Kat Cantrell - Pregnant By Morning

He positioned his arms and prepared to try some semblance of a modified waltz, or at least do the best he could in such a crowd. Angie melted against him, undulating her hips against his in a hypnotic, sensual rhythm. A hot lick of need coursed through his gut. She hadn’t attended the same classes. Obviously.

He held her close, mimicking her moves. All he could think about was the scrap of silk underneath her skirt. And the foil packets rounding the sides of her clutch. He wasn’t doing a very good job of splitting the difference.

Angie’s ear was right by his mouth, and he had the most insane urge to nibble on it. Instead, he cleared his throat to ease the knot of sexual tension that had stiffened everything in his body.

“What if we continue our speed date but take it down a notch?”

She repositioned her head so it was lying in the hollow of his shoulder. The feathers anchored in her hair brushed across his neck. “I’m listening.”

“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.”