Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,151

pregnant woman works for me. In case you haven’t noticed—you bet she works for me. Partly because that’s my baby growing in there, which gives me all kinds of dangerous feelings, and partly because it’s you, and sorry, but you’re hot as hell.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what to say about that.

“But here’s the deal.” He tightened his hold on her hand again. “I’m kind of an exclusive dater. So if you want to do this, I’m afraid the big, strong new boyfriend is out.”

She did her best to look skeptical, even though her heart was racing. Her heart had never learned to be cynical, it seemed.

“Hey,” he said, “if Owen can do it, I can do it. Even though I know what I’m missing, which makes it harder.”

“So what do we get to do?” she asked. “Besides bowl. Because I notice you’re still holding my hand.”

“I notice you still kissed me back today, too,” he said. “So holding hands and kissing are all good, I guess. And I might not have as much control of my hands as I’ve always thought, so maybe some hands, too, do you think?”

“Oh, do I get a vote here?”

He grinned. “Oh, baby, you know you do. You get the final vote. Every time.” He lifted the hand he held to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, then turned it over and kissed her palm. Which was completely unfair. Which made her just melt.

“So …” She cleared her throat and tried again. “So this exclusivity works both ways.”

“Hey,” he said. “I thought that was the point. That it’s only good if it works both ways. Isn’t that what you told what’s-his-name?”

“You know his name.”

“I don’t want to know his name.”

“And how long are we doing this?” she asked. “This dating thing?”

No laughter now. His eyes, a blue as deep and bright as sapphires, were level when he said, “As long as it takes, that’s how long. Exactly as long as it takes.”

47

A Fun Time

At five o’clock the next day, Dyma burst through the oversized doors of Harlan’s house like a whirlwind, or possibly a tumbleweed, since her hair was sticking up more than ever. She and Annabelle had probably rolled the windows down and sung along to the radio half the way here. Jennifer was familiar with Dyma’s preferred driving mode, which could be summed up as “loud.”

“We made it,” Dyma announced unnecessarily. “Without a rollover accident, even. And, whoa. This house is crazy.” She and Annabelle headed over to the S-shaped almost-couch where Harlan was reading a book and Jennifer was studying financial reports on her laptop and trying to convince herself that, yes, she could definitely handle this job. She closed the computer with gratitude. She couldn’t study any more, right? Not if she needed to help Dyma settle in.

Dyma went on, “I thought Blake’s house was fancy. This is just insane. Annabelle opened the gate with her thumbprint. And the front door looks like …”

“Boxcar,” Harlan said. “Bank vault.”

“Exactly,” Dyma said. “And the rest of this is … Hang on. Show me, Annabelle.” They took a quick run around the main floor, with its stainless-steel railings surrounding the galleries overhead, its floor-to-very-high-ceiling glass, and its acres of stone. So much stone. A quarry’s worth of stone. Dyma did some exclaiming over the kitchen and a whole lot of opening and closing unfamiliar appliances. Warming oven. Two-drawer dishwasher. Refrigerator drawers, just in case the massively oversized fridge you already had wasn’t enough. Wine fridge, in case ditto. Built-in espresso machine and coffee bar. Grill and griddle on the stove, along with four burners and pot-filler faucet. The works.

“I guess when you get your modern art collection,” Dyma told Harlan when they got within hailing distance again—this was truly the biggest and least cozy room Jennifer had ever seen—“you’ll be all set, because you’ve got the museum already. This house is curved. Who has a curved house? Why does anybody have a curved house? Corners. They’re a thing. It needs some weird art, though. Like—giant white mannequin wearing Japanese armor. Rope art hanging forty feet down from the ceiling, with knots tied into it, signifying—I don’t know, the difficulty of life, maybe. Some kind of huge colored-glass deal. It needs installations.”

“I know,” Annabelle said with delight. “Isn’t it crazy? Just wait. I’ll take you on a tour. You should see Harlan’s bathroom.”

“A tour that starts with our place,” Jennifer said. “Where we will be living.”

“Oh, we already looked at that,” Dyma said breezily. “And,