I took a step back.
Lucien’s arm twitched. It was a simple movement for him, barely there, but I staggered forward, crashing against his hard body. His hand dropped mine, his other hand dropped the bags and both arms came around me in a crush. He kissed me with a savage possession that was highly inappropriate on a Sunday afternoon in a street filled with boutiques.
It also curled my toes, sent fire straight between my legs and had me melting into him.
“Yeesh, get a room,” someone who seemed far, far away said.
“Randy, shush!” someone else who seemed far, far away shushed the first someone. “They’re probably on their honeymoon or something.”
Lucien’s mouth disconnected from mine and I found I was on tiptoes. I had one arm wrapped around his neck, my other hand was fisted in his hair and I was plastered against him from chest to knees.
My foggy mind snapped to and I tried to shut down my systems, my response, the way I liked it far more than was healthy when he kissed me.
Especially when he kissed me like that.
My hand left his hair and went to his shoulder but he kept me close, his eyes hooded but examining my face.
Then he said something that freaked me out.
“I want to believe this is you,” his voice was low, soft, quiet, “but this isn’t you.”
He was wrong and he was right.
It wasn’t me. It was the new, improved me.
Or at least the new, improved, perfect concubine me before I could go back to the old, faulty, real me when he released me.
“You don’t think I can apologize?” I asked, giving his shoulder a testing push.
He didn’t move a centimeter.
I stopped pushing.
“No,” his voice was still low, “that was you. The kiss was you. The rest of it is not.”
“What rest of it?”
He changed subjects. “We should talk about last night.”
I felt my body begin to stiffen but I fought it and stayed relaxed.
“If you like.”
His mouth grew tight as his gaze grew sharp.
“Not. Fucking. You,” he declared, now angry and I held my breath for what was next.
I couldn’t fight with him. The new, improved Leah wouldn’t do that, certainly not on a boutique street.
No. Not ever. I could never fight with him.
I was channeling Perfect Cousin Myrna when he let me go but grabbed my hand, snatched up the bags, switched our direction and headed back to the valet parking.
We walked in silence.
I decided to test his mood. “Do you mind if we get a latte for the road?”
He stopped and looked at me. “What would you say if I did mind?”
Old Leah would tell him it would only take ten flipping minutes or at least she’d glare at him and pout all the way home.
New Leah didn’t know what to say.
As I struggled to come up with a reply, he closed his eyes as if patience eluded him. Then he gave up, walked us into the nearest coffee house (there were a billion), got me a latte, him a double espresso with enough sugar to down an elephant and we were away home.
My third mistake wasn’t a mistake, as such. It was just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I was in the dressing room putting my fantastic new shoes on the tilted shelves that showed shoes to their strategic best when Lucien walked in and went directly to my purse that was sitting on the dressing table. I turned and saw him drop my cell phone and wallet in the purse, my passport beside it.
Throughout the ride home he seemed tense. He didn’t anymore and I was unsure of his mood and further unsure what to do.
Was this another test?
The phone in the house was one thing but he’d put the keys to the Cayenne on the key holder by the backdoor. Now he was giving me back my freedom, in total.
Obviously, I couldn’t run immediately from the house, he’d catch me. I also couldn’t run at all because, again, he’d catch me.
Still.
He turned to leave, caught me staring at him and stopped.
“Italy,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“Italy. That would be your preferred on the run from a vamp destination.”
I felt my lips part and my eyes grow wide.
For some reason, my expression made his guarded face gentle and he walked into my space.
I tilted my head to look back at him and whispered, “How did you know?”
“Fiona,” he answered without hesitation.
“Fiona?” I asked.
“Fiona Hawkins.”
Fiona Hawkins? Aunt Fiona Hawkins? How did he know Aunt Fiona?
And why would she be telling him about me always wanting to go to Italy?
This was just bizarre!
“Aunt Fiona told you I’ve always wanted to go to Italy?”
“Fiona told me a great number of things. Fiona Hawkins was my concubine fifty-one years ago.”
This information rocked me so much it was physical. I took a step back but his arm snaked around my waist and brought me forward so my stomach, h*ps and thighs were pressed against his.
“Aunt Fiona serviced you?” I breathed.
I mean, I knew she was a concubine. She wasn’t a Buchanan but concubines were friendly (most of the time). I’d known her since forever.
“I throw birthday parties for all my concubines, every year,” he answered.
I felt my mouth drop open again as something occurred to me.
I went to Aunt Fiona’s birthday parties.
Every year.
“Oh my God.”
Lucien ignored my prayer and went on, “I try to attend. Sometimes I can’t stay long. Sometimes I don’t attend the party but visit with them before or after. Twenty years ago I was able to attend. She served fried chicken.”
I felt the pulse of his words shaft through my body and it was physical too. My entire frame jolted with it so much I had to grab onto the sleeves of his shirt at his biceps to stay standing.
“Or,” Lucien continued, “I should say, you made fried chicken for her guests. She told me before I went it would be the best thing I tasted… for eternity.” I kept staring at him as his face dipped closer, his black eyes warmed and he murmured, “She was wrong.”
My mouth opened and then closed. I didn’t know what to say. What I did know was that he’d just given me another earth-shattering compliment.
He kept talking. “After that I went every year. And every year, you made her your fried chicken.”
“That’s her favorite,” I whispered.
“I know,” he replied.
I put my hands on his chest and commented, “I didn’t see you.”