The Price Of Scandal(76)

“You would, would you?” I did a mental inventory of the state of my condo. The cleaning service had been there yesterday, which minimized the possibility of her facing anything unsavory like week-old takeout containers or six loads of dry cleaning draped over the couch.

“It’s your fault, Price. You introduced me to your family, and now I’m penning an engagement announcement in my head,” she teased. “I’ve seen your office, and now I need to find out what secrets you’re hiding at home before this gets more serious.”

I steered the Porsche in the direction of my building downtown. “Fine, but I’m taking you to my condo, not my creepy dungeon lair. You can see the creepy dungeon lair after the wedding.”

“Baby steps,” she said.

We made the drive to my place in comfortable silence. It was a glossy high-rise in Miami’s skyline. A little soulless, but the proximity to my office and most everything downtown was convenient.

I parked the car in the garage and led her to the elevator, a guiding hand at the small of her back. I’d only recently discovered just how much I enjoyed touching Emily and had no plans to slow down there.

“Floor?” she asked, her finger hovering over the buttons.

I told her, and she stabbed it triumphantly.

When the doors slid shut, Emily turned to face me. She looped her arms around my neck. “I really liked your family,” she said.

“I’m rather partial to them, too,” I told her.

“You’re all so… on the same team. No one is walking into dinner with an agenda. It was refreshing,” she continued. “Your parents are so proud of you.”

The longing behind her words made my heart ache for her.

“I’m a testament to their hard work to keep me on the straight and narrow,” I told her, brushing the hair back from her eye. I loved looking at her like this. Close, relaxed, soft. She was a complicated woman. And I found that I liked that immensely.

I’d felt something seeing her sitting with my sisters and mother on the patio, a bottle of wine making the rounds. Something… right. I told myself I’d taken her there to show her what a family could be. That there were people out there who could love without designs. At least, that’s what I’d thought.

But now I wondered if I was trying her out in my life. Testing her like a puzzle piece to see where she fit.

The doors opened with a soft ding on the fifteenth floor, and I led the way to my place.

“After you,” I said, opening the front door with a flourish.

I wasn’t a man without opinions. My home reflected this. I’d paid a designer, of course, as one does. But I’d been a micro-managing bastard, weighing in on every piece of furniture, every painting, every throw pillow.

In the end, it was worth it. My home was sleek, functional, and comfortable.

Stained concrete floors. Stainless steel accents. A wall of glass overlooking the city.

But it was softened by the nine-foot-tall bookshelves that framed the requisite manly TV. The furniture was simple but comfortable.

Emily wandered into the living space and studied my collection. “A reader,” she mused aloud. “Interesting.”

“Science fiction and fantasy mostly,” I said as she examined the shelves.

“A geek.” She labeled me with smug satisfaction.

“Coming from a nerd, I’ll accept that as a compliment,” I teased.

I wondered what else she would discover about me here in my home.

“Wine?” I offered.

She shook her head. “Water, please.” She pulled a volume from the shelf, studied it, and returned it.

“Why don’t you change into something more comfortable while I pour?” I suggested.

She glanced down at her outfit and laughed. “I don’t travel with comfy clothes.”

“I have just the thing.” Ducking into the bedroom, I changed into pajama pants and a t-shirt and found something I deemed appropriate for her.

“Boxers?” she asked, taking them from me.

“Boxer briefs,” I corrected. “You will take these, and you will destroy those detestable ones you are so oddly fond of. In exchange, you can have as many pairs of mine as you like.”

She looked down at the underwear, her thumb stroking over the silky gray fabric. Her expression was soft.

“Antidiarrheals and men’s underwear,” she mused. “You give the most interesting gifts, Price.”

“You can buy yourself all the baby-fist-sized diamond pendants in the world, love. I’m wooing you by showing I have your every need covered,” I said, nudging her in the direction of the powder room.

I poured us both waters while she changed. We met in the dining area. She seemed shyer somehow in my underwear and her tank top. One hand gripping the opposite elbow as she admired the Alexandra Ballard painting above the buffet. Stripped down to basics, this Emily was softer, approachable. Another facet in the precious gem that was the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about.

“Lovely,” she said softly, studying the painting.

The fierce wave of possession caught me off guard. What I wanted crystallized for me. Emily Stanton. In my life. My home. My family. I wasn’t playing games anymore. I was playing for keeps.

“It is, isn’t it?” I said lightly. The complex layers of oil paints in a tapestry of blues and grays reminded me of Emily.