Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (127 page)

The library.

As he glanced over his shoulder, Saxton stepped out from the room. He looked like hell, and not

just because, as fast a healer as the male was, he still had some residual jaw swelling thanks to

Qhuinn’s attack.

Good one, Blay thought. Way to express disappointment in someone’s behavior: Let them fuck the

shit out of you after they tried to strangle your ex.

Soooo classy.

“How are you?” Blay asked, and not in a social way.

It was a relief as Saxton came over. Looked him in the eye. Smiled a little like he was determined

to make an effort.

“I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. I’m restless.”

“Would you like to eat with me?” Blay blurted. “I’m feeling exactly that way, too, and the only

thing I can do anything about is the need for food.”

Saxton nodded and put his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “That is a stellar idea.”

The pair of them ended up in the kitchen at the battered oak table, sitting side by side, facing out into the room. With a happy smile, Fritz immediately flipped into provide-sustenance mode and what

do you know. Ten minutes later, the butler provided each of them with a bowl of steaming beef stew, as well as a crusty baguette to share, a bottle of red wine, and a stick of sweet butter on a little plate.

“I shall be back, my lords,” the butler said on a bow. And then he proceeded to shoo everyone

else out of the place, from the
doggen
who were prepping vegetables to the ones who were polishing silver to the window cleaners in the alcove beyond.

As the flap door shut behind the last of the staff, Saxton said, “All we need is a candle and this

would be a date.” The male leaned forward and ate with perfect manners. “Well, I suppose we would

need a few other things, wouldn’t we.”

Blay glanced over as he put his cigarette out. Even with bags under those eyes and that mostly

faded bruise on his neck, the attorney was something to look at.

Why the hell couldn’t he—

“Do not say you’re sorry again.” Saxton wiped his mouth and smiled. “It really isn’t necessary or

appropriate.”

Sitting beside the guy, it seemed just as unlikely that they had broken up as it was that he had been with Qhuinn. Had any of the last couple of nights happened?

Well, duh. What had gone down with Qhuinn wouldn’t have if he and Sax were still together. That

he was very clear on—it was one thing to jerk off in secret, and that was bad enough. The full bifta?

NFW.

Shit, in spite of the fact that he and Saxton had split up, he still felt like he should confess the transgression…although if Qhuinn was right, Saxton had already moved on in one sense of the word.

As they ate in silence, Blay shook his head, even though he hadn’t been asked a question and there

was no conversation. He just didn’t know what else to do. Sometimes the changes in life came at you so fast, and with such fury, there was no way to keep up with reality. It took time for things to sink in, the new equilibrium establishing itself only after some period of your brain sloshing back and forth against the walls of your head.

He was still in the slosh zone.

“Have you ever felt as though hours were more properly measured in years?” Saxton said.

“Or maybe decades. Yes. Absolutely.” Blay glanced over again. “I was actually just thinking that

very same thing.”

“Such a morbid pair we are.”

“Maybe we should wear black.”

“Armbands?” Saxton prompted.

“Whole deal, head to toe.”

“Whatever shall I do with my flare for color?” Saxton flicked at his orange Hermès kerchief.

“Then again, one can accessorize anything.”

“Certainly explains the theory behind dental grilles.”

“Pink plastic flamingos.”

“The Hello Kitty franchise.”

All at once, they both burst into laughter. It wasn’t even that funny, but the humor wasn’t the point.

Breaking the ice was. Getting back to a new kind of normal was. Learning to relate in a different way was.

As things settled into chuckles, Blay put his arm around the male’s shoulders and gave him a

quick hug. And it was nice that Saxton leaned in for a brief moment, accepting what was offered. It wasn’t that Blay thought that just because they’d sat down together, shared a meal, and had a laugh, all of a sudden everything was going to be smooth sailing. Not at all. It was awkward to think Saxton had been with someone else, and utterly incredible to know he’d done the same—especially given who it

had been.

You didn’t downshift from being lovers for nearly a year to doing the pally-pally thing in the

matter of a day or two.

You could, however, start forging a new path.

And put one foot after the other on it.

Saxton was always going to have a place in his heart. The relationship they’d shared had been the

first one he’d had—not just with a male, but with anyone. And there had been a lot of good times,

things he would carry with him as memories that were worth the brain space.

“Have you seen the back gardens?” Saxton asked as he offered the bread.

Blay broke off a piece and then passed the butter plate over as Saxton took a section for himself.

“They’re bad, aren’t they.”

“Remind me never to attempt to weed with a Cessna.”

“You don’t garden.”

“Well, if I ever do, then.” Saxton poured some wine in his glass. “Vino?”

“Please.”

And that was how it went. All the way from the stew through to the peach cobbler that

miraculously appeared before them thanks to Fritz’s perfect timing. When the last bite had been taken and the final napkin swipe made, Blay leaned back against the built-in bench’s cushions and took a

deep breath.

Which was about so much more than just a filled stomach.

“Well,” Saxton said, as he laid down his napkin beside his dessert plate, “I do believe I’m finally going to take that bath I talked about nights ago.”

Blay opened his mouth to point out that the salts the male preferred were still in his bathroom.

He’d seen them in the cupboard when he’d taken his backup shaving cream out at nightfall.

Except…he wasn’t sure he should mention it. What if Saxton thought he was asking the male to

come and bathe in his suite? Was it too much of a reminder of how things had changed—and why?

What if—

“I have this new oil treatment I’m dying to try,” Saxton said as he slid out his side of the bench. “It finally arrived from overseas in today’s mail. I’ve been waiting for ages.”

“Sounds awesome.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” Saxton resettled his jacket on his shoulders, pulled his cuffs into

place, and then lifted his hand in a wave, striding out without any sign of complication or strain on his face.

Which was helpful, actually.

Folding his own napkin up, he placed it beside his plate, and as he scooted free of the table, he

stretched his arms over his head and bent backward, his spine cracking in a good way.

The tension in him returned as soon as he stepped into the foyer again.

What the hell was going on with Layla?

Damn it, it wasn’t like he could call Qhuinn. The drama wasn’t his own, or anything he was

connected to: When it came to that pregnancy, he was no different from the others in the house who

had also seen and heard the show and were no doubt just as worried as he was—but had no right to

emergent updates.

Too bad his now-full gut didn’t buy that. The thought of Qhuinn losing the young was enough to

make him studiously consider the locations of the bathrooms. Just in case an evac order was issued by the back of his throat.

In the end, he found himself upstairs in the second-floor sitting room pacing around. From that

vantage point, it was no problem to hear the vestibule door, and yet it wasn’t like he was waiting out in the open—

The double doors of Wrath’s study were pushed wide, and John Matthew emerged—from the

king’s sanctum.

Immediately, Blay strode across the sitting room, ready to see if maybe the guy had heard anything

—but he stopped as he got a gander at John’s expression.

Deep in thought. Like he’d received personal news of the disturbing variety.

Blay hung back as his buddy went off in the opposite direction, going down the hall of statues, no

doubt to disappear into his room.

Looked like things were afoot in other people’s lives, too.

Great.

With a soft curse, Blay left his friend be and resumed his own useless walking…and waiting.

Far to the south, in the town of West Point, Sola was prepared to enter Ricardo Benloise’s house on the second floor, through the window at the end of the main hallway. It had been months since she had been inside, but she was banking on the fact that the security contact she had carefully manipulated was still her friend.

There were two keys to successfully breaking into any house, building, hotel or facility: planning

and speed.

She had both.

Hanging from the wire she’d thrown onto the roof, she reached into the inside pocket of her parka,

pulled out a device, and held it to the right corner of the double-hung window. Initiating the signal, she waited, staring at the tiny red light that glowed on the screen facing her. If for some reason it didn’t change, she was going to have to enter through one of the dormers that faced the side yard—

which was going to be a pain in the ass—

The light went green without a sound, and she smiled as she got out more tools.

Taking a suction cup, she pushed it into the center of the pane immediately below the latch, and

then made a little do-si-do around the thing with her glass cutter. A quick push inward, and the space to fit her arm was created.

After letting the glass circle fall gently to the Oriental runner inside, she snaked her hand up and around, freed the brass-on-brass contraption that kept the window locked, and slid the sash up.

Warm air rushed to greet her, as if the house were happy to have her back.

Before going in, she looked down. Glanced toward the drive. Leaned outward to see what she

could of the back gardens.

It felt like somebody was watching her…not so much when she’d been driving into town, but as

soon as she’d parked her car and gotten on her skis. There was no one around, however—not that

she’d been able to see, at any rate—and whereas awareness was mission critical in this line of work, paranoia was a dangerous waste of time.

So she needed to cut this shit.

Getting back in the game, she reached up with her gloved hands and pulled her ass and legs over

and through the window. At the same time, she loosened the tension on the wire so there was slack to let her body transition into the house. She landed without a sound, thanks not only to the rug that ran down the long corridor, but to her soft-soled shoes.

Silence was another important criterion when it came to doing a job successfully.

She stopped where she was for a brief moment. No sounds in the house—but that didn’t

necessarily mean anything. She was fairly certain that Benloise’s alarm was silent, and very clear that the signal didn’t go to the local or even state police: He liked to handle things privately. And God knew, with the kind of muscle he employed, there was plenty of force to go around.

Fortunately, however, she was good at her job, and Benloise and his goons wouldn’t be home

until just before the sun came up—he lived the life of a vampire, after all.

For some reason, the v-word made her think of that man who’d shown up by her car and then

disappeared like magic.

Craziness. And the only time in recent memory that someone had given her pause. In fact, after

getting confronted like that, she was actually considering not going back to that glass house on the river—although there was a fucked-up rationale for that. It wasn’t that she was worried that she’d get physically hurt. God knew she was perfectly competent at defending herself.

It was the attraction.

More dangerous than any gun, knife, or fist, as far as she was concerned.

With lithe strides, Sola jogged down the carpet, bouncing on the balls of her feet, heading for the master bedroom that looked out over the rear garden. The house smelled exactly as she remembered

it, old wood and furniture polish, and she knew enough to stick to the left edge of the runner. No

squeaking that way.

When she got to the master suite, the heavy wooden door was closed, and she took out her lock

pick before even trying the handle. Benloise was pathological about two things: cleanliness and

security. Her impression, though, was that the latter was more critical at the gallery in downtown

Caldwell than here at his home. After all, Benloise didn’t keep anything under this roof other than art that was insured to the penny, and himself during the day—when he had plenty of bodyguards and