Page 4 of Stolen Faith

She laughed, the two of them slowly stepping away. Throughout her kiss with Brennon, she was aware of Rowan’s presence. When she turned to face him, it occurred to her that he suddenly seemed closer.

Had he moved toward them as they’d kissed?

Fully facing him, she started to lift her hands to his shoulders, ready to give him a kiss like the one she’d just shared with Brennon.

Rowan had other plans.

He moved faster, his hands cupping her cheeks, his grip equal parts forceful and gentle, something she couldn’t begin to understand. All she knew was she felt captured and cherished at the same time.

There was nothing slow and easy about Rowan’s kiss. When his lips met hers, they were hungry, rough.

He pushed her lips apart with his, laying claim to her mouth. This was no exploration like Brennon’s.

She’d probably heard fewer than fifty words from this man all day, yet with this kiss, she swore he’d just written her a goddamned novel.

Rowan was the first to pull away, releasing her face just as quickly. She saw a flash of something she couldn’t name in his eyes. A spark that was there and gone in a second. Pain? Regret? Anger?

Before she could think to question it, Rowan took a big step back, nodded his head just once, and said, “Good night,” leaving her alone with Brennon, speechless.

“Well,” Brennon said quietly.

Well, indeed.

Chapter Two

Boston wasn’t the city that never slept, but it also wasn’t a quiet little town that rolled up the streets at eight p.m. Boston had hidden the heart of a revolution, nurtured some of the country’s greatest thinkers and scholars, and shrugged off weather that would cripple cities farther south.

At least some of that success should probably be attributed to Boston’s absolute plethora of bars and pubs.

It was their second night as a trinity and once again they were well-dressed and out on the town. Tonight, they’d attended the symphony. As they walked from Symphony Hall to Izabel’s condo, the streets were full of people—many of them young enough they were probably college students, but also plenty of business-attired individuals who might have gone for an after-work drink that somehow was turning into a night out.

Brennon walked on one side of Izabel, whose skirt swished quietly while her heels made decisive clicks with each step.

“You sure you’re okay to walk in those shoes?” Brennon asked. “I can hail a cab or order a ride.”

“As long as you don’t want to walk too fast,” she said with a smile. Her smiles were different, unique. When she smiled, it wasn’t a grin that rounded her cheeks but a small curling of lips—an elegant expression that made Brennon feel decidedly outclassed. Izabel carried herself with a sort of controlled grace that made her seem not only regal but slightly dangerous. He knew just by looking at her that she could back up that attitude.

Some of it was probably an East Coast/West Coast thing. In L.A., and even more so in San Francisco, wealthy, powerful people rarely dressed or held themselves like they had money and influence.

He himself was considered a power player in Hollywood—as much as any writer could be when the studios routinely tried to fuck them over—but most of the time he looked like a disorganized professor or rumpled mad scientist. Even if, for some reason, he was in a writer’s room, the most dressed up he got was jeans and a button-down shirt. And that was wildly formal compared to what the billionaires in San Francisco wore.

He owned three nice suits and one tuxedo. He’d brought all of them to Boston and was glad he had.

Rowan was walking on her other side, the street side. There’d been a brief moment when they started walking when both Brennon and Rowan had tried to position themselves between Izabel and the street. Rowan hadn’t said anything, merely cleared his throat softly.

It had been a minute since Brennon had written anything with military characters, but he’d done revisions for a summer action movie recently, and in the research for that, he’d learned a good bit about the military. Including that the “sidewalk rule” was an actual, if unwritten, rule in the military, with soldiers caught allowing their significant other to walk on the street side getting a stern talking to by their C.O.

He yielded the spot to Rowan, walking on Izabel’s other side.

She adjusted her cloak, pulling it closed over her chest. The waist-length black garment had slits for her arms and a fur-lined neck. His writer’s soul appreciated the drama of it, but he had no idea if it was keeping her warm. Maybe the slits for the arms made it drafty.

He reached for the button of his suit jacket. “Are you cold? Wear my jacket.”

Another smile. “That’s very gallant, but no, I’m not cold. I’m fastening my cape so I can do this.”

Brennon realized now that she was connecting tiny hidden closures on the front of the garment. Which was apparently called a cape and that just made it better.

Izabel finished adjusting her outerwear, then reached out one hand to him. Brennon wrapped his fingers around hers.

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