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TWENTY-EIGHT

NOURA

I was surprised at what had just come out of my mouth. I never spoke about my parents. In fact, I tried my best not to think of them.

More surprising than my words though was the way Banks responded to them. He was looking at me with such warmth, with a sort of dazzled, bemused expression in his eyes. Then it changed, his eyes clouding over as some realization dawned. “She was?” he asked.

I shook my head and changed the subject quickly. “So you’ll let him stay?” I could tell that Banks was baffled by Santi, but he’d covered it better than I could’ve hoped for. I’d assumed he’d freak out when he heard.

He sighed. “It’s not a permanent arrangement, I assume?”

I shook my head, beaming because I knew I had just won. “He just needs to get back on his feet. It won’t take long.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen.”

“My God, he’s a child.”

“Only a few years younger than me.”

He flinched. He hated any reminders of my age. Frankly, it was little bit fun to twist that knife.

“How’d you find him?”

I told him the short version of my run-in with Santi a few days previously. It was sadly similar to the way I’d met Jovie. Backstage at a runway show and in a bad way. He was underage, a full-time model, and his much older, fashion designer boyfriend had just kicked him out like last season’s fashion trash. All the beautiful, lost kids in New York wouldn’t fit into my apartment, of course, but how could one more hurt?

Chester’s response to the new addition hadn’t been any better than Banks’.

“You’re turning me into the worst body guard in the world, Duchess,” he’d pointed out. “How can I protect you if you invite every homeless model you meet to live with you?”

I’d smiled at him, knowing from his tone that he wasn’t going to fight me on this. “He couldn’t be more harmless. Surely you can see that.”

Chester had quickly relented with a few reasonable stipulations that involved getting my father-in-law’s approval. I’d dreaded my husband’s reaction, but hadn’t thought I’d have to face it so soon.

Back to the present I was unutterably relieved that he’d taken it better than I could’ve hoped.

I eyed him as I finished my story. He was chewing on his lower lip, his eyes on the front of my sweatshirt.

“Poor kid,” he murmured.

I nodded emphatically. “He had no one to turn to. Nowhere to go. And he’s an absolute sweetheart. I couldn’t help it. I had to help.”

His eyes were on my face now, filled with something that made me ache, made me start to melt, made me look away. His hand chased the motion, cupping my jaw, and turning me back to look at him. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re just too good,” he murmured, drawing me close. “I can’t take it.” With barely leashed ferocity, he kissed me.

Sometime later, his mouth on my neck now, I came back to myself enough to say, “Can we turn on some music or something?”

We were still clothed, but he’d pinned me to the bed, his weight heavy on top of me as he rubbed himself restlessly against me.

He rasped something unintelligible and bit my earlobe.

I repeated myself.

“What?”