Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4)

He’d talked to her mother, too, during the meal, catching up first on some of her favorite French news from the radio she loved, and then she’d plied him with questions about Las Vegas. Was the Strip larger than life? Yes. Were the hotels as big as they seemed? Absolutely. Was the city full of sin? He’d answered yes to that one, too, a sad smile on his face.

She was amazed how much he loved his home, in spite of all the pain he’d gone through there. But that was behind him now that the last man had been taken in. They hadn’t spent much time diving into details of the final arrest. Michael seemed to want to move on, and she couldn’t fault him for not lingering on the specifics. Perhaps that was part of why he appeared so carefree again, so much the man she’d known when she was younger, yet so much this new man, too. Strong, protective, and yet vulnerable. She’d never known someone to put his heart on the line the way Michael had for her.

“He’s a good man.”

Annalise turned to meet her mother’s light green eyes. Her voice was soft, a whisper just for her.

She nodded. “He is.”

Her mother’s hand, wrinkled from years, pressed to her forearm. “I’m glad you’re letting yourself be happy.”

“Me, too.”

Knowing eyes stared back at her. “Have you told him how you feel?”

“Sure. He knows how I feel,” she said.

Her mother squeezed her arm. “No. Have you told him you’re in love with him, too?”

She froze, with the glass of wine on the way to her lips. She was falling, yes. But in love? It couldn’t happen that fast. Not for her. Not when love was such a dangerous thing? Not when being in love meant she could be cleaved in two again?

“You should tell him,” her mother urged.

Annalise parted her lips, but words didn’t come. She wasn’t sure what to say, or if she could even give voice to all these questions stirring inside her. Was she ready to go into the fire once more?

“Tell him soon,” her mother whispered, then she pressed a kiss to Annalise’s cheek before continuing. “There are only two men you’ve ever brought to meet me. Julien and Michael. He loves you so. And I know it’s not a one-way street. I see the way you look at him. I see how you lean close to him. How your world seems to be his world.”

A lump rose in her throat. Her eyes welled with tears, but none fell.

After the check came and Michael insisted on paying, Annalise’s mother announced loudly that Patrick and Noelle would walk her home.

Noelle nodded vigorously. “Yes. We’ll help her up the steps.”

“Go,” her mother said, shooing them along. “Your home is around the corner.”

They said their good-byes, and Michael and Annalise turned the other direction. “They seem to want us to go to my house,” she said, floating the idea.

He tensed.

“Would you want to?”

“I’m not sure.”

She stopped on the street, reached for his hand, then looked him in the eyes. “We’re doing this, right?”

“Of course we are.”

“I want you to see where I live. You’re not just some man I’m slinking away to a hotel room to be with. You’ve had dinner with my family. I want you in my home. You’re part of my heart. Part of my life.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. His breath ghosted across her skin. His arms looped around her. With him, she felt so much potential, so much possibility, so much future.

She took him to her home.

*

I can handle this.

As he walked up the curving, carpeted staircase, his palm running along the dark oak banister, he steeled himself.

He’d run military intelligence. He’d negotiated with some of the toughest motherfuckers in the security business. He’d helped his sister through tragedy. He’d survived the splintering of his family, making sure his younger siblings were cared for.

He could walk into the home Annalise had lived in with her husband. No problem whatsoever.

Inhaling quietly, he let the air fill his chest, imagined it transporting strength throughout his body—even though each step was leaden, each footfall heavier than the last.

Get your shit together, Sloan. Man up

Annalise unlocked the green door. It creaked open, and pride shimmered in her eyes. Her irises danced as she held out her arm and led him through the narrow foyer into the small kitchen.

“My home,” she said, beaming.

He catalogued the room. Red espresso cups. Sky blue dishes in the dish rack, and a clean sink.

Piece of cake. This was so manageable.

They wandered into a tiny living room, and before he could look around, she gestured to French doors that opened into a small den.

“This is my office,” she said proudly, and showed him some of the framed photos on the wall, shots she’d taken over the years. There were a few images from the Middle East that had won her awards, but mostly the photos were of simpler things.

A lemon yellow dresser.

A crowded street-side café.

A leaf blowing across the sidewalk. Even a few of her black and white boudoir shots.

“You really are talented,” he said, and his voice was calm, steady. This was easier than he’d thought. He didn’t know why he’d been such a wreck about seeing her home.