Page 102 of Jude

‘Can’t believe my afternoon schedule calls for three press junkets, a radio spot, and a five-course dinner with our European label executives.’

‘You poor thing.’

He chuckled.

‘You sure you don’t want to come tonight?’ Jude asked. ‘Free champagne.’

‘I’d rather eat glass,’ I said. ‘Go deal with the suits.’

He smirked, bending down to kiss my cheek.

‘Fair enough.’

Later, he left in a striped suit jacket and jeans, as always devastatingly handsome.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the suite. Real, deep silence. No mob threats, no demands, no noise.

I changed into an oversized top and shorts, curled up on the velvet sofa with a paperback novel, and ordered another pot of tea.

Jet lag tugged at my eyelids, but I stayed awake, turning pages while the summer sun flooded the room.

My idea of heaven.

The following afternoon, Jude’s attorney, Brian Waring, called.

Jude held the phone between us on the velvet sofa of our suite, allowing me to hear the lawyer’s voice.

‘We secured the expedited green card approval, Jude,’ Brian murmured through the speaker. ‘The consulate officer signed off on the permanent residency visa an hour ago. Sofia is all set.’

A wave of relief hit me hard, surging over me.

Moisture pricked the corners of my eyes in gratitude for Jude, Kian, and the hardworking lawyers who fought for me.

Before the call even ended, Jude pulled me flush to his chest, locking his muscled arms around my shoulders.

He held me, trapping my face in the crook of his neck as silent tears finally spilled over my lashes, soaking into his black shirt.

He just tightened his grip, stroking my back as I let go of the months of terror and fleeing from the mob.

After a few minutes, he eased back just enough to reach into his pocket, pulling out a clean handkerchief.

He slipped it into my palm, using his thumb to wipe a stray tear from my cheek.

‘We did it, Sofia,’ he growled. ‘You’re home and hosed.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Safe and sound,’ Jude rasped.

He stood up, lifting the room service telephone off the marble side table, and made a call.

‘Send up a bottle of your best champagne,’ Jude murmured. ‘The most expensive you have in the cellar. Dom Pérignon, or whatever vintage suits a celebration. Also include a ridiculous dessert, we’re having a mini party.’

Twenty minutes later, a tall, lean man in the hotel’s pristine uniform rolled a silver cart into our suite.

In the center sat the most beautiful confection I’d ever laid eyes on: two giant pink patisserie conches sandwiching a rich, velvety rose-petal crema.

‘It’s called Le Grand Ispahan, with the freshest of fruits and the macaron shells,’ the server announced. ‘Please, enjoy.’