Mine to Keep

by Rhenna Morgan

  “There is no one else tonight,” Roman said. Beside him was a small table covered in a crisp white tablecloth and place settings that would have come out of a five-star restaurant. Delicate stargazer lilies sat in a short arrangement in the middle. “It will only be the two of us.”

  No hamburgers?

  No hot dogs?

  No tortilla chips and queso?

  She’d starved herself all day for tonight’s gluttony. Though, looking at Roman in a charcoal gray suit, black shirt and black tie, the need for junk food quickly fizzled. She set her purse on the dresser and shrugged off her jacket. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is a surprise for you.” He gave her a wry look. “One you’ve made very challenging by being late.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.” She tossed her coat on top of her purse and padded forward, both delighted and uncertain at the same time. “I was talking to Kevin.”

  “Yes, I know. He texted me after you left.”

  Hmm. So that’s what the weird look had been about. Her brother was in cahoots with his boss for something beyond work.

  Interesting.

  Two warming covers sat atop the plates on the table. “So, I’m getting a surprise?”

  “Indeed.”

  She reached for the warming cover closest to her, intent on peeking underneath.

  Roman gripped her wrist before she made contact. “Not yet. We have matters to attend to first.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what if the food gets cold?”

  “Then I’ll call the chef back and have him make you more.”

  Aww. He’d been up to his tricks again. Adorably ridiculous tricks. She moved in close, rose to her tippy toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Is there a grilled cheese sandwich under there?”

  His hands settled on her hips and his voice dropped to that delicious rumble she felt everywhere. “It worked for me before. I thought it might be in my best interest to use it to my advantage again.”

  She cocked her head. “Worked how?”

  “That day at the restaurant is when you began to soften toward me. When you realized my desire for you was not a game.”

  Oh, no. No one could ever call Roman or his actions anything but deadly serious. If he’d proven nothing else in the last year, it was that he meant every word that came out of his mouth. “And you think I need softening for something?”

  A soft, gentle smile tilted his full lips. “Not softening. Just a reminder.”

  “Mmm.” She loved remembering that day. The confusion. The awe. The utter wonder of it all. “I like remembering all of my days with you.”

  “Good,” he said before giving her a firm yet gentle kiss. “Then allow me to give you more.”

  Keeping her close, he pulled a black box out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  A velvet box.

  A very tiny one.

  Suited for a ring.

  Her heart took off at a sprint, sending her blood jetting through her veins. She licked her lips and tried to breathe. “What’s that?”

  “You know what it is, moya koroleva. You see them every day. Only today it isn’t for anyone else. Only for you.”

  He opened the box.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  The ring.

  The one Mr. Frannelly had been consulting with her on for weeks. The design he said he was determined to get just right. No wonder he kept asking for her input. Her suggestions and her reactions. It hadn’t been for him to sell.

  It was for her.

  From Roman.

  “Baby...” She studied it for long seconds. Marveled at the beauty in the design. Not just because the stone in the center was so flawless, but because of the tasteful and unique white gold setting that held it. She lifted her head, emotion balled up in her throat. “It’s beautiful.”

  “As beautiful as my Queen.” He plucked it from the box and smoothly slid it on her finger.

  A perfect fit.

  Just as he’d known it would be.

  “It’s time, vozlyublennaya. Time for you to take my name. To truly be my bride and seal our life together.”

  It’s time.

  Nearly the same words she’d shared with her brother.

  And it was time. Time for her to surrender all her old fears once and for all and step fully into her new life. A life of happiness. Of family and of love. All shared with a man she knew she could always trust completely.

  She pressed her hands against his chest and rolled back up on her toes, absolute certainty reverberating through every inch of her as she whispered against his lips. “You’re right, handsome. It’s time.” A kiss to seal her words. A vow she didn’t doubt for a second. “Time for us.”

  * * *

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  To purchase and read more books by Rhenna Morgan, please visit her website at rhennamorgan.com/books.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d be remiss in releasing any book without pausing to acknowledge some very important people.

  For my business peeps—Cori Deyoe, Kerri Buckley, and the Carina Press and Harlequin staff. Thank you all so very much for listening and patiently riding out the ups and downs that paint a career in writing.

  For my writer tribe and dearest friends—Juliette Cross, Dena Garson, Jennifer Mathews, and Lucy Beshara. I’ve met many people since stepping foot on my writing journey and quest for personal growth, but the four of you have been my guideposts. My constants and my treasured friends. Thank you for standing by me through all the twists and turns of life.

  Most importantly, thank you to my beautiful daughters Abegayle and Addison, and the love of my life, Joe Crivelli. The three of you are the brightest lights in my life and the absolute treasures of my heart.

  About the Author

  Rhenna Morgan is a happily-ever-after addict—hot men, smart women, and scorching chemistry required. A triple-A personality with a thing for lists, Rhenna’s a mom to two beautiful daughters who constantly keep her dancing, laughing and simply happy to be alive.

  When she’s not neck deep in writing, she’s probably driving with the windows down and the music up loud, plotting her next hero and heroine’s adventure. (Though trolling online for man-candy inspiration on Pinterest comes in a close second.)

  She’d love to share her antics and bizarre sense of humor with you and get to know you a little better in the process. You can sign up for her newsletter and gain access to exclusive snippets, upcoming releases, fun giveaways, and social media outlets at www.rhennamorgan.com.

  His world. His rules. Her love.

  Don’t miss His to Defend, the heart-stoppingly sexy first installment in Rhenna Morgan’s Nola Knights series.

  Though his methods may be rough, when it comes to protecting what’s his, Russian vor Sergei Petrovyh’s heart is always in the right place. That’s never been more true than when the gorgeous Evette Labadie asks him for a job. He knows enough to keep his hands off someone as beloved by the locals as Evie, but there’s something about her that calls to him—no matter how badly he burns to make her his...

  Chapter One

  $480.

  Evette pinched the business-size check from her former employer a little tighter and glared at the cleaning company’s logo in the top corner. On any other Friday, the money would have meant inching closer to some semblance of security for her and her son, Emerson. A step toward unraveling the mess she’d created for her life. Today, the unexpected termination that had come with her weekly pay felt more like a sucker punch to the gut. Yet anothe
r obstacle to overcome after too many damned years running the gauntlet and never even glimpsing the finish line.

  Maybe she could get a job cleaning at one of the hotels. God knew the French Quarter was packed with them, and she was pretty sure she could count on regular shift work, like the office cleaning crew she’d been on. Though, how she was going to land one by Monday when it was already close to 4:30 on a Friday afternoon was beyond her. And landing something quick was the only way this latest setback wouldn’t force her into dipping into Emerson’s school fund. Plus, there was the hurdle of what would happen if they called her old company for references and found out she’d been fired for a security breach.

  Not. Good.

  The commuter bus swung onto Tulane headed toward Mid-City, and Evie’s spirits sunk a little lower. If someone had told her when she was growing up that she’d be a single mom living in one of New Orleans’s rougher parts of town at twenty-eight years old, she’d have laughed in their face. She was going to be a fashion retail buyer—or at least have some kind of career in fashion. She was going to travel the world. See things. Know people. Adventure her way through life and suck it dry.

  Then her mom had died, and she’d gone off the rails.

  She sighed and slunk a little farther down onto the hard plastic bench, the run-down stores, bars and restaurants along the roadside passing in a blur while the vibrations from the bus’s engine rattled clear to her bones.

  Get knocked down seven times, stand up eight.

  If she had a dollar for all the times her momma had said it and all the times Evie had echoed it in the last eight years, she’d be driving a Porsche toward the Garden District right now instead of a barely livable apartment.

  But her momma had made it.

  Mostly.

  Raised Evette through her tumultuous preteen years after her daddy’s death and made it look easy. It hadn’t been until a year after Emerson had been born and Evie had found the courage to read some of her mother’s journals that she’d realized just how much of a challenge her mother had really faced. How much she’d given up and how alone she’d felt through every second.

  Evie understood it now. Knew to her very marrow the sacrifices that had been made on her behalf.

  And she’d thrown it all away nursing her grief.

  Resolve and a whole lot of stubbornness revved her energy and forced her taller in her seat. Pity was what had gotten her into this mess to begin with, and she’d be damned if she went that route again. Labadie women didn’t quit. Didn’t give up. They faced whatever they needed to face, and they smiled doing it. Eventually, she was going to find a way to give her and Emerson the world. She just might have to scrimp a little longer and get more creative to make it happen.

  The bus’s brakes whined, and the older lady seated next to Evie leaned into her.

  Evie braced herself enough to keep them both upright and smiled down at her fellow passenger. “You gettin’ off here, Miss Arnold? You know Dorothy’s Friday specials are always the best ones of the week.”

  Miss Arnold beamed a smile at Evie and hugged her grocery bag a little tighter to her chest. Her blue eyes might have turned murky in the last few years and the wrinkles lining her pale skin etched a little deeper, but her kind heart was still as strong as ever. “No, no, Evette. Trips to the grocery aren’t as easy as they used to be. Better I get my tired bones on to the home before the sun goes down.”

  A smart move. Especially in this part of town, because a woman like Miss Arnold after dark was a mugging waiting to happen.

  Once certain the older woman had her balance again, Evie stood, shouldered her purse and took another stab at the same argument she’d been having with the neighborhood woman for the past year. “Seems to me, you could use that fancy shuttle van all the other residents use for your errands and not have half the hassle.”

  Miss Arnold lifted her chin a little higher, the epitome of a Southern woman with an iron core. “Seein’ to myself is a privilege. Gonna take advantage of it as long as the good Lord’ll let me.” She dipped her head toward the door at the front of the bus. “Best get yourself to Dorothy’s and that handsome boy of yours.”

  Damn. Shut down again. “All right, but don’t think we’re not gonna talk about this next time.”

  “Lookin’ forward to it, beautiful girl.”

  Evie shook her head and headed to the door.

  “Evette.” Miss Arnold’s sharp voice halted her just before she took the first step down. She waited until Evie met her steady stare before she spoke again. “Gonna be all right. Whatever it is...it’s not gonna beat you. You just keep on remembering that.”

  A tightness noosed around Evette’s throat, and tears tingled along the bridge of her nose. Maybe she wouldn’t have another chance to talk Miss Arnold out of taking the bus to the grocery store. Not unless her next job took her to the same part of town she’d been working in. She clenched the handrail beside the steep steps and forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Don’t you worry, Miss Arnold. Gonna take more than a kick or two to keep me down.”

  The older woman nodded as if she’d expected such an answer, then went back to staring out the window opposite her seat. “Good girl. Now get on to that boy of yours and tell Dorothy I said hello.”

  Outside, the temperature still hovered near eighty-five degrees. Not exactly an unbearable number at the tail end of September, but the humidity from the gulf and the subtle stench that last night’s rains had stirred from the Quarter didn’t exactly make for an ideal stroll on the streets either. She hurried past a cheesy souvenir shop, a convenience store and a pub—the latter leaving the faint scent of cigarette smoke on the sidewalk despite the front door doing its best to trap the conditioned air inside. At the end of the block, Dorothy’s Diner sat like a neighborhood beacon. The entrance was right at the corner, two long walls of windows stretching for a good twelve feet on either side so those moseying past could get an easy view of the crowd inside.

  And there was always a crowd at Dorothy’s. As diners went, it was an institution. A safe haven in the middle of hell and a slice of soul food heaven all rolled into one. Per usual, Emerson was at the soda-shop-style counter perched on the barstool closest to the front door, his shoulders slightly hunched forward and his forearms around his plate like a linebacker braced to protect his food. His dirty blond hair was a nod to her daddy’s side of the family and was a tad too long and tousled like any other seven-year-old boy’s probably was at the end of the school day, but his expression was far too empty. His hazel eyes too void of emotion for someone so young.

  She forced another bogus smile and shoved the glass door open. The bell overhead gave a cheerful jingle, and two or three of the waitresses on the floor called out a greeting.

  Evie gave them all a polite wave, but went straight to her kid and added a little extra mess to his hair with a playful ruffle. “Hey, champ. How was school?”

  For the briefest of seconds, her little boy stared back at her. Not much more than a hint of a smile, but enough to let her know the kid who had curled so innocently in her lap a few years ago was still in there somewhere. The openness was gone again in a blink, the sullen scowl she’d grown to hate aimed back at a plateful of turkey and dressing. He shrugged and stabbed a bite of turkey. “Just a day.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a Friday and everyone knows Fridays are always better by default.” She slid onto the barstool next to Emerson and let her purse drop to the raised step beneath her feet. “Anything big go down at recess?”

  Emerson shook his head.

  “Any surprise tests?”

  Another shake.

  “Meet any cute girls?”

  To that, he simply lifted his head and looked at her like he was torn between walking home without her and suggesting she have her head examined.

  “Well, at least that got your attention,” she said. “You know, when
I was your age, my momma couldn’t get me to shut up.”

  Emerson pushed a green bean that had strayed too close to his dressing back to the exiled portion of his plate. “No point in talking if there’s nothing going on.”

  “Hmm.” She crossed her arms and pretended to check out the rest of the diner’s patrons while her brain scrambled for any clue on how to engage with her son. He might be only seven, but he talked with more sophistication than most adults. Barely any slang. No Creole mannerisms and definitely no profanity. More like a gentleman stuck in a child’s body. So, why she thought some shocking revelation on how to talk to him at his level was gonna plow its way to the forefront of her thoughts right this second after over a year of searching was beyond her. “Well, if you’re not gonna talk to me, maybe Miss Dorothy will. You seen her?”

  Emerson politely wiped his mouth with his napkin and dipped his head toward the kitchen. “She disappeared in there right before you came in. Table seven didn’t like their special.”

  Evie glanced at the turkey and dressing on Emerson’s plate. “Someone’s complaining about the cooking? Are they high?”

  Miracle of miracles, Emerson’s mouth twitched with a smile that didn’t quite break free. “Not everyone has good taste, Mom.”

  “True dat,” she fired back, wishing with everything in her she could get her kid to let go and be a kid again. She swiveled toward the kitchen and waved her hand at her bag. “Watch that for me. Don’t want our payday finding legs and running off without us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Yes, ma’am.

  Evie meandered toward the kitchen, her son’s perfect reply echoing in her head. If she’d been that proper growing up, her momma would have celebrated with street parties and however many charitable contributions for the offering plate their bank account would allow. Instead, she’d been sassy. Never disrespectful, of course. That would have earned her a butt whoopin’ or boxed ears. But an okie dokie pokey or a you betcha was way more common than a proper Yes, ma’am.