Then it all came back to me.
Parallel universe.
The bad seed Pol’s good guy (maybe) twin.
And a witch from New Orleans.
“Shit,” I whispered, feeling the tightness in my face, the ache at my ribs, both very real. And also feeling the bed soft beneath me, the sheets luxurious against my hand, knowing it had all happened.
It had happened.
I looked around the room.
As I’d semi-noted last night, I was in a large bed, bigger than a queen, but not as big as a king. The intricately carved and arched head and footboard were both padded and buttoned in a creamy material, the wood around it painted antique white.
There were two nightstands, both French provincial, the carving also ornate.
On them—I leaned to my side carefully to look closer—there was what looked like extravagant gas lamps, their bases shining silver, their globes milky, frilled and beautifully engraved. My half-drunk wineglass was still there and in the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains, that glass was even more extraordinary.
I pushed up and continued my study of the room.
An enormous antique white wardrobe with four doors, more carving and an arched top. A long, low dresser with nine drawers, the three in the middle narrower than the six at the sides, all their fronts having undulating curves.
There was another bouquet of hydrangeas on the top, this one carrying a majority of creamy white blooms with a couple of pale blue ones added for contrast. On either side, milky globed lamps, taller than the ones on the nightstand but still matching them.
The dresser also held an elegant decanter half-full of wine, with two empty wineglasses, all sitting on a silver tray with a frilled lip.
I turned my head and saw in the far corner a squat, baroque dressing table with a three-sided mirror and a stool in front with a cushion padded in buttoned lilac velvet. The top was void—not a bottle, not a vase, but the piece needed no adornment. Still, it was clear it was unused.
I turned my head the other way and saw a pale blue velvet covered chaise lounge with an arch to the side of the back and sweeping arms at top and foot which sat at a diagonal, aimed for a view out the French doors. In front of the doors at the other side was a seating arrangement of two armchairs, including the one Valentine had sat in which had clearly been moved back. A table sat between them with another, smaller vase filled with purple hydrangea blooms.
The wood floors were covered in rugs with intricate but elusive designs, made so by their muted colors of blues, purples, creams and grays.
And set in the walls were more milky-globed sconces intermingled with black framed, cream matted pencil sketches of women all wearing fabulous, chic but old-fashioned gowns from evening wear to day wear to outdoor gear (I knew the last because they were wearing hats and peeking from around parasols).
The room was lavish, yet classy. Opulent, however still tasteful. It was more of everything I’d ever seen of this style of décor—more intricacy in the carving, the sweeping lines more delicate, the colors lusher. In fact, it was totally over-the-top. But weirdly, it managed to be gracious, not garish.
I concluded my perusal of the space thinking, Okay, this might not be so bad—the appearance of gas lamps and the understanding that Apollo was handy with a sword and Valentine had to explain that a gun was a deadly weapon and what these might mean notwithstanding.
I was about to throw the bedclothes back, get out of bed and find a bathroom (which I hoped they had) and take a look at my face which felt worse than normal, when the door flew open.
My head jerked that way and I saw Apollo striding in.
He was still in romance novel hero clothes.
But these were better.
Dark brown breeches that fit really well and by that I meant like a freaking glove. They left pretty much nothing to the imagination and what they did leave to the imagination, the parts that didn’t told you the rest of it could be nothing but perfection.
And again, this proved he was all Pol because, at least looks-wise, Pol was all that, top to toe. It was just everything else that made him a jackass.
I stopped thinking of Pol and followed Apollo’s breeches to his dark brown boots that were kind of shiny like someone attempted to take care of them, but they weren’t worn as a fashion statement. They were just worn.
Up my eyes went and I saw topping these was a cream shirt, full-sleeved and the collar was clearly meant to go up high on his neck and cover his throat, possibly with one of those poofy neck cloth thingies, but he wore the collar open at the throat, exposing the strong column of it, creating a miracle. Because at the sight of his throat, I forgot about his breeches.
I tore my eyes from his neck to look at his face.
Yep, this was Pol Powerhouse.