Blood Truth (Black Dagger Legacy #4) - J.R. Ward Page 0,144

her. Then he glanced at Boone. “If my Lord would permit his gracious guest to aid us in preparing hot cocoa and perhaps a small plate of sandwiches for tea, we would be most welcoming of her participation. With my Lord’s permission.”

Boone smiled back at the chef. Then he mouthed, You’re the best.

“Hey.” Helania nudged him in the side. “I can read lips, remember.”

“Yes, you can.” Boone swooped in for a quick kiss. Against her mouth, he whispered, “Do you want to translate what’s on my mind all of a sudden?”

As she blushed, she said, “Not in mixed company, no, I don’t. But I am so ready for something warm.”

Thomat hid a laugh, and then he bowed and indicated the way to the kitchen. “Follow me, mistress, and I believe you inquired after a water closet. I shall be pleased to show you to our formal one for the females.”

“Wonderful. Oh, and I’ll make sure we have something for Rochelle, too.”

“Thank you,” Boone said as a warm feeling filled him that didn’t have a damn thing to do with the furnaces in the house.

Helania gave him a little wave, and then the chef in his formal white coat, and the female in her jeans and sweater, went off together through the elegant dining room.

The door knocker sounded.

Hurrying over, he opened things. “Oh, Rochelle, come in—this storm is rank.”

Rochelle entered and stamped her high-heeled boots on the carpet as he shut the storm out again.

“Horrible,” she said. “Just horrible—”

As the lights dimmed once more, they both looked up to the fixture overhead. Outside, the wind howled even louder.

“I think it’s getting worse?” she said as she unwrapped the cashmere scarf that covered her coiffed head.

“Here, let me take your coat.”

After he helped her out of a lemon yellow drape that was heavier than it looked, Rochelle removed her gloves and smoothed the chignon she had her blond hair in. Her cheeks were bright from the wind and the cold, her lipstick a perfect nude color, her makeup light and tasteful. The perfume she was wearing . . . Cristalle by Chanel, her signature scent.

Her eyes were curiously frantic.

Boone frowned as he put her coat aside and took his own off.

“Come in here, sit down by the fire.”

As he drew her into the parlor, she didn’t go toward the cheerful flames at the marble hearth. She went to the windows that faced out into the storm—and he was reminded of that night, a year ago, when he had come down to this room and found her looking out at the darkness in just the same way.

“What’s going on,” he said soberly. “Talk to me.”

Rochelle took a deep breath, her reflection in the glass one of almost unfathomable grief. “This is where it all started.”

“I’m sorry?”

She looked over her shoulder. She was wearing winter-white slacks with a matching jacket, a citrine version of Tiffany’s Bird on a Rock on the left lapel.

“Here in this room,” she said. “This is where you and I met for the first time alone . . . and everything changed.”

Boone inclined his head and sat on the sofa. “It is. I was just thinking that myself.”

“I need to be more honest with you than I’ve been.”

“Okay.” He patted the cushion beside him. “Come over and sit, you’re looking very pale.”

But Rochelle didn’t move toward him. She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve practiced and practiced. But now that I’m here with you . . .”

“Rochelle. There is nothing you can tell me that will change my opinion of you. Do you understand that? Nothing.”

Dropping her hands, she approached the sofa and perched on the very edge of a cushion. After a long silence, her voice was low.

“When I came here and told you I couldn’t go through with the arrangement, I misled you.”

“How so?” Not that it mattered to him. “And whatever it is, it’s all right.”

“I told you . . . I told you I was in love with someone.”

Boone reached out and put a hand on her thin shoulder. “It’s all right, just tell me—”

“It wasn’t a male.”

“So he was a human?” Boone eased back and shrugged. “I mean, you told me he was a civilian, were you just worried about telling me he—”

“It wasn’t a ‘he.’”

“I don’t underst—” Boone’s brows popped. “Oh.”

Rochelle crossed her legs and linked her hands on her knee. “Yes . . . oh. It was a female. I

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