Page 30 of King of Deception

But maybe, just for tonight, I’d like to pretend.

We walk down the hall and reach my apartment. He takes the key from my hand and opens the door.

I haven’t lived here long, but I loved decorating this place.

I took everything I learned in design school and poured it into my new home.

From the drapes to the furniture, it’s so me.

Gris swings the door open and flicks on the lights.

I expect him to say goodnight, but with his hand at my back again, he helps me inside and then he closes the door behind him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gris

Arabella scaredthe shit out of me tonight. I don’t scare often, but she rocked me to my core.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m not going anywhere.

I will beg, borrow, or steal, but I’m staying tonight.

But she doesn’t argue as I close the door and click the lock. I can see that the events of the last few days are wearing on her.

She wasn’t made for this kind of fight. She’s soft, gentle. She’s the type of woman who should be protected.

I know it deep down, even though we’ve only known each other for a few days. And here’s the thing about me, I’ve got strength in spades.

I’ve always kept a tight rein on my feelings. I don’t let them get involved, I don’t do soft or fuzzy.

But Arabella is worming her way past my defenses. It started with the way we both lost control that first night.

But now, I see her trying so hard to stand tall when every male around her keeps pushing her down.

It makes me want to knock in their teeth.

My gaze sweeps over her place. It’s spectacular.

Her decorating is honestly worthy of the aristocracy.

The textures are perfect, with the silks of the drapes complementing the fabrics of the upholstery.

The chairs and sofa aren’t matching sets, but they blend seamlessly. It’s the kind of quality that a person can’t fake.

I pull Arabella close again. “I love your place.”

“Really?” she asks, her voice taking on an air of breathless excitement. “I love it too, but no one else seems to notice.”

“Not even Preston? Doesn’t his family tout themselves as old money?”

“They did build their fortune at the turn of the century. Railroad money.”

“Americans,” I mutter into her hair. I feel her soft laugh as she relaxes into me.

“Oh please, the Wingates have us beat by a country mile. My family has had money for five minutes.”

“And yet, you have far better taste than any of them.” My mother is a duchess. She has taste.

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