Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

faced the TV that was mounted over the fireplace, Blay and Saxton were sitting side by side. Their faces were turned to each other, a pair of gin and tonics in their hands, the two of them looking like they were in a deep discussion.
    Abruptly, Blay started to laugh, his head tilting back….
    At that moment, he looked over at Qhuinn.
    Instantly, his expression tightened up.
    “Congratulations!”
    The sound of Layla’s voice scrambled him, and he turned to her blindly, his mind reeling even though it shouldn’t have: he’d known all along that Saxton was returning after his vacation.
    “I’m so happy for you!” As Layla hugged him, he put his arms around her automatically.
    “Thanks.” He pulled back and rubbed his hair. “So, ah, how are you feeling?”
    “Nauseous and terrific!”
    Qhuinn sagged in his own skin, trying to find joy in the pregnancy. “I’m so glad. I’m really…glad.”

SEVENTY-THREE
    S ola banged into the stove as she brought the man into her house. And then as part of her course correction, she knocked into the chair her grandmother had been in—but at least she was able to cover that one up by pulling the thing out and sitting down.
    “You haven’t told me your name, either,” she murmured, even though proper nouns were the last thing on her mind.
    The man joined her across the little table. Between his expensive clothes and the sheer size of him, he made everything look flimsy, from the stretch of laminate that seperated them, to the seats, to the kitchen.
    The whole house.
    He extended his hand across the table top. In that deep, heavenly accented voice, he said, “I am Assail.”
    “Assail?” She cautiously extended her own palm, prepared to meet him in the middle. “Odd name—”
    The instant contact was made, a lightning bolt licked up her arm and landed in her heart, speeding it up, making her flush.
    “Do you not like it?” he whispered knowingly, as if he were fully aware of her reaction.
    Except he was talking about his name, wasn’t he? Yes, that was it. “It’s…unexpected.”
    “Give me yours.” He issued the command without letting go. “Please.”
    As he waited, as he held her hand, as they breathed together, she realized that sometimes there were things even more intimate than sex.
    “Marisol. But people call me Sola.”
    He purred.
Purred
. “I shall call you Marisol.”
    And didn’t that fit. God, in that accent…he turned what she had been called all her life into a poem.
    Sola pulled her hand out of his and put it in her lap. But her eyes stayed right on him: His expression was one of arrogance, and she got the impression that that was an unconscious default, not anything to do with her. His hair seemed impossibly thick, and undoubtedly styled with product—nothing merely human could keep that perfect wave off his forehead like that. And his cologne? Forget about it. Whatever the hell it was, she was nearly getting high off the incredible scent.
    Between those good looks, that body, and all his brains? She was willing to bet the house on the fact that his life was one big world-is-my-oyster sport.
    “So tell me about this visitor of yours,” he said.
    As he waited, his chin lowered, and he stared at her from under his lids.
    So not a surprise he had killed someone.
    She shrugged. “I have no idea. My grandmother just said the man had dark hair and deep-set eyes….” She frowned, noticing that his irises were as always that moonlight color—the kind of thing that just didn’t seem possible in nature. Contacts? she wondered. “She—ah, she didn’t mention a name, but he must have been polite—if he hadn’t been, I would have heard about it and then some. Oh—and he spoke to her in Spanish.”
    “Is there anyone who would be looking for you?”
    Sola shook her head. “I don’t talk about this house—ever. Most people don’t even know my real name. That’s why I thought it was you—who else…I mean, nobody else has ever come here but you.”
    “There is no one in your past?”
    Exhaling, she glanced around the kitchen; then scooped the napkins out of the caddy and rearranged them. “I don’t know….”
    With the life she led? It could be any number of people.
    “Do you have a security alarm here?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “You should assume he is dangerous until proven otherwise.”
    “I agree.” As the man—Assail, that was, reached into his coat, she shook her head. “No cigars. I told you—”
    He made an