by Jianne Carlo
“Probably. Why?”
“Probably?” She interlaced her fingers to resist the sudden urge to smack him—hard. “You don’t know?”
“We did the security for Bacchanal and they gave us lifetime benefits. Haven’t been to the club in years. While I enjoy bondage and role playing, the Dom lifestyle’s not for me. Satisfied, missy?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m beginning to dislike the way you latch onto my thoughts.”
“Don’t. It’s one of the traits that I relish about you—your absolute lack of guile.” He slashed her a wicked grin.
She blinked and looked away. A tidal wave of shame crashed through her. He was going to be furious about her lies of omission. The itch to blurt out her day job occupation near overwhelmed her, but fear of his scorn kept her lips glued together.
He slid her down his body, and she frowned when the soles of her feet rested on his instep. He linked his hands behind her back. “The floor will be cold. I’ll walk you over to the table.”
She chuckled. “I’ve seen this on TV. This is the way fathers teach their little girls to dance.”
For a crazy moment she pictured what kind of daughter they’d have. Brown hair, hazel eyes, a café latte complexion, and she’d be tall. Every instinct told her that he’d be a wonderful father, though wildly overprotective. A shroud of depression enveloped her.
She was never going to have a child. Never know the magic of giving birth. Because for her revenge plans to succeed she had to pay the ultimate price. Until that very moment, she hadn’t had a second’s regret since deciding to go after Malik Mansoor, aka, Bassel Moses via his father, Yaman Moses—a three-term Trinidadian Chamber of Commerce President.
“Angel.” He caught her jaw. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She spread her lips and hoped the teeth-flash imitated a real smile. “A ghost of Christmases past haunted me for a sec. Not going there.”
He studied her features for a long ping-ponging silence.
She concentrated on not averting her stare from his and prayed for forgiveness for her deceit.
“Good. ’Cause if I catch you looking blue once more, I’ll have to dropkick your melancholy into another galaxy.” He settled her into the high chair by the window and set his phone on the table.
A quick grin shaped her mouth. She tapped two fingers to her heart. “No more blues. On my Girl Guide oath.”
“Girl Guide?” He quirked a brow.
“U.K. equivalent of Girl Scouts. You know, because Trinidad was a U.K. colony until 1962.” She sniffed and her stomach growled when the lip-smacking aroma hit her nose. “The lamb stew smells incredible.”
“Agreed. Wine with the stew? I’m thinking a heavy-bodied merlot. Any preferences?”
“Merlot sounds fab to me.” Determined to regain their former camaraderie and keep the mood light, she hunted for a neutral topic.
“I’ll open the wine. There’s rice to go with the stew, too. In the microwave.” He pivoted, and she couldn’t help but stare at his naked butt when he walked to the wine cooler.
“I can’t believe you know how to wine. And to learn on Dollar Wine of all songs. Wait a minute. You’re what? Thirty-six or maybe thirty-seven?” Appalled by her mental exponentiation, she crossed her fingers, and hoped against hope that the conclusion she’d jumped to was incorrect, but she knew his birthday date, though she wasn’t supposed to, and knew her calculations were correct.
“Try thirty-eight.” He removed the aluminum wrapping from the wine bottle and shoved the neck into an automatic opener. The machine whizzed, he flipped the cork onto the counter, plucked two glasses from an open shelf, and made his way back to the table. “Want to do the honors?”
“Sure.” She accepted the proffered bottle.
He set the crystal goblets on the placemat and darted into the cabana bath.
Angel poured the wine into his glass. The merlot was a rich ruby color and glinted like the jewel under the bright overhead lights.
Satan’s phone vibrated, and the display lit up. She read the name of the caller.
Rutger Harlowe.
She stopped breathing. No. It couldn’t be. A thunderbolt of panic hit her. She grabbed the phone, hit End before the second ring started, and dropped the cell onto the table.
The toilet flushed. Guilty horror heated every inch of her flesh. She had to do something to calm herself and hide her expression from him. She nabbed the bottle, half-filled her glass, and replaced the merlot onto the table. Her hand shook so much, the bottle listed before settling. She curled her trembling fingers around her goblet, swirled the wine, and took a tiny sip just as the cabana bath door opened.
Satan loped back into the kitchen wearing a pair of black sweats and headed straight for the pot on stove.
Where had he got the sweats from? Then she remembered seeing the pants hanging from a hook in the bath. She stared at his cell, willing it not to ring again.
Angel decided to take in front. She recalled their conversation in the library about how he learned to wine and remembered her mental calculation.
“You must’ve been all of fourteen when you were in Trinidad for Carnival. Your parents let you go out into the crowds by yourself? In a foreign country?” No way would any responsible Trinidadian parent allow a bare teenager alone during the massive chaos of carnival.
Keep busy. Keep him distracted. Hide the phone.
She hopped off the stool and walked around the table to the chair on which her carry-on rested. Sneaking him a furtive glance, she flipped the lid a tad, and rummaged for her black tights, stretchy navy tank, and matching sweater. A quick over the shoulder peep revealed Satan stirring the pot, his back to her.
She grabbed his cell, checked his position, and quickly placed the phone under the table on the floor. She stood, risked another dart at him, and went light-headed with relief—still stirring the pot. She dressed hurriedly and flinched when metal clanged on metal. A quick peek in the direction of the noise showed him staring at her, arms crossed, hips braced on the island. He wore a wicked, one-sided grin, and she knew he’d watched her shimmy into the tights. A wave of heat, caused by a combination of guilt and embarrassment, doused her cheeks.
“We were traveling on my parents’ yacht. They and their guests had gone to a carnival fete held at the U.S. Ambassador’s house. I was bored and curious.” He shrugged.
How strange. Her parents would’ve been at that same party on that exact day. Had they met? She decided not to pursue that particular point. “The staff on the boat didn’t stop you from going out alone?”
He sniggered. “They wouldn’t have dared. I informed the Captain, who did in fact try to stop me, that I’d have him fired if he did. Told him that I’d stash an illegal substance in his cabin when he least expected it, I’d rat him out.”
Her jaw sagged. She swallowed. “A tich on the vicious side during your adolescence?”
“Try, belligerent, ornery, and full of adolescence angst and anger.”
His tone and clipped delivery sent his message loud and clear. Move on. But she had to know one more thing about his first visit to Trinidad.
“And women came onto you? A fourteen year-old?” She couldn’t imagine him at fourteen. True, Trinidadian females outnumbered males—particularly so at carnival time, and the competition for a man’s attention was ferocious, but being sexually suggestive to a chicken-ribbed boy?
“I looked eighteen.” He chortled. “You should see the expression on your face. Darlin’, I started shaving at thirteen and I grew fast. I was five-ten at fourteen.”
She folded her arms. “Still doesn’t seem right.”
“I lost my virginity that day.”
Too shocked to even attempt to pick her jaw from where it’d gob-smacked the marble, Angel gawked at him.
He rolled a shoulder. “You were wondering if I’d had sex with one of the women. Gonna deny it?”
She took a deep inhale, blew out a long exhale, and met hi
s direct look head-on. “No. You’re right. It doesn’t sound as if your parents were very, um, attentive.”
He laughed out loud, whacked his thighs, and roared until tears streamed down his cheeks.
Unable to resist his infectious happiness, she grinned like a brain-less zombie, and sauntered over to stand right in front of him.
“That was precious.” He swiped the backs of his hands across his cheeks.
Her heart ached for him. “They were like my parents, weren’t they? Children should be seen and not heard.”
“Worse. Children should not have been born. At all. My father never tired of telling the tale where he tried to get the family doctor to abort me when my mother found out she was three months pregnant. She was fifty-seven. He figured I’d be severely retarded both physically and mentally. Not something that’s allowed to happen in the Metaxas line.” He shook his head. “Shit. TMI.”
She planted her palms on either side of her face. “That stinks. How could your own father tell you such a horrible, horrible thing? I hope he suffered when he died.”
The wariness glistening in his eyes receded. He touched a fingertip to her nose. “Sorry. Sorry Angel. I didn’t mean to bring you down. Or to ruin what has been for me, a wonderful and even joyous evening.”
Tears threatened to fall, so she blinked them back, and gave him a tremulous smile. “For me too. I’m so glad I was late for the auction. I’m so glad we met.”
“So am I. You make me feel alive, Angelica O’Malley.” He kissed the center of her palm.
She tingled from scalp to pinky toes. “Right back atcha, Lorcan McGuillycuddy.”
She drowned in his gaze, loved when he covered her hands with his, and idly swept his thumb over her knuckles. “I own a penthouse condo, which overlooks the whole ball dropping scene. Ring in the New Year with me, Angel. We’ll work around your job schedule.”
Chapter Eleven
Satan cussed up a mental blue-balled storm. Angel was going to answer in the negative. The second he made the suggestion, she dropped her gaze, and now studied the base of his throat.
Her dusky lashes fluttered and the rounded mounds of her décolletage stopped rising and falling. Seconds crawled by with agonizing sluggishness. Disappointment and a deep wretchedness sank into his pores.
“Okay.” She met his stare with a quick nod. “But let’s stay here. I don’t want to be in the city for New Year’s. I’m not up for coping with crowds and the whole ball-drop shebang.”
Elation swelled his chest. He smiled so wide his cheeks ached and couldn’t resist knuckling the curve of her neck. The SEAL in him knew when to retreat. “Deal. I’m starving. How about you?”
“You bet. How can I help?” She lifted onto her toes, kissed his jaw, and ducked out of his embrace. “Salad?”
“Done. In the fridge. You can get it out and toss it. Destiny also did cheesy garlic rolls. Too much?” He retrieved two large plates and matching salad bowls, programmed the microwave for two minutes, and grabbed a soup ladle.
“No way. My downfall is bread. Toast is my favorite comfort food and cheesy garlic rolls—heck—totally irresistible.” She opened the refrigerator door.
After setting the oven control to low broil, he unpacked the basket of rolls, threw them onto a cookie tray, inserted them into the oven, and set the timer for five minutes. A light-heartedness he hadn’t felt in a long time prompted him to whistle “Frosty the Snowman.”
“Oooh. Look. It’s snowing again.” Wooden salad bowl in her hands she stared out the window, her expression both dazed and entranced. “Can we step outside after we eat? Just for a few moments?”
Nothing, not a single tear-wringing movie, story, or ad could’ve been more adorable than Angel at that moment. Her blue eyes had gone all wide, dreamy, and glowing. The rapt expression on her face beguiled him.
She whirled around, caught him gawking, scuffed her bare toes on the tile, and ducked her chin. “Guess you don’t get excited about a stupid snowfall.”
“I would if it was the first time I saw snow falling. I’ll do you one better. We’ll go for a ride on my snowmobile after we eat.”
“No way! Omigosh. This is soooooo exciting.” She bobbed from one foot to the other, her excitement and delight both palpable and contagious.
“How come you’ve never seen snow falling?” The microwave dinged, he opened the door, retrieved the steaming rice, and placed the bowl next to the stove. When he checked, she was at the table tossing the salad, half her attention on the lettuce, and half on the flakes drifting to the white mounds carpeting the deck.
She shrugged. “We went on holiday during school summer vacations. My father preferred cruises of either the Caribbean and South America, or the Mediterranean. I went to the University of Miami after high school and then I went back to Trinidad. No snow there. I’ve sort of had my shoulder to the grind since I graduated college and been super-focused on my career.
“When my nonna died two years ago, she left me a letter telling me to take the time to smell the roses. That was when I went to Europe. When I was there, I saw the Alps. You know the whole cable car tourist thing. Since that trip, I really haven’t had the desire to travel.”
Satan heard the regret in her tone and knew she was thinking about her parents’ murders. He opted for a conversational topic change. “Did you try Rösti and Cervelat?”
“I don’t even know what those are?” She crinkled her nose.
“Rösti’s the Swiss equivalent of hash browns. Cervealt is a frankfurter-like sausage popular in Switzerland.” He spooned the basmati onto her plate.
“Oh. I saw the Alps in France. Never been to Switzerland.”
The oven timer went off just as he finished piling rice on their dishes.
“I’ll get the rolls.” She dumped the salad tongs, strode to the oven, reached for a pair of black oven mitts and donned them before opening the door. “O.M.G. These smell so good.”
“They are. I hope they’re the jalapeno ones. Those are incredible.” He lifted the lid off the pot and salivated when the tasty, tangled aromas of cinnamon, garlic, ginger, and gamey lamb hit his nose.
“All of a sudden, I’m famished.” She popped the tray out of the oven, hipped the door shut, and placed the tray on a burner. “Shall I put them back into the basket?”
“Sounds good.” He set the lid handle-down on the counter, ladled the fragrant stew over the long grains, and carried two deep bowls to the table.
She ambled over to his side, positioned the basket in the middle of the table, and arranged two pairs of knives and forks on the green-olive patterned placemat. The lighter auburn strands of her curls took on a golden hue when she bent and reached for a couple of napkins from the ceramic holder. She moved with a lithe grace making the simple act of stretching appear both sensuous and lissome.
He enjoyed even the smallest of her habits especially how she absently rubbed her big toe up and down the length of her other foot and tapped the corner of her mouth when puzzling through something. “A dollar.”
“What?” She whipped around to frown at him. “A dollar?”
“For your thoughts. Figured they were worth more than a penny.” He lowered a bowl to each placemat.
“Weren’t the placemats brown before?” He helped her into the high chair.
He checked out the mat. Shrugged. “The decorator must’ve switched them out.”
“Decorator?” Her brows jackknifed and her eyes went wide.
He repressed a smile, dropped a kiss on her ear, and sat. “I had the master bedroom redone today.”
She gave a tiny headshake and stared at him slack-jawed. “Today? On Christmas Eve? Why?”
“Figured you wouldn’t relish sleeping four nights in my grandmother’s clutter.” He curved his hand around the wine glass. “Shall we toast?”
“I guess.” She picked up her glass. “That must’ve cost a fortune, Satan. You didn’t have to do that just for me.”
“I should’ve
done it before I moved in, but I hadn’t planned on living here for long. To four days of monkey sex and fun.” He had intended to toast new beginnings, but she had gone all serious and remote about him redecorating, and knew it was time to return to their light bantering.
Her saucy grin reappeared. She clinked his glass. “To four days of glorious monkey sex and fun. We’re sure off to a fantabulous start.”
She sipped the wine. “Very nice. I like.”
He liked her. Plain and simple. His hold on the goblet tightened at the unexpected recognition. To cover his surprise he exaggerated the classic wine tasting steps, held the crystal up to the light, and swirled the scarlet liquid. He brought the rim to his nose, inhaled, slugged the merlot, and swallowed. “Agreed. Nice depth to it. Did you bring a ski jacket?”
“No. I don’t own one. This is my first winter. I just have the one coat that I was wearing before. Does that mean our snowmobile ride’s out?” Dismay laced her question.
He hated having to cause her disappointment. “For tonight, yes. You’d be drenched, and we don’t want you catching a cold.”
“Oh well. Not the end of the world. We can still go outside, though right?” She picked up her knife and fork and thoroughly mixed the stew and the rice.
He assessed a few alternatives and came up with a substitute certain to please his Angel. “Tell you what. Sinner, my buddy and partner, and Destiny’s husband, has a sleigh. I’ll borrow it tomorrow, and we can go for a sleigh ride. Destiny will loan you one of her jackets. The day after we’ll buy you a ski jacket and some waterproof pants and do the snowmobile thing. Sound good?”
Her cutlery clanged onto the table. She flung her arms around his neck and peppered his mouth and cheeks with kisses. She froze, drew back, and a frown formed on her forehead. “But, where will we get the horses?”
Dazzled by those few moments of her brilliant, radiant happiness, he had to concentrate to answer her question. “It’s motorized. No horses necessary.”
“Oh.” She blinked and her hands returned to the knife and fork. “I didn’t realize such a thing existed.”