Page 62 of The Princess and the P.I.
The rest of the night was solemn. Fiona spent most of her hours in the basement of Maurice’s condo calming her sister and telling her everything.
She knew that there was still the clear and present danger of who had killed Sara.
She’d promised her father that she and Maurice would figure it out.
And he believed her. Had even said, I know . The two words filled her with pride.
By two a.m., she was stepping up to the main floor of Maurice’s condo.
She found him in his quilting room, shirtless, slim gold chain swinging, bent over the large wooden table.
“I thought you were sleeping downstairs.” He pinned a square on a dark piece that Fiona wanted to run her fingers across. Abstract, almost like a painting, with sweeping curves and deep blue waves. She didn’t have to ask who or what this quilt was about.
His plaid pajama pants sat low. A dark trail of hair led her eye down toward the shadowed outline of his length.
He looked back at her with sad eyes.
“Do you make a quilt after you solve every case?” Fiona asked.
The stretch of his back over the wide table made Fiona’s throat dry.
The muscles rippled beneath his skin like water over stones. His hands moved with precision, smoothing the quilt with a care so tender it felt intimate.
She thought, wildly, of wanting to be that quilt, to hold his focus like that, to feel the weight of his attention pressed into her joints.
“Go back downstairs, Fiona.” Maurice’s tone was a warning.
Does he hate me? He had solved the case—no thanks to her—and he would have no qualms about locking up her father tomorrow. Would probably relish it.
“Maurice, I didn’t know.”
Maurice pinned the last square and stepped out of the craft space. He didn’t want her in this room—in his heart.
“I figured that out about halfway through,” he said flatly and stepped around her down the hallway. “I have no doubt that if you knew what your father knew, you would have killed Robert Thorpe yourself.”
Fiona didn’t know what to ask of him, but she followed him down the hall anyway.
“Why didn’t you tell me David was harassing you?” Maurice asked.
“I didn’t know it was him.” She had to hurry to keep up with him.
“But you knew you were being harassed,” he said.
“Maurice—” She faltered. She didn’t know what to say, because what she really wanted was for him to perform a magic trick.
Presto chango, Fiona doesn’t feel hollowed out inside.
He had told her once that it was okay to take something for herself sometimes.
But he had already padded away to wash his face in the en suite bathroom.
Maurice’s bedroom looked and probably was professionally designed. The bed itself had a low, minimalist frame made of dark, polished wood that popped against the crisp, white bed linens.
A large, dramatic abstract painting hung above the bed.
Within this perfectly ordered Better Homes one arm secured her wrists, and the other was positioned strategically across her heavy breasts, restricting her movements.
“I wasn’t ready.” She breathed in, and her breasts seemed to balloon around his forearm.
The pressure of his grip was intoxicating—tight, solid, immovable. For a moment, she sighed into him, letting his elbow press into her pillowy cleavage, pushing her soft behind into his slim hips.
“That was the point, Fiona.” Her pulse spiked at the low timbre of his voice, at the way her name sounded like something reverent in his mouth.
Drawing a deep breath, Fiona shifted her weight, trying to destabilize him.
She stomped hard on his foot, and his grip flinched.
She used her elbow to jab him in the ribs, creating just enough space to wriggle free.
Maurice rubbed his side where she had elbowed him.
Her eyes lit up in delighted surprise. “You tried to trick me!”
He moved the crate out of the field of play. “In real life, fights aren’t fai—”
He didn’t finish the last part, because she swept her leg and tripped him. He narrowly avoided her and still managed to land on his butt.
Fiona collapsed onto the floor next to him, breathless with laughter, clutching her stomach. She hadn’t laughed like this in…forever. She stretched out her leg, her foot accidentally tapping the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Something shifted with a soft click .
Maurice sat up immediately. “Oh no. Tap that again, and it’s gonna open a weird door.”
Fiona froze, her grin widening. “Maurice. You need to tell me right now if you have a dungeon.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just another way out. People only look for exits at eye level, so—“
“Misdirection?” She smirked, tapping the book again.
Maurice touched his finger to his nose. “Okay, yeah, clever girl.” Maurice cracked his neck with exaggerated menace. “I tried being a very nice boy. Now I’m kicking your ass.”
She shimmered with joy, real and unexpected. Goodness, when he looked at her like that. Like she was something precious and wild…
He was doing that thing. Bringing her focus down to one, vital moment.
She’d been shattered into a million jagged pieces tonight, too scattered to think, too broken to mend. She wanted him to make her feel whole. She only wanted to feel one thing, not one hundred. His weight over her, his breath in her ear. Make me feel something else, Maurice . Just for tonight.
“Maurice, I want you to give me a new feeling. Can you do that?” Fiona asked.
Maurice blinked, turned to face her like she’d just offered to donate a kidney on a whim, and nodded dumbly.
A minute later, she rummaged through a velvet bag, vibrators, spermicide, flavored condoms.
“I want that film.” Fiona tapped the box, pushing aside the condoms. “The spermicide that dissolves.”
His mind raced ahead of hers. “No condoms?”
“I mean, we’ve been tested.”
“Very.” His voice came out too tight, like he was carefully cutting the red wire on a bomb, half expecting the whole room to go up in flames.
Fiona watched Maurice with growing confusion as he got up and paced around the bedroom. He had the energy of a theater kid before an audition.
“I just…want to be sure you’re sure,” he said carefully.
Fiona tilted her head. “You want a notarized affidavit?”
“No, no. It’s just…you’ve had a night, Fiona. A night. Maybe you’re not thinking clearly.”
She folded her arms. “I’m not drunk, Maurice.”
“No, but you’re…vulnerable.” He grimaced like the word physically hurt him. “And this isn’t something I want you regretting tomorrow.”
Vulnerable. That word had teeth. He was right, but it was the very reason she wanted this—to borrow courage—do some alchemy, change the chemistry of her brain.
“I think we both know regret doesn’t always work like that. It is more often what you didn’t do when you had a chance that haunts you,” Fiona said.