How could he even manage a grin?
To make matters worse, we had not been intimate during his time in Paris. After the night he refused to allow me to touch him, it was all breathless kisses and then temperate cuddles afterward. We were still climbing the hill of intimacy.
Sexual deprivation was no friend of mine. Neither was the loss of what I had again in my life.
“What’s that you’re cooking again?” He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring. “And how much longer?”
He has adamnfinenose. Sharp edged, though it was wide enough for his face.Perfect.Oh God, everything about him was gorgeous, even down to his nostrils.
I waved a hand, my sour mood back. The oncoming loss of all that beauty stung. “I’ve told you four times. Boeuf Bourguignon. And it’ll be ready when it’s ready.” I slapped at his hand when he attempted to steal a piece of meat.
He pulled back a touch of broth and licked his finger. “Yeah,” he said. “I just like to hear you say buff.” His interpretation ofboeufwasbuff.
“Music,” I said, feeling my temper rise. “Pick some music.”
A few minutes later, the soft melody of a song found me. Putting aside the filling for Quiche Lorraine, I listened. He had picked an old Jim Croce ballad. He sang about time in a bottle.
“This will do.” His arms slid around my waist.
“Yes,” I sighed. “It’ll do.”
“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered, starting to move me from side to side. “I like this.” He took a handful of the long lavender cashmere sweater. “And this.” He took more fabric in his hand, pulling at the mauve silk slip dress underneath.
I gave him access to my neck, and his mouth seemed to move in time to an unspoken need. One hand skimmed up, guiding the fabric away from my breast, exposing me to the cold air and his eager touch, and the other slipped underneath my dress, fingers gliding over curves, a magnet to the throbbing pulse. Wrapping my arms around his neck, closing my eyes, I gave him more freedom to explore with his mouth.
The front door swung open, laughter meeting us before we pulled apart—our bodies separated, but our eyes locked. There was so much between his eyes and mine, more than there ever was.
Emilia and Colette had returned from the store with the rest of the party in tow.
“I—” I couldn’t finish. I wasn’t even back to myself.
He nodded, a serious look on his face, resuming his spot against the counter.
Dinner seemed to pass in an infuriating blur. Instead of being saddened, my irritation tripled, and time for goodbye came before I was ready.
Before Violet left, I asked to speak to her in private.
This led to a shouting match, something we had never indulged in before. I said things, she said things, and come the end, we were not on speaking terms. Mick gave me a tight hug but followed behind her, not sure what else to do.
Brando had planned to stay with me until it was time to leave in the morning.
After Violet left, he found me sitting on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down my cheeks.
He knelt on one knee in front of me, one big hand against my leg. The color of our skin contrasted like night and day.
“I—” I sucked in air, sniffing up tears and then releasing a sob. “I—I told h-her t-that it-it wasn’t right.” A deep breath in. “That I—I h-had to s-say s-something again.”
Words left me then, too overwhelmed by emotions. Violet meant so much to me. So did Brando. Even more. And he was leaving me. I cried harder. When coherent words could form, I tried again.
“I told her before.” I met his eyes. “When we were in California. I told her not to marry Mick if she was truly in love with Mitch. Even.” Another shaky breath left my mouth. “Even if Mitch didn’t want her. It wasn’t fair to her or to Mick, or to Mitch, if he truly loves her too. I see the longing in her eyes. It doesn’t seem right.”
“You did the right thing, baby.”
“It seems much worse. Somehow. Brothers.”
He nodded. “Mick knows. He knows she loves someone else.”
“He does?”
