl necklace hung.

My clothes were here too. Every last piece Ruth had deemed so unworthy was hanging in the closet.

I’d told him to leave it all in Jamaica Plain. Instead, he’d gone ahead and made (or had one of his “people” make) this place my home as much as it could be, understanding even better than I did how much I would need it to face the months ahead.

Yet again, I was overwhelmed—this time, with gratitude.

That is, until another question occurred to me.

Was it possible that after less than a day in each other’s company, Brendan Black somehow knew me better than I knew myself?

Was that something that should make me feel comforted in this scheme?

Or even more worried about what The Black Prince might do with that knowledge once he had it?

24

BIG MISTAKE. HUGE.