Pregnant By Morning

“What’s your favorite color?”

“That’s more like forty-seven notches. I don’t have a favorite color. I like the rainbow.” Someone bumped into her, shoving them closer together, not that he minded. “What’s yours?”

The smell of her hair weakened his knees. Outside, it hadn’t been so noticeable, but in the close, heated confines of the room, the exotic scent curled through his nose. Even her shampoo was unearthly, as if he needed another reminder they came from different worlds.

“Black. It goes with everything.”

“How practical. I like that in a man. Where were you born?”

“Dallas. And please don’t ask me if I’ve met J. R. Ewing. I’ve never been to Southfork, and I don’t watch the TV show.” That was one constant about Europe. Everyone knew Dallas from either reruns of the old drama or the reboot version on cable. “What about you?”

“Toronto. My mom moved to Detroit when I was a baby and became a U.S. citizen. That’s where I grew up.”

So maybe their worlds weren’t as far apart as he’d assumed. “You’re American?”

The silence stretched long enough for Matthew to wonder if he’d said something to offend her. But she had to know her ragged voice didn’t carry a discernible accent and was unusual enough to warrant such a question.

“I’m nothing and everything,” she said with a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “Usually I tell people I’m French Canadian. But I haven’t been to Toronto in years. Or Detroit for that matter.”

“Is your mom still in Detroit?”

“She lives in Minneapolis, for now, working on her fourth marriage. I have fam—other people in Detroit.”

Other people? He didn’t ask. The undercurrent of pain in her voice had been strong, and if she’d wanted him to know, she’d have said.

“Your home is in Europe then?”

“Or wherever the wind takes me.” She injected a note of levity, but he wasn’t fooled. Nowhere felt like home and it bothered her. “Do you still live in Dallas?”

“No.” Lack of a home was something they shared. He’d sold his house, his car, everything. The only possessions he had to his name were the clothes in the closet at the palazzo and a few childhood mementos stored in his parents’ extra bedroom. “I’m going where the wind takes me, too.”

At least until he found the way home.

She stopped dancing and collided with the next couple, earning a dirty look from them. Impatiently, she pushed Matthew off the dance floor toward the side wall and peered up through her mask, eyes liquid with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For whatever happened.”

She didn’t question him,, though she could obviously read between the lines as well as he could.

A wave of understanding rippled between them. Both of them were searching. Both of them carried secrets full of pain and misery and loneliness.

They weren’t different at all.

She whispered, “I’m glad the wind blew us to the same place.”

All pretense of speed dating evaporated. Something much more significant was happening.

“Me, too.”

Amber’s death had broken his heart, nearly broken him entirely, and he couldn’t fathom feeling that strongly about anyone else. For months and months, he’d despaired of ever feeling anything again, and like a foghorn echoing through the mist of his grief, this gravelly-voiced fantasy had appeared.

She was a gift, one he wasn’t ready to give back.

No, he didn’t want a one-night stand with some random woman, but he couldn’t resist exploring what two damaged souls might become to each other.

With his brain firmly in command, he drew her hand into his and smiled.

“Instead of directions upstairs, I have a better idea. Come home with me.”

* * *

Home. Evangeline liked the sound of it. She’d never had a home.

She’d had new stepfathers every few years. A half sister, Lisa, whom their father had obviously preferred since he’d married Lisa’s mother. Plenty of hotel rooms and airplanes—all of that, she’d had.

She wished she could indulge in something so simple, so achingly honest as home. But imagine if she took off her mask and Matt turned out to be a reporter. Or worse.

At Vincenzo’s, masks were part of the ambience, the anonymity. Masks kept things surface level. Masks kept a man at arm’s length and promised nothing more than one night, a brief, sizzling interruption of loneliness. Masks prevented rejection. And scars. She’d had enough of both, thanks.

And there was no doubt Matt had a couple of his own scars.

With a light laugh, she blinked at him coquettishly. “What are you proposing?”

“A continuation. No exes. No crowds. No rules. Just me and you and whatever feels right.”

Oh. That might be okay. “What if I wanted to keep our masks on? What would you say?”

“No rules. For anything.”

Her insides shuddered deliciously. “That’s a little open-ended. How do I know you aren’t into some very naughty things?”

“You don’t. We’re both taking a leap of faith.”

The wicked gleam in his eye didn’t reassure her, but it certainly piqued her interest. “I might be into naughty things.”

“I’m counting on it.” He tugged her hand as the music switched to another electronic number. The crowd went crazy, pressing in on them from all sides. “Come on.”

To her left, she glimpsed Sara Lear posing for a picture with two men in drag. Rory was nowhere in sight, but he might pop up again at any moment. That decided it. The last thing she wanted was to be at this party alone, constantly reminded of how she wasn’t Sara.

Matt was clearly lonely, too. She’d head in his direction and see where it led.

“Let’s go. Right now.”

He kept her hand in his and led her out of Vincenzo’s palazzo via a side entrance. They crossed a moonlit courtyard and climbed an ornate outer staircase to the second floor. Matt held the door for her to enter ahead of him. Lights flashed.

“Welcome to Palazzo D’Inverno,” he said.

Evangeline’s breath stalled in her throat. Relief frescos lined the walls and extended to the ceiling, where the colors exploded into Renaissance-style art of unparalleled beauty. Modern terrazzo floors studded with chips of marble and granite spread underneath her feet and met three sets of glassed French-doors leading to what appeared to be a marble balcony overlooking the Grand Canal.

Three long leather sofas in sea-foam green formed a U in the center of the living room, and all three afforded an amazing view of Venice, lit for Carnevale with breathtaking splendor.

“This is unbelievable.” There were no other words. Vincenzo’s palazzo had been in his family since the time of the Medici but it couldn’t hold a candle to this one. “I had no idea anything like this still existed in Venice.”

Matt’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Keeps the rain out.”

“Whoever owns this place hit the jackpot. You’re lucky they agreed to rent it out. It’s amazing.”

He shot her a quizzical look. “I’ll be sure to pass on the compliment.”

“Do you have all three floors, or just the piano nobile?”

“Top two. The bottom floor isn’t restored. The bedrooms are upstairs. Would you like to see them?”

“Was that a line?” She grinned at his chagrined expression. He was endearing in a way that shouldn’t be possible in conjunction with his forceful, compelling personality. “If so, I must say it worked extraordinarily well. I not only want to see the rest of the house, purely for aesthetic reasons of course, but I want to get out of this dress in the worst way.”

She took a step toward the twisting staircase, but he tugged her back and pierced her with his beautiful crystalline eyes, capturing her gaze with his and refusing to let her go.

“Angie, I didn’t invite you here solely to get you naked. When I said no rules, I meant no expectations. If nothing happens, that’s all right. I don’t mind if we talk until dawn. Whatever feels right. Remember that.”

“Matt—” The rest froze in her throat.

He was nothing like the people in her world. He carried a hint of vulnerability, a depth that pulled at her. And his restraint—that she couldn’t fathom. All the men she knew took what they wanted, when they wanted it.

Not this one. He was very clearly telling her she still had choices, regardless of how brazenly she’d thrown herself at him all night. He didn’t just see her as an outlet to slake his thirst but as a valued companion. That was powerful. And seductive.

She whispered his name again. “I don’t mind if we talk, either.”

She never talked. Talking sucked, especially when the sound of her own voice made her cringe. But they both deserved to have choices.

“Is that what you want?”

She craved the attention of this man, who seemed to understand exactly what she needed, when she needed it. To understand the weight of loss and the pain of being adrift, desperate for an anchor.

Something momentous swelled in her chest. “I just want to be with you.”

“You’ve got me. For however long you’d like. I’m not going anywhere.” As if to prove it, he lowered the lights, creating a romantic ambience instantly. He sat on the couch and spread his hands. “Think of me as a smorgasbord.”

She laughed, and it blew away all the thick implications of the moment.

“Now that’s something I’ve never had before. By the way, I wasn’t kidding about getting out of this dress. I can hardly breathe, and it’s heavy.”

“Would you like a T-shirt?”

“Um, not really. What I’d really like is your help.” She stepped out of her heels, crossed the room and sat on the couch facing away from him. “The laces in the back are too hard to reach.”

“What would you have done if we hadn’t connected? Slept in it?”

Connected. That hit her in all the soft, warm places again. This was a connection, a greater one than she’d been looking for, or had expected, and far more precious—thanks to the custom of wearing masks for Carnevale. She’d never have let her guard down otherwise.

“I would have figured out something,” she murmured as he gently lifted her curls and swept them up over her shoulder. Her skin prickled as she felt his gaze on the bare expanse from her hairline to the strapless bodice.

His hands skimmed down her back on either side of the wings, stoking the fire he’d built on the balcony, which hadn’t extinguished at all. Those strong fingers pulled on the threads, unknotting them and drawing them through the grommets with deliberate, aching leisure.

She kept expecting to feel his lips on her shoulder, on the column of her neck, or at the place where fabric met her skin. But the longer he held back, and the longer her skin burned for his touch, the crazier it drove her.

Yes, he was a master at this anticipation game. Among other things. When she finally got him naked and under her, she’d show him a thing or two.

Except she still wasn’t sure they were headed for the bedroom. It was disorienting to have her temporary, surface-level liaison morph into something undefinable. Something so much more than a quick fix for loneliness.

So what was it?

Finally, after an eternity, the laces pulled free from the bodice, loosening the corset and spilling her breasts partially over the neckline of the dress, and he still hadn’t made a move.

“It, uh, has to come over my head,” she said without turning around. She raised her arms. “Can you...?”

He grasped the bodice but she was sitting on the skirt, so she wiggled and he pulled, until the yards and yards of lace tulle eased past her waist. The mask popped up onto her forehead, but she repositioned it before the skirt fully came off.

Then she was naked except for her thong. And the mask. What would he do first? The way he’d answered that question back on the balcony had been maddeningly vague.

He draped her dress over the back of the couch. She faced the canal, away from Matt, and he had yet to say a word. Screaming sexual tension whipped through all her nerves until she thought she’d pass out.

“So. What did you want to talk about?”

His soft laugh settled inside her. “I’m wondering about this.”

He traced the trail of eight notes tattooed in a string at the small of her back. The smooth touch unleashed a tremor she couldn’t control. “It’s a tattoo.”

“The notes are all the colors of the rainbow. I like it.”

No one had ever noticed that before. “Music is important to me.”

It was more than she’d meant to say and communicated none of the shock of pure grief the words had unearthed. She shoved the grief back, like she always did, shoved back the longing for a voice to express the pain. If she had a voice, she’d have no pain to express. It was a cruel, vicious circle she couldn’t escape.

Except this was one night she didn’t have to face the darkness alone. “Matt.”

“Angie.”

The smile in his voice warmed her. “Just making sure you’re still there. Are we going to talk some more or is there something you’d like to do instead?”

“Was that a line?”

“Yes. It was.” The ache at her core spread, and only the man behind her could ease it. She’d never wanted to be with someone more. What did she have to do to get him to make a move? “Obviously not a good one since you’re still sitting there like yo—”

“Stand up and turn around, Angie.”

She did slowly.

His hooded gaze swept her from head to toe, lingering along the way and unleashing a delicious tingle in all the places his eyes touched.

“You are the most beautiful woman alive. Come here.”

He grasped both her hands and stood to meet her. In one breath, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

Flames exploded at their joined mouths, between their bodies, crackling down the length of her bare skin where the soft fabric of his suit brushed it. Oh, how wrong she’d been. He was a man who took what he wanted. And he wanted to consume her whole.

She wanted to let him.

They connected. On every level.

When he tilted her head back to access her throat with his firm, gorgeous mouth, their masks caught at the corners. Patiently, he disentangled them and glanced down into her eyes, suddenly still. “No expectations. Does this feel right?”

Without warning, he skated a hand down her spine and fanned it at the small of her back, cradling the tattooed music notes in his capable hand as if he knew he held her very center.

Her eyelids fell closed and she moaned. “More right than anything I’ve ever felt. Please don’t say you’re really in the mood to talk.”

He laughed against her throat, and she felt the caress of his lips clear to her toes. “I’m not. But I would be happy to talk, if that’s what you wanted.”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, terrified she’d dislodge his mouth from her skin. “I want you.”

“Good. Because I’m about to make love to you.”

Yes, she wanted that, too. To be filled by this very different man, to the brim. To connect, bodies and minds. Souls.

He threaded a hand through the hair at her neck, his fingers solid and firm against it. “Angie,” he murmured, almost reverently.

“Stop.” Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Baffling, irrepressible tears because she wanted something else from him, something she’d resisted all evening. “Just stop.”

“Okay.” His hands withdrew and the sudden lack of support buckled her knees.

“No! Don’t stop touching me. Stop calling me Angie.” Before her subconscious could come up with one of the hundreds of reasons it was a dangerous idea, she reached up and yanked off her mask. “My name is Evangeline. Make love to me, not the mask.”

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