Sweet Sinful Nights

“It was the least I could do. Shan, I really did try to find you at first. As best I could. You weren’t easy to track down.”

She shot him a rueful smile. “I was too hurt. I missed you too much.”

“I missed you, too,” he said, running the pad of his thumb along the outside of her hand, not wanting to let go of her, not wanting to stop touching her.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She took a deep breath. “What did you do with the diamond?” Then she snapped her hand away, and held both in the air, shaking her head. “Wait. Don’t answer that. It’s nosy. You probably used it for living expenses and that’s what I would expect.”

He leaned back in his chair, and ran his hand roughly through his hair, wishing he didn’t feel so... cheesy admitting this. But he had to tell her the truth, now that she’d asked. “I didn’t use it for expenses,” he said in a low voice, as if he had to protect himself from anyone else who might hear.

“You don’t have to tell me. Really. You don’t,” she said, insistently.

“I’m going to tell you. Just don’t take away my man card.”

“Did you turn it into a necklace that you’re secretly wearing or something?”

“No. I sold it,” he blurted out.

“That’s what I expected, but why would that forfeit your man card?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m not done. I sold it in L.A. to a diamond merchant. And I gave the money to the scholarship fund at Boston Conservatory. The one that put you through school,” he said, feeling like a complete *-whipped cheeseball. Somehow he’d managed to avoid ever telling anyone what he’d done with the diamond. Not his brother, not Mindy. It just made him sound like a forlorn guy, stuck on a girl.

Even though that was what he’d been back then. And what he still was.

He looked up.

Her mouth fell open. She froze in place. Shit. She must be thinking the same thing. That he was a sad, pathetic guy. He couldn’t believe he’d said the wrong thing again. But then he stopped thinking when she rose, stretched across the table, cupped his cheeks in her hands, and pinned his gaze with her sweet green eyes. “That means so much to me.”

She kissed him, softly at first, her tongue darting out as she ran the tip of it across his lips, then more roughly, as she gripped his stubbled jaw harder. She kissed feverishly, crushing her lips against his, and he groaned as she led, sweeping her tongue over his mouth, diving deeper, consuming him. A shudder wracked through him from her sheer possessiveness. From the feel of her hands on his skin. She didn’t hold back, not one bit. She did everything with passion, everything to the fullest, as she fused her mouth to his. He was reduced to nothing but desire for her as she took a chance—reaching across the table with a basket of bread below her arms, with wine glasses perched precariously on the table, with hundreds of patrons nearby. She didn’t care. Nor did he. He was damn near ready to shove everything across the table and forget they were in public.

He heard a throat being cleared.

The waiter arrived with their dishes.

She detached from him, adjusted her top, and smirked just for him. As if they had a secret. Even though it was a very publicly known fact that the two people seated here at this restaurant on the terrace on a June night with the fountains behind them wanted each other badly.

*

After the waiter served his fritto misto and her tortellini, Brent broached a subject that had once been a source of friction between them, but then had brought them closer.

“Is your mom still writing to you?” he asked gently, picking up his fork. He watched her, careful not to push too far.

She closed her eyes briefly, her fingers clutching her wine glass. When she opened them, she was the girl he’d known in college, the one who’d relied on him for everything.

She nodded. “Yes. Every few months. She still says she didn’t do it.”

“She probably always will say that,” he said, softly, wanting so badly to erase all her sadness. He’d always wanted to, ever since she’d finally let him in. They’d nearly broken up once in college over this. She’d been so closed off at first about her family, so secretive, and it had driven him mad. He’d wanted to be let in, to talk to her, to help her through her troubles, but she hadn’t even told him what it was that tore her apart. He only knew someone kept sending her letters.

That had been one of their worst fights ever. He’d been frustrated beyond words over the way she’d kept him out. She’d been terrified to let him know the full truth about her family. But before the two of them blasted apart into smithereens, she’d confided in him, telling him all the things that weren’t in the press, that weren’t known simply from growing up in Vegas when it happened. He’d known her as the girl whose mom had killed her dad, but he hadn’t been privy to the backstory, the details that didn’t make it into the local news.