Page 106 of SINS & Riley
RILEY
Without thinking, my palm smoothes over her belly.
She’s my sister, but this new level of intimacy steals my breath. “How far long?” I whisper.
“Four months.”
Tears blur my vision.
I want to tell her about my baby, too. But that would open a door I’m not ready to walk through.
Too many questions. Too much raw truth. Dante. And Zver. And about six trunks of emotional luggage I’m not prepared to unpack at her feet.
Not yet, anyway. I mean, geez, I just got here.
No. I’m determined to make this all about Kennedy.
She’s about to usher me into the house, but I can’t just leave Boris loitering outside.
I glance back.
He’s already lit a cigarette, thick smoke curling past his hat brim as he waves me off. “I stay here.”
Well, okay then.
Kennedy leans close, whispering in my ear. “Don’t worry. Boris was here last night with two other guards. When he’s done with his cigarette, he’ll join the others in the kitchen for brunch. They know their way around.”
“They do?” I whisper back.
It’s barely morning. How the hell was Boris already here?
Kennedy nods, a little sheepishly. “They did a full sweep of the house and grounds.” Her shoulders lift, almost apologetic. “It sort of comes with the territory.”
Her arm threads through mine as Truffles trots ahead, leading the way.
The moment we step inside, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. This isn’t just a McMansion. It’s a double quarter pounder of one.
White-and-black checkerboard floors stretch across a vast foyer, two winding staircases curling up each side like something straight out of Beauty and the Beast.
Golden light filters in through tall windows, catching the gleam of polished banisters. For all its impossible scale, it feels lived-in.
A home.
The walls are lined with artwork that flickers in my memory. Tulle skirts of pale pink and ivory, ballerinas caught mid-leap, brushstrokes blurred as if they might still be moving.
I recognize them from the posters around the dance studio.
Degas.
Only these aren’t prints.
They’re originals. The real thing.
My what-the-fuck meter is going haywire. And my eyes don’t know where to land.
Kennedy steers me through a hallway lined with French doors, all thrown open to the breeze.
Citrus and salt air drift in, carrying the courtyard with it—rows of olive trees, and sunlight glinting off stone. A long table waits beneath a gazebo, crowned with a floral-and-lemon centerpiece and set with a spread fit for a king.
