“It’s just something I put together for Sal,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t ask her too many questions.
“Good stuff,” he said, sliding it away. “Everything you touch turns into gold.” Only Bran could say things like that without it sounding corny. “By the way, I hope that party didn’t scare you away too much.” His forehead crinkled. “Did you have fun?”
“It was beautiful,” Freya said. “I don’t scare easy, so don’t worry.” She felt a slight shiver of anxiety and wished he hadn’t brought it up, as an image of Killian, the two of them locked in a tight embrace, suddenly sprung to mind. She turned away from Bran for a moment, her golden hair hiding her suddenly red face.
“So what did you think of that no-good brother of mine?” he asked, his smile fading slightly.
“He’s all right,” Freya said, hoping to change the subject. Luckily Bran didn’t seem to notice anything askew. They left the bar and walked to his car, holding hands, both of them quietly happy to be together.
They took the bridge over to Gardiners Island, and Freya marveled again at how well Fair Haven and its surrounding grounds looked. She knew Bran had overseen the design changes and had kept much of the island’s natural growth intact, without disturbing the wildlife or the flora. He parked the car in the garage and turned to her as he cut the engine. “Listen, I know everything’s happened so fast. . . . If you need to change anything, if you change your mind . . . I’ll understand. I can wait for you. I just want you to be happy.” Then he looked at her with those kind brown eyes of his and she fell in love with him even more. Close up, he was starting to have fine lines around his eyes, but it only made him look more distinguished. “I want you to be sure of me.”
“Sweetheart.” She sighed. “I’m not sure of anything but you.” She pulled him in for a kiss, and she understood then why she had agreed to marry him after knowing him for less than a month. Of all the guys she had ever met in her immortal life, he was the only one who made her feel this safe. She who distributed love only felt loved herself with his strong arms around her.
Fair haven was dark and shrouded, but Bran elected not to turn on any of the overhead lights. “Shhh . . .” he said. “Let’s not wake Madame Grobadan.”
“Let’s not!” Freya agreed. Madame might have been the boys’ stepmother, but she had basically raised them and remained a formidable presence in Bran’s life. Freya was half-afraid of her, and had let her run the engagement party and make all the decisions, meekly acquiescing to her stringent demands. Madame loved the boys like her own, and with her intimidating posture and dismissive attitude, she was in some ways even more frightening than a real mother-in-law.
If possible, the house looked more impressive than it had at the party, with its vast open spaces empty of people. The grand piano gleamed in the moonlight, and Bran opened the French doors so they could hear the sound of the ocean. The house was so large, the main hall could hold an army, and the residential wing might as well have been in a whole other zip code. Freya walked over to the bar cart and made Bran a martini, extra dry. The bottled olives looked a little puny, but with a tap of her finger they turned juicy and plump. She fed him the olives one by one and he downed the drink in one gulp.
Bran set the glass aside then slouched in one of the roomy club chairs by the fireplace and loosened his tie, which was his way of telling her he wanted her to sit on his lap. He had been so unsure and hesitant in the beginning, as if not quite daring to believe that she would oblige him. His masculine gentleness was so appealing, and she quickly straddled him, so that her long, thick, curly hair brushed his face. He pulled her down to him hungrily, and soon his hands were slipping her dress above her head and she was unbuckling his belt and helping him kick off his pants.
“But what about . . . ?” she asked. “Should we move to your room?”
“They’re miles away and asleep. . . . We’ll be quiet,” he whispered.
In the moonlight her body looked as perfect as a statue; when she sank herself on him her breath caught at the rush of feeling, of being broken and taken, as they moved gently together, so that with each thrust she felt as if she were opened anew. He groaned, his face tense with desire as he picked her up, the two of them still joined; then they were on the floor and he was turning her over, so that she was kneeling with her back in front of him, her head in her hands, thrilling at the way he held her by the waist, the way he pushed himself into her, his hands strong as he moved her every which way, now on her back, now on her stomach, now on top, mastering his strength and keeping her gasping. He was always in control, and she had never met anyone who made her feel quite as . . .
Well no, that wasn’t quite true, now, was it . . . ?
There was someone else who . . .
She pushed the image from her head . . . but there it was. . . .
Killian, with his strong hands under her skirt, as she unzipped his jeans. . . .
It didn’t belong there . . . especially not now. . . . Why was she even thinking of him? She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to think of him at all, and certainly not at this particular moment, but she couldn’t help but remember . . . how she’d been on her knees, how she’d taken him in her mouth, had tasted him, and Killian had pushed himself against her and she thought she might explode from desire. . . .
No . . . stop . . . please. . . . She had to stop thinking about it . . . had to stop dreaming about it . . . had to stop thinking about him. . . .
Then she was straddling Bran again, his hands on her breasts, and her hands on his, kneading and pinching. They clenched fists and she ground her hips on his lap, keeping the frantic, rhythmic pace . . . and she willed Killian’s image away . . . trying to focus instead on Bran’s handsome face, on his body and his lust. . . .
But against her will, the other face came back to her mind. . . .
She couldn’t help it, the wrongness of it, of what she had done the other night at her own engagement party—the two of them against the small bathroom wall, her legs around Killian’s waist as he pushed himself deeper into her—combined with what she was doing now . . . and she moaned and lost herself in the wicked sensation of being with one man while thinking of another. . . . She bit her lip and lost control as her body shook with spasms. . . .
At the same time, below her, Bran let out a magnificent roar (so much for being quiet!) and slammed his body against her again and again and again until he shuddered and was still and they collapsed into each other, her body feeling the ache of longing as he pulled out from her so slowly.
Bran kissed her on the cheek in a sweet gesture of gratitude, as if unable to believe the extent of his extraordinary luck. Freya smiled to feel his lips on her skin, her whole body trembling, and when she opened her eyes, she saw a figure move in the shadow of the hallway.
They were not alone, after all.
Someone had been watching them—someone with the dark hair and glittering, aquamarine eyes of the man who had ravished her only in her mind.
But when she looked again, Killian was gone.
chapter ten
Witch Business