“With that hair?” I scoffed. “I wouldn’t believe it either, if I didn’t live with you.”
He became silent for a few minutes. Then he grinned. “That still hits me. We live together.”
“I know,” I said, smiling like a young, foolish girl. “And we’re almost home.”
* * *
The house was quiet, but the glow of all the lights made it seem safe and warm. Once safely inside, Brando took my jacket and then removed his.
“You’re not wondering where the men are?” I rubbed my arms to dislodge some of the lingering chill from outside.
He shook his head. “You gave them the night off. They’re staying at Romeo and Juliette’s place.”
I opened my mouth to respond but then closed it.
“Baby,” he said, sweeping me off my feet, going toward our bedroom. “I know all. Nothing escapes me when it has to do with you.”
“Beast,” I whispered.
“I’m a man made up of the basics.” He grinned at me.
No one would ever use “basic” and “Brando Fausti” in the same sentence, much less think it.
He threw me over his shoulder, making noises that made me laugh. I pounded on his back when we entered our room, demanding that he put me down.
Setting me down gently, he took in the room. I had asked Lou to set up a white fur rug before the fireplace, set out champagne, two flutes, and the card I had bought for Brando on the same small table. A bouquet of pink roses in a silver vase stood out on the mantle. I didn’t ask for those.
“You bought yourself roses,” he said.
“No,” I said, eyeing them. “I thought they were from you.”
“No.”
He took the roses and searched for a card—there were two.
Scarlett, these were delivered for you.
Lou
Another was tucked deep inside the roses.
A rose for a rose. Your favorite.
The card wasn’t signed.
I sucked in a breath, my hands shaking. “Do you think…?”
Brando’s jaw ticked, his eyes hard on the card. “No,” he said. “Nemours wouldn’t have sent these. They’re pink, for one. For another, he sends them in a certain way. He doesn’t deviate. He wasn’t sending them to be friendly; he was sending them to make a point.”
Nemours still hadn’t been found. No trace of him, and no trace of the man who looked like him, the man who had approached us in Paris. More than likely, he was dead.
Brando refused to believe that Nemours had been killed in a car accident. I tended to believe him, though it was nice to relish the thought, as horrible as that made me. Safety had become a luxury.
Brando turned from me, lighting the wood in the fireplace, causing shadows to stretch and dance along the walls. The fire highlighted the veins in his arms. I traced one with my fingertip and then entwined our fingers together.
The warmth of his skin against the chilliness of mine made me feel safe.
“If these are not from Nemours…” My voice trailed, my mind going where my heart refused to. A vision of wildflowers from the year before came unbidden to my mind. I refused to even entertain the thought. I absolutely refused to voice it aloud. I decided to change the subject. “Brando?” I whispered. “I have a gift. I wanted to wait until we were home to give it to you.”
