He didn’t need to fake the smile that curved his lips when he pushed open the door to the Cadogan House kitchen and saw her.
Margot wore a crisp white apron over a red top with the sleeves rolled up, fitted black pants that ended at the ankle, and shoes in the same red as her shirt. She stood in front of an island topped by pale marble, rolling out an enormous rectangle of dough, and looking like the heroine from one of her movies.
“Can you hand me the cinnamon?” she asked, without looking up. “My hands are covered in flour.”
Jonah glanced around, saw the container on the counter, picked it up, and offered it to her.
“Thanks,” she said with an unguarded smile, fingers brushing as he handed over the bottle. And he watched her stiffen as she realized who’d made the hand-off.
“Oh, sorry!” she said with a grin. “I thought you were Joe. I didn’t mean to order you around.”
“No problem,” he said with a grin. “I was just here to talk about the deal with the mayor, thought I’d say hi. So, hi.”
He knew he sounded awkward, but that awkwardness—and what he was sure was a goofy-ass expression on his face—made a corner of her mouth lift, so it was worth it.
“Hey,” she said. “How’s Merit?”
“Fine, I think. Shaken up. I was going to check again before I headed out.”
Margot measured cinnamon for the batter, then turned the measuring spoon to drop it in. “I think she’s upstairs with Mallory.” She screwed the lid back on the cinnamon, looked up at Jonah.
“Was it really an attempted kidnapping? I was prepping for the predawn meal and only got third-party info.”
“I didn’t get there until after the perp left, but that’s what she said, yeah.”
“That’s crazy,” she said, and returned to her stirring.
“What are you making?”
“Chocolate pound cake. It’s fantastic with Chantilly cream.”
“I bet,” he said. Just watching her stir a goddamn bowl of chocolate had sent a spike of lust through his gut so fierce he had to clench his hands to keep from reaching out and touching her.
She nodded at a container on the far counter. “Go try one of those.”
“What are they?” Jonah asked, but he was already moving toward them. When it came to food, he trusted her implicitly.
“Profiteroles. Pâte à choux stuffed with pastry cream.”
“Pâte à choux,” he repeated. “That’s the one you make on the stove, right?”
Margot grinned, and his heart pistoned in response. “You were paying attention.”
Of course he’d been paying attention. Beyond the fact that it was interesting—he honestly hadn’t known how much there was to learn about baking until he’d met Margot—he loved watching her eyes light with joy when she talked about ingredients or chemistry.
Jonah lifted the lid, found two dozen golden domes resting inside. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Have one,” Margot said, cracking an egg into the mixing bowl. “And bring me one, too.”
He had no choice but to obey. He plucked up two pastries, found they were heavier than they looked. “How much cream is in here?” he asked with a smile, carrying them back.
“Hit the gym tonight,” she advised, and held out her free hand. He dropped one into it, and they bit in simultaneously, and even that small act was sensual.
The taste, he thought, was worth the longing. The pastry had just enough bite, and the cream was laced with vanilla. Together, they were powerful.
“Fantastic,” he said.
She nodded, still chewing. “Recipe came from an antique French cookbook Ethan brought back from Paris. They’re pretty amazing.”
“No argument.”
She finished her bite, then cracked another egg into the bowl. He watched the play of her slender fingers, the way she bit the edge of her lip when she was concentrating. And while he could have stood there for hours, they both had work to get back to.
“Well, I just wanted to say hi,” he said. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Sure,” she said, and he could see the battle in her eyes. The war he’d have helped her wage if she’d let him. “Have a good night.”
He nodded and started for the door.
“Jonah.”
Hope rose, heat flaring when he turned around again. He saw sadness in her eyes, an apology he didn’t want or need. But he’d have sworn there was something beneath it. Want, if he was going to put a name to it.
“Thanks for helping Merit.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave her a nod, disappeared into the hallway, and decided he’d happily take her thanks any way he could get it.
* * *
* * *
He was gorgeous. Undeniably. Tall and lean and built, with a face that was almost obscenely perfect. Square jaw, straight nose, almond-shaped blue eyes topped by long brows the same auburn of his shoulder-skimming hair. His mouth—she couldn’t stop staring at his damn mouth—looked like it had been designed just to tempt a woman with fantasies about where and how he could use it.
She’d spent more than one day in sweaty dreams about that.
And he was kind. Funny. Loyal. So dedicated to his House it made her toes curl—even if that House wasn’t Cadogan.
But she’d fallen for the pretty boy before, a vampire named Rowan Cleary, who had a beautiful face and a body to die for and who’d wined and dined her . . . until he hadn’t anymore. Until his jokes changed from sarcastic to mean, his compliments to criticisms.
They’d dated for ten months. And then, one very snowy night in February, after they’d been stuck in traffic on the Dan Ryan for an hour, he’d slapped her.
It was fast—so quick she’d almost convinced herself that it hadn’t happened, that she’d imagined it. Then had come the excuses, from him and from her. He’d been stressed and tired, and she hadn’t helped by nagging him to drive more carefully.
The realization came last—that plenty of couples were stressed and tired and naggy. And they didn’t get violent.
She’d let the criticism go on for too long, even though she’d done some counseling as a human. It had taken three weeks after he’d hit her—after the apologies and excuses and promises to never do it again—before she acknowledged what was happening. She knew that he would absolutely do it again, because that’s who he was. And next time, it wouldn’t just be a quick slap.
So she’d gathered her friends and her resources, and she’d moved out of his place and back into Cadogan House.
That had been more than two years ago, and she’d been working on herself in the meantime. Seeing her own therapist helped, as did knowing she had the support of her House. And when Merit tried to set her up with Jonah, she was certain she was ready to give it a try.
Margot knew Jonah was a good guy. But as she began spending time with him, and her long-buried emotions began to stir that old, familiar anxiety and she’d stepped back. She realized she still wasn’t ready for a relationship, especially not to take a chance on someone she was pretty sure she could fall for.
If she and Rowan had stayed together, tonight would have been their anniversary. Maybe that’s why she was feeling bluesy this evening, because this was a milestone. A marker in a relationship that had ended, even if ending it had been the right thing to do.
She wasn’t ready to be vulnerable again. So she focused on her work, just like always. She added a pile of roughly chopped chocolate to the batter, folded it in, and poured the mix into the loaf pan she’d already buttered and floured. Then she put the pan in the oven, where time and heat and chemistry would work their magic, turn liquid to solid, intensify flavor.
“Time and heat and chemistry,” she muttered, irritated with herself and tired of the struggle. “I’ve got those boxes checked.”
Her phone
rang. She reached into her pocket, answered it automatically. “Hello?”
“Hey, pretty girl.”
Three words, softly spoken, and yet enough to make her stomach ice over. She fought back panic that tightened her throat, made herself speak.
“Rowan.” She swallowed hard. “What do you want?” Not that she actually cared what he wanted, but she’d already answered the phone. He’d see hanging up as a challenge for him to overcome.
“It’s been a long time,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Not long enough. What do you want?” she asked again.
“It’s our anniversary, Margie. I was thinking about you, wanted to tell you that I appreciated what we had, and that I’m really sorry I fucked it all up.”
His voice was so sincere, the tone so apologetic, that she had to work to stay centered, to keep from slumping back into the person who’d accepted his excuses. It helped that he called her “Margie.” She hated that, had told him a dozen times she didn’t like the nickname. That he still used it said a lot about his character.
“I don’t want your apologies or your thoughts, Rowan. I want you to lose my number and never contact me again.”
“That’s entirely fair, and I don’t blame you for it. I just—I’m traveling, and I’m in a hotel room alone, and the mind begins to track back, to think, to look at the way things were. I’d have hated myself even more if I didn’t take the time to tell you how amazing you are. You deserve that, Margie. And more.”
He was good. She could admit that to herself, because it just confirmed what she believed—that he’d say pretty much anything to weasel his way back into her life. That was the game he played. He’d be charming as long as he was pursuing her, because he loved the thrill of the chase. But when that was done, he’d become—slowly or not—an asshole.
Rowan might have been a bully, but he was also a coward. “If you call me again, I’ll hand the phone to Ethan, and I’ll let him decide how to handle you.”
Margot ended the call, put down the phone, and fisted her hands together to stop the shaking; she wasn’t sure if it was from fury or fear. Then she blew out one breath, then another, until her heart was no longer racing.
She’d faced her fear, and she’d handled it. She’d hung up on him. She’d set a boundary.
She needed to keep doing that—setting appropriate boundaries. The courage it had required to threaten him with Ethan just confirmed to her that she wasn’t ready for a relationship.
With no better options, Margot pushed the phone into her apron pocket and got back to work.
4
The pizza had been delicious. Mallory had stayed for dinner, not just for the food but also to help keep me calm while the others investigated.
I was tired, physically and emotionally. Mallory must have seen it, because when dinner was over, she stood up, offered me a hand.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I’m going to grab some brownies or ice cream or candy corn—whatever’s available—from Margot, and we’re going to your apartments, and you’re going to rest. We’ll watch a movie or play cards or something.”
I opened my mouth to object, thinking I needed to contribute to the search, but Ethan shook his head.
“We’ll handle this. The Ombudsman’s office is involved, and the House is secure. Have a break and relax with Mallory. You can . . . complain about men and our foibles.”
I stared at him. “Is that what you think women talk about?”
He leaned forward, kissed my forehead. “In addition to the important social and political events of the day, yes.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
* * *
* * *
I kicked off my shoes the second I stepped into the apartments, then headed for the bathroom and turned the shower’s silver taps.
The hot water helped soothe the aches from the fight—or at least from hitting the ground on my butt. I took my time, luxuriated in the hot water, steam, and scented soap.
By the time I was wrinkled and dry, I felt a little more myself. And because warm showers always soothed the baby, I felt much less like her personal dojo.
I climbed into a tank and pretty flowered pajama bottoms, turbaned my hair into a towel.
“Better?” Mallory asked, when I walked into the bedroom. She was sitting on the enormous bed with a bag of salt and vinegar chips, one of my favorite indulgences.
“Better,” I said, and sat down beside her. “Hand over the snacks.”
She poured out a handful of chips for herself, passed the bag to me. “Asshole wanted to kidnap you,” she said, gaze on the television across from the bed. A tall woman with platinum hair and four-inch stilettos appeared to be kicking some very serious ass.
“Yep,” I said. “He apparently did, and he was definitely an asshole.” I settled back against the mound of pillows, gestured with a chip to the screen. “Who’s she?”
“Assassin. Orphaned, trained by the British. She poses as this rich and helpless fundraising type. But she’s got mad skills.”
The woman used one of her heels to take out a bulky security guard, then slipped into the room he’d guarded.
“She’s good,” I agreed, and crunched a chip. “And they’ll find the guy.”
“Of course they will,” she agreed. “Here’s something to take your mind off your troubles.” She finished the last chip, dusted her hands. “I’m pregnant!”
“You’re—what?” I turned to stare at her, saw the hopeful light in her eyes. “Mallory! Oh, my God!” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, gave her a sideways squeeze. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you,” she said. “We’re very excited. Or as excited as Catcher gets about anything. And the baby’s cooking right along. I’m at ten weeks, so we’ll be sixish months behind you.”
I looked down at her belly, scrutinized what might have been a tiny bump.
“Oh, that’s not baby. That’s just the pizza.” She patted her belly. “But the baby’s in there, probably enjoying the sausage and pepperoni.”
“Morning sickness?”
“Not as bad as yours. Couple barfy moments when Catcher mentioned pork chops which”—she looked up at the ceiling, blew out a breath through pursed lips—“still makes me feel a little weird. And I’m eating salt like it’s going out of style.”
“Wait until everything starts to swell. And you can’t reach anything. Or fit into anything. I am ready to evict this particular tenant.”
Mallory grinned. “I’m hoping Baby Bell is a girl. Then I can use all your hand-me-downs.”
“You can have whatever you want.” I sat back, ate another chip. “You think they’ll be friends?”
“Our being friends doesn’t mean they’ll be, but if they’re anything near as cool as us, then obviously yes.”
“Obviously yes,” I said, and settled back to watch a movie with my bestie.
* * *
* * *
By the time Ethan returned, I was alone again, brushing my now-dry hair in the bathroom doorway, still watching television. A small, quirkily dressed woman was trying to convince two homeowners to hang a five-foot-high boat anchor on an empty kitchen wall.
Ethan gave an eyebrow to the show or the anchor, I wasn’t sure which, then pressed his lips to my forehead. Then followed that tender gesture with a kiss hot enough to scald.
“What was that for?” I asked, when I opened slumberous eyes again.
“For coming back to me in one piece.”
“Well, two if you count Peanut.”
“I always count her,” Ethan said. He gestured at the present sitting on the console. “Shall we open the gift from your parents?”
“Sure,” I said, and put away the brush, walked to the console, and gave the box a gentle shake.
“Why shake when you could
just open it?”
“It’s part of the process.”
I didn’t see him roll his eyes, but I could feel the disturbance in the force. Mallory called him Darth Sullivan for a reason.
Ethan put his arms around me, or as far as they’d reach, and looked over my shoulder. “You can’t fault the wrapping.”
“Trudeau’s does a good job,” I agreed. “We got some wedding presents from there, too.”
“I remember.”
Inside the thick paper was a lidded box in some sort of silvery tweed. I lifted off the lid, found layers of thick, white tissue paper sealed with a blue sticker. I peeled that off, unfolded the paper, and found a layer of crinkled, shredded paper.
“How many trees were murdered in the making of this gift?” Ethan asked.
“Entirely too many.” I brushed aside some of the paper, reached in, and pulled out another small box. “It’s giftception.” My patience waning, I flicked off the second lid, and found . . . a gleaming silver apple.
We looked at it in silence for a moment.
“It’s an apple. In what appears to be sterling silver.” There was puzzlement in his voice.
“It is.” And it was exactly the kind of thing they’d buy, because that’s who they were.
“I suppose it’s the thought that counts?” Ethan said, sounding not entirely sure.
“I guess so,” I said, then walked through the sitting room to the doorway that led to the newest part of our rooms. The wall between our apartments and the suite next door had been knocked down, the space turned into a bedroom and attached bath for the baby. There was thick carpet, a rocking chair, and a pretty crib topped by a mobile of spinning animals that Mallory had felted from wool. The colors were soothing, the fabrics soft.
I put the apple on the dresser, then walked to the crib, ran my fingers over the soft, brown bear that waited in a corner. I heard his footsteps behind me.
“Are we going to be able to pull this off?”
“Finding the attacker?” he asked.
“No,” I said with a chuckle, well aware he was being purposefully obtuse. “Raising this child, who now owns a sterling silver apple and lives in a mansion. Making sure she’s kind and empathetic and brave and can stand on her own two feet.”