It’s one of the traits that I relish about you—your absolute lack of guile.” He slashed her a wicked grin.
She blinked and looked away. A tidal wave of shame crashed through her. He was going to be furious about her lies of omission. The itch to blurt out her day job occupation near overwhelmed her, but fear of his scorn kept her lips glued together.
He slid her down his body, and she frowned when the soles of her feet rested on his instep. He linked his hands behind her back. “The floor will be cold. I’ll walk you over to the table.”
She chuckled. “I’ve seen this on TV. This is the way fathers teach their little girls to dance.”
For a crazy moment she pictured what kind of daughter they’d have. Brown hair, hazel eyes, a café latte complexion, and she’d be tall. Every instinct told her that he’d be a wonderful father, though wildly overprotective. A shroud of depression enveloped her.
She was never going to have a child. Never know the magic of giving birth. Because for her revenge plans to succeed she had to pay the ultimate price. Until that very moment, she hadn’t had a second’s regret since deciding to go after Malik Mansoor, aka, Bassel Moses via his father, Yaman Moses—a three-term Trinidadian Chamber of Commerce President.
“Angel.” He caught her jaw. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She spread her lips and hoped the teeth-flash imitated a real smile. “A ghost of Christmases past haunted me for a sec. Not going there.”
He studied her features for a long ping-ponging silence.
She concentrated on not averting her stare from his and prayed for forgiveness for her deceit.
“Good. ’Cause if I catch you looking blue once more, I’ll have to dropkick your melancholy into another galaxy.” He settled her into the high chair by the window and set his phone on the table.
A quick grin shaped her mouth. She tapped two fingers to her heart. “No more blues. On my Girl Guide oath.”
“Girl Guide?” He quirked a brow.
“U.K. equivalent of Girl Scouts. You know, because Trinidad was a U.K. colony until 1962.” She sniffed and her stomach growled when the lip-smacking aroma hit her nose. “The lamb stew smells incredible.”
“Agreed. Wine with the stew? I’m thinking a heavy-bodied merlot. Any preferences?”
“Merlot sounds fab to me.” Determined to regain their former camaraderie and keep the mood light, she hunted for a neutral topic.
“I’ll open the wine. There’s rice to go with the stew, too. In the microwave.” He pivoted, and she couldn’t help but stare at his naked butt when he walked to the wine cooler.
“I can’t believe you know how to wine. And to learn on Dollar Wine of all songs. Wait a minute. You’re what? Thirty-six or maybe thirty-seven?” Appalled by her mental exponentiation, she crossed her fingers, and hoped against hope that the conclusion she’d jumped to was incorrect, but she knew his birthday date, though she wasn’t supposed to, and knew her calculations were correct.
“Try thirty-eight.” He removed the aluminum wrapping from the wine bottle and shoved the neck into an automatic opener. The machine whizzed, he flipped the cork onto the counter, plucked two glasses from an open shelf, and made his way back to the table. “Want to do the honors?”
“Sure.” She accepted the proffered bottle.
He set the crystal goblets on the placemat and darted into the cabana bath.
Angel poured the wine into his glass. The merlot was a rich ruby color and glinted like the jewel under the bright overhead lights.
Satan’s phone vibrated, and the display lit up. She read the name of the caller.
Rutger Harlowe.
She stopped breathing. No. It couldn’t be. A thunderbolt of panic hit her. She grabbed the phone, hit End before the second ring started, and dropped the cell onto the table.
The toilet flushed. Guilty horror heated every inch of her flesh. She had to do something to calm herself and hide her expression from him. She
She blinked and looked away. A tidal wave of shame crashed through her. He was going to be furious about her lies of omission. The itch to blurt out her day job occupation near overwhelmed her, but fear of his scorn kept her lips glued together.
He slid her down his body, and she frowned when the soles of her feet rested on his instep. He linked his hands behind her back. “The floor will be cold. I’ll walk you over to the table.”
She chuckled. “I’ve seen this on TV. This is the way fathers teach their little girls to dance.”
For a crazy moment she pictured what kind of daughter they’d have. Brown hair, hazel eyes, a café latte complexion, and she’d be tall. Every instinct told her that he’d be a wonderful father, though wildly overprotective. A shroud of depression enveloped her.
She was never going to have a child. Never know the magic of giving birth. Because for her revenge plans to succeed she had to pay the ultimate price. Until that very moment, she hadn’t had a second’s regret since deciding to go after Malik Mansoor, aka, Bassel Moses via his father, Yaman Moses—a three-term Trinidadian Chamber of Commerce President.
“Angel.” He caught her jaw. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She spread her lips and hoped the teeth-flash imitated a real smile. “A ghost of Christmases past haunted me for a sec. Not going there.”
He studied her features for a long ping-ponging silence.
She concentrated on not averting her stare from his and prayed for forgiveness for her deceit.
“Good. ’Cause if I catch you looking blue once more, I’ll have to dropkick your melancholy into another galaxy.” He settled her into the high chair by the window and set his phone on the table.
A quick grin shaped her mouth. She tapped two fingers to her heart. “No more blues. On my Girl Guide oath.”
“Girl Guide?” He quirked a brow.
“U.K. equivalent of Girl Scouts. You know, because Trinidad was a U.K. colony until 1962.” She sniffed and her stomach growled when the lip-smacking aroma hit her nose. “The lamb stew smells incredible.”
“Agreed. Wine with the stew? I’m thinking a heavy-bodied merlot. Any preferences?”
“Merlot sounds fab to me.” Determined to regain their former camaraderie and keep the mood light, she hunted for a neutral topic.
“I’ll open the wine. There’s rice to go with the stew, too. In the microwave.” He pivoted, and she couldn’t help but stare at his naked butt when he walked to the wine cooler.
“I can’t believe you know how to wine. And to learn on Dollar Wine of all songs. Wait a minute. You’re what? Thirty-six or maybe thirty-seven?” Appalled by her mental exponentiation, she crossed her fingers, and hoped against hope that the conclusion she’d jumped to was incorrect, but she knew his birthday date, though she wasn’t supposed to, and knew her calculations were correct.
“Try thirty-eight.” He removed the aluminum wrapping from the wine bottle and shoved the neck into an automatic opener. The machine whizzed, he flipped the cork onto the counter, plucked two glasses from an open shelf, and made his way back to the table. “Want to do the honors?”
“Sure.” She accepted the proffered bottle.
He set the crystal goblets on the placemat and darted into the cabana bath.
Angel poured the wine into his glass. The merlot was a rich ruby color and glinted like the jewel under the bright overhead lights.
Satan’s phone vibrated, and the display lit up. She read the name of the caller.
Rutger Harlowe.
She stopped breathing. No. It couldn’t be. A thunderbolt of panic hit her. She grabbed the phone, hit End before the second ring started, and dropped the cell onto the table.
The toilet flushed. Guilty horror heated every inch of her flesh. She had to do something to calm herself and hide her expression from him. She
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