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Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Is it a kitten?”

“No.”

“Then your opening needs work.” She grinned.

I led her upstairs, past our bedroom and the guest room, to the narrow door at the end of the hall. The room beyond had once stored security equipment, spare communications systems, and emergency supplies I had already duplicated in three other locations.

Now it held a broad cutting table, two dress forms, adjustable task lighting, garment racks, locking tool storage, and enough open shelving to hold as much fabric as she wanted to order. One wall remained empty for sketches. Another held a corkboard and a row of narrow drawers.

Alessia walked inside slowly. “You made me a studio,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

“This is your home,” I answered. “I wanted your work, your passions, to have space inside it.”

Alessia crossed to the cutting table and lifted a length of black velvet from the new collection. She carried it to the doorway, then draped it across the hallway floor directly in the path I had just walked. After smoothing one edge flat with the toe of her shoe, she returned to stand in front of me with an expression of complete innocence.

“I have a confession,” she whispered. Her expression was adorably defiant. “I put that there on purpose.”

“I assumed.”

“It violates the no-fabric-in-walkways rule.”

“I wasn’t aware I’d made such a rule.”

“It’s in the fine print of our marriage contract. And I remain unrepentant.”

“Clearly.”

Alessia removed the leash from the pocket of her bag and clipped it to the collar around her throat. She placed the handle in my palm, her expression warm, and quite deviously wicked.

“What does Daddy do with a pet who creates disorder in her brand-new studio on purpose?”

I wrapped the leather loosely around my hand.

“He teaches her to keep very expensive velvet off the floor.”

EPILOGUE

Alessia

Four months later…

Nocturne called during Sunday supper because a man in a five-thousand-dollar jacket had forgotten that no touching was a rule that we enforced without question, regardless of the price of the suit. Some things changed, but some men remained determined to be idiots.

I stepped away from Maxim’s dining table and answered on the second ring; the rest of the table continued talking loudly enough behind me that Gavin had to ask whether I was inside a restaurant or a small riot.

“Neither,” I said. “It’s a Morozov family dinner. So, both.”

“Right. That’s worse.”

“Tell me what happened,” I pressed.

“A guest grabbed Celeste’s wrist when she ended the dance. Security removed him from the room, but he’s demanding a refund and threatening to call his attorney.”

“Flag his account. He doesn’t get a refund. Pay Celeste for the full booking and give her the rest of the night off if she wants it.”

“He spent thirty thousand dollars last month.”

“Then he can afford an attorney.”