Pregnant by Morning. Kat Cantrell

pass out.

      “So. What did you want to talk about?”

      His soft laugh settled inside her. “I’m wondering about this.”

      He traced the trail of eight notes tattooed in a string at the small of her back. The smooth touch unleashed a tremor she couldn’t control. “It’s a tattoo.”

      “The notes are all the colors of the rainbow. I like it.”

      No one had ever noticed that before. “Music is important to me.”

      It was more than she’d meant to say and communicated none of the shock of pure grief the words had unearthed. She shoved the grief back, like she always did, shoved back the longing for a voice to express the pain. If she had a voice, she’d have no pain to express. It was a cruel, vicious circle she couldn’t escape.

      Except this was one night she didn’t have to face the darkness alone. “Matt.”

      “Angie.”

      The smile in his voice warmed her. “Just making sure you’re still there. Are we going to talk some more or is there something you’d like to do instead?”

      “Was that a line?”

      “Yes. It was.” The ache at her core spread, and only the man behind her could ease it. She’d never wanted to be with someone more. What did she have to do to get him to make a move? “Obviously not a good one since you’re still sitting there like yo—”

      “Stand up and turn around, Angie.”

      She did slowly.

      His hooded gaze swept her from head to toe, lingering along the way and unleashing a delicious tingle in all the places his eyes touched.

      “You are the most beautiful woman alive. Come here.”

      He grasped both her hands and stood to meet her. In one breath, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

      Flames exploded at their joined mouths, between their bodies, crackling down the length of her bare skin where the soft fabric of his suit brushed it. Oh, how wrong she’d been. He was a man who took what he wanted. And he wanted to consume her whole.

      She wanted to let him.

      They connected. On every level.

      When he tilted her head back to access her throat with his firm, gorgeous mouth, their masks caught at the corners. Patiently, he disentangled them and glanced down into her eyes, suddenly still. “No expectations. Does this feel right?”

      Without warning, he skated a hand down her spine and fanned it at the small of her back, cradling the tattooed music notes in his capable hand as if he knew he held her very center.

      Her eyelids fell closed and she moaned. “More right than anything I’ve ever felt. Please don’t say you’re really in the mood to talk.”

      He laughed against her throat, and she felt the caress of his lips clear to her toes. “I’m not. But I would be happy to talk, if that’s what you wanted.”

      She shook her head almost imperceptibly, terrified she’d dislodge his mouth from her skin. “I want you.”

      “Good. Because I’m about to make love to you.”

      Yes, she wanted that, too. To be filled by this very different man, to the brim. To connect, bodies and minds. Souls.

      He threaded a hand through the hair at her neck, his fingers solid and firm against it. “Angie,” he murmured, almost reverently.

      “Stop.” Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Baffling, irrepressible tears because she wanted something else from him, something she’d resisted all evening. “Just stop.”

      “Okay.” His hands withdrew and the sudden lack of support buckled her knees.

      “No! Don’t stop touching me. Stop calling me Angie.” Before her subconscious could come up with one of the hundreds of reasons it was a dangerous idea, she reached up and yanked off her mask. “My name is Evangeline. Make love to me, not the mask.”

      Four

      “Evangeline.”

      It flowed from Matthew’s mouth like a prayer. Yes. That fit this angelic, winged woman who had bared herself to him in more ways than one.

      He drank in her face, and it jolted something inside, as if his soul had done a double take and said, There you are.

      “Angie is a nickname. Evangeline is who I am.”

      A nameless emotion tightened his throat. “I’m honored you trusted me with it.”

      She’d done far more than simply remove her mask. The significance of it sent a flood of guilt through him. Guilt because he could shed his physical mask—but not his internal one.

      And still he drew off his mask and dropped it to the floor. “Allow me to reciprocate.”

      For a long while, she fixated on his face. His neck heated. Who would have thought taking off a mask could provoke such intensity?

      “God, you’re gorgeous.”

      “Most people call me by my given name, but if you want to address me as God, I won’t argue.”

      She laughed, pushing her firm breasts into his chest. “Way to defuse the moment. That’s a rare talent.”

      He’d intended to diffuse his own embarrassment at her frank admiration, which even Amber had expressed infrequently. But if Evangeline chose to believe he had superpowers, so much the better.

      “Are we finished with the revelations?” he asked.

      “Not even close. Now that I’ve seen what’s under that mask, I’m dying to peel away this suit—” she flicked his bow tie “—and get a look at the rest of the goods.”

      “I hope it meets with your expectations.” His voice dropped. Nerves. Of all things.

      Before fully internalizing the implications, he swept Evangeline into his arms and carried her up the stairs to the bedroom.

      “Any man who can do that without having to catch his breath most definitely has a body that’ll meet my expectations,” she said as he laid her on the bed. “Oh, wow. That’s quite a fresco.”

      Matthew glanced up at the ceiling, where stucco divided sixteen individual paintings last touched by a brush during the Renaissance. “It’s my favorite.”

      “I like it, too. I’ll lie here and look at it while you fetch the condoms out of my clutch. Which is downstairs.” She flipped him a cheeky grin as he cursed.

      He cursed some more as he tromped back down the narrow stairs in search of the errant bag. It was still attached to her dress, but instead of pulling out a couple of condoms—because who was he to question how many they’d need—he untied it and brought the whole thing.

      The bulging sides of Evangeline’s clutch induced a healthy dose of reality. He was about to have sex with a virtual stranger, one whose face he’d seen for the first time less than ten minutes ago. Halfway up the stairs, he paused.

      Was he really going to go through with this?

      It was one night. One night in which he had an opportunity to turn the tide of his grief and rejoin the living by spending time with a beautiful woman who made him feel ten feet tall—feel being the operative word. One night when he could act recklessly with no one the wiser. He was in the most romantic city in the world, perhaps on purpose, and he wanted all that Venice had to offer.

      Evangeline was draped across the cream-colored comforter when he strode through the bedroom door. She studied the ceiling with pursed lips, hair spread out underneath her and breasts freely on display. That lack of inhibition—it staggered him. Excited him.

      His body hardened