Page 6 of Stolen Faith

“This is my building.”

Izabel took her hand from his, this time to tug a small wristlet purse out from under the cape, where she must have hooked it around her elbow to keep it out of the way.

The entrance was recessed under the building, forming a porte-cochere with a large half-circle driveway, and a dark opening to one side that looked like it led to underground parking.

Rowan was looking around. Brennon followed his gaze and saw the camera in one corner, pointed at the rotating glass door.

Izabel went through first. Brennon looked at Rowan, waiting, but the other man nodded for him to go next.

The lobby was all wood and black leather tufted panels with dramatic lighting and a few lush green plants in matte black containers.

A man looked up from behind the desk. “Ms. Serra, how was the symphony?”

“Wonderful, as always.”

The man frowned. “I would have sent a car for you.” His gaze flicked to Brennon and Rowan. “And your guests.”

“I know, thank you, Sam.” Izabel headed for the elevator. Brennon followed her. She touched her key fob to the panel inside, then hit the button for the second-highest floor.

“Security?” Rowan asked.

Izabel turned to him as the elevator started up. “In the building? Yes, there’s security.” She raised the key fob.

“I meant the guy at the desk.”

“Oh, no, that’s the overnight concierge. He’s here ten to six. The building contracts with outside security he calls if needed.”

Rowan nodded.

He’d said something. It was a start. Maybe he was just making conversation, or maybe he was looking at a post-military career in security work. What Rowan did might depend on where they decided to live. Izabel was clearly established in Boston, but Brennon needed to be in L.A., at least part-time. Sure, he could write from anywhere, but surviving in the industry meant things like casual coffee dates with friends who just happened to be producers were as much a part of his job as writing.

One of the many things they’d discuss over the next month.

The elevator doors opened into a short hallway stretching left to right. There were wide, glossy doors at each end of the hallway. Izabel turned right. Another tap of her fob and the door unlocked with a click.

The condo foyer was wide. On one side, a delicate-looking, antique dark-wood chair sat beside a glossy mirrored console table. Izabel put her keys into a dish shaped like an orchid.

“Can I give you a tour?” She took her phone from the wristlet, then put the bag on the console table beside the key bowl. “Then I’m going to text Rose again and ask what happened.”

They’d attended the symphony with another trinity. Rose Hancock was a legacy, like Izabel. She and her husbands had flown into Boston for the engagement party. Rose had connections to Marco Polin, a famous musician. He’d been at their engagement party the night before and was guest performing with the Boston Symphony Orchestra for one week only.

A few minutes into the performance, Rose’s phone had gone off and she’d run out of the theater with a murmured apology. Her husbands had followed behind her, leaving three empty seats.

“She’s not a doctor?” Brennon asked again. He’d whispered the question to Izabel during intermission. A doctor having to leave an event to perform life-saving surgery only they knew how to perform was a great dramatic moment.

“No. Honestly, I’m not sure what Rose does. We only recently reconnected. Probably works for a business or charity her family owns, but I know she’s not a doctor.”

Izabel led them through the foyer into a massive living room. The far wall was curved glass—he’d seen that the building had one curved corner, and apparently Izabel had the penthouse on that side. The view was stunning, the glittering lights of the city and the Charles River. The room itself was elegant but not formal, with a lived-in air that made it accessible, though he wouldn’t put his feet up on that undoubtedly expensive coffee table in one of the two seating areas.

“Look.” She walked to the wall of windows and pointed. “It’s a little hard to see because of the angle, but if you put your face almost against the glass and look that way, you can see the top of the library. We’re behind it, so we’re looking at the Exeter Street side.”

Brennon stepped up next to her, resting his hand on the small of her back as he leaned in.

Izabel shifted, leaning toward him.

Awareness rolled through Brennon like a slow wave.

He looked back over his shoulder at Rowan, raising a brow.

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