Love Lies (Tails from the Alpha Art Gallery Book 3)

by Cynthia St. Aubin

  “Who says I have to be invisible? I could watch you—”

  “No. There will be no watching. Got it? And probably you, Nero and Klaud should stay as far away from Mark as is superhumanly possible. In fact, if Mark doesn’t kill you at the wedding, it will be a fucking miracle.” Rinsing my mug, I set it in the draining rack next to the sink.

  “Miracles, I can do. Demigod, remember?” He crossed his massive arms over his equally massive chest, the well-worn fabric of his tight black t-shirt looking like it had been painted on.

  And well.

  “Wait,” I said. “Were you the one who fixed up my apartment last night?”

  Genuine confusion crumpled his brow. “What about your apartment?”

  “Never mind. Now, do me a favor and get gone so I can do the same.”

  “Your wish—” he bowed his head “—is my command. See you tomorrow.” With an eardrum compressing pop, he was gone.

  Or at least, no longer visible. I shuffled around the kitchen cleaning up our doughnut mess and scribbled a note for Morrison.

  Thanks for the doughnuts. I took some extras to work with me for lunch. PS. Thank you. For all the things.

  I marched back up the stairs and into the bathroom attached to Morrison’s bedroom. He’d left an extra towel and washrag out for me, neatly folded in a stack next to the unused sink in his double vanity. His toiletries were neatly arranged around the one opposite, leaving its neighbor a blank canvas for my mental projections. Too easy, it was, to imagine my toothbrush cup, lotion, and face wash arranged around the naked sink, my blow dryer, curling irons, and brushes all tucked away in the empty drawers.

  As easy as it had been to slide into Morrison’s townhouse. As easy as it would be to slide into his life. Cooking dinners together in his kitchen. Sharing late breakfasts on the weekend. Lingering over coffee. Going back to bed together before venturing out for weekend grocery shopping. And our cart would be the cart to envy.

  I let the fantasy play itself out against the Morrison-scented steam as I scrubbed myself down with his shower gel. Considering how strong Morrison’s scent on me would be after sleeping in his bed and using his gel and shampoo, half of me hoped Mark hadn’t yet returned from Scotland. The other half—well, I tried not to listen too hard to the other half.

  She had a tendency to get us both in trouble.

  I toweled off, dressed, and made the bed before applying makeup. Opting not to blow dry my hair at Morrison’s, I threw the wet mass into a bun.

  It didn’t seem fair to leave so much of myself behind.

  My landlady was blessedly absent when I returned to my apartment. Only when I stepped in the door did I fully understand Morrison’s contention.

  My apartment was pristine. Perfect. Spotless. Wondrous to behold.

  The carpets had been cleaned, the walls repaired, the broken banister perfectly restored. Even the antique leaded glass window that had last night lay in shards on the lawn had been replaced. Yet, no scent of fresh paint betrayed a hasty repair. No signs of construction or new materials could be spotted among the centuries old details of the house.

  The damage was simply gone. As if it had un-happened. Could this have been Wallis’s doing?

  Would my landlady still have grounds for eviction if the damage had already been repaired? I didn’t relish the thought of looking for a new job and a new apartment all in the same month.

  Mark will help you.

  “The hell he will. I’m done with the kind of help that man gives.”

  I shot a text to Steve letting him know he was okay to bring the cats back over at his leisure, adding a suitably peppy comment about his nuptials tomorrow.

  A response came almost immediately, in true Steve style. Well thankee kindly, doll! Will do! Oh, Allan said to remind you that he needs your shiny white arse at the gallery for your last bridesmaid’s gown fitting sometime before the heat death of the universe (his words, not mine).

  Shit. I had kind of forgotten I had agreed to that. Be there soon, I texted back.

  I schlepped my suitcase onto my bed, too distracted to unpack at present. Locking the door behind myself, I set off for the gallery.

  My usual parking place had been usurped by a flower truck and several other unknown vehicles, so I parked around the corner and hoofed it down the street. The atmosphere inside the gallery was no less chaotic and crowded than the street had been. I stood slack-jawed in the doorway, taking in the transformed space.

  Shimmering panels of fabric draped from the ceiling, strings of lights chased them across the room, creating a surreal celestial fairyland overhead. The walls, too, had been adorned with fabric panels to cover the exposed brick and adorned by garlands of flowers in shades of white, pale green, and Tiffany blue—the colors of the sea.

  The main gallery space had been emptied of its postmodern white cube used to display paintings. Rows of chairs had taken their place. The aisle stretched out before me like an invitation I wasn’t ready to accept. At its end, a triptych of an eight-foot canvas painted in seascape hues formed the altar in front of which my brother would be married.

  “S’cuse me.” A man carrying a crate of flowers brushed past me to continue adorning the satin beribboned chairs.

  “Weww it’s about bloody time!” I turned to find Allan darting his way through the steady stream of jostling bodies. “I’d ask you what took you so long if I didn’t already smell ‘im on you. Honestly, love, ‘as he got a pecker made of platinum or somefing?”

  “I didn’t sleep with him!” I insisted.

  Allan raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me.

  “Okay, I slept with him. But sleeping is all we did. Except for the cuddling. And honestly, that doesn’t even count really.”

  “Are dose rug burns?” he asked, eyeing my elbows.

  “We wrestled a little,” I added.

  Allan shook his head. “It’s no wonder, you bein’ in heat and all. This place is going to be a bloody zoo, it is.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “I think I met some of the wedding guests last night.”

  Allan took me by my elbow and steered me toward the stairs leading up to Mark’s office. “How’s that?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I just got home from the airport to find a unicorn hosting a house party in my apartment.”

  Allan froze, his eyes as wide as the thick frames of his glasses would allow. “No ‘e didn’t!”

  “By he, I can only assume you mean Wallis. And yes, my friend. Yes he did.”

  “Did he try to see your tits?” An unhealthy shade of scarlet flooded Allan’s cheeks, lending him the appearance of an apoplectic rabbit.

  “Sure as hell did,” I confirmed.

  “Fuck.” Allan stomped his expensive loafer on the gallery’s wood floor. “I might ‘ave to kiww Joseph, you know that?”

  “Why? What did he do? Wallis mentioned that he knew him—”

  “When Joseph said he were arranging a special surprise for the weddin’, I fought he meant a bloody car! Or one of those ‘orrible singers. Not a fuckin’ discount unicorn!”

  “A discount unicorn? What the hell even is that?”

  “Come on then. We can talk while we walk.” Allan slid an arm around my shoulders and ushered me toward the stairs leading up to Mark’s office and my desk.

  Correction. My soon-to-be-former desk.

  I stepped into Mark’s office and gasped. “Oh, Allan! It’s beautiful!”

  He bustled past me to the filmy sea-foam green gown and held out the flowing skirt. “I still ain’t sure I ‘ave it long enough. It’s all I could get done afore we had to take off for Scotland, and after fittin’ your ball gown, I fink there’s some room for improvement ‘ere.”

  Like the gown Allan had made for the Spring Lambing mixer, this one had a fitted sleeveless bodice. But where the former had been a full-skirted ball gown, the latter dissolved into a flowing floor-length silk skirt layered with panels of chiffon. They caught the air as he slid the dres
s from the hanger, flowing like kelp caressed by an underwater current as he brought it over to me.

  “Is it a bit too Li’il Mermaid?” he asked.

  The skirt swam beneath my fingers like seawater. Too ephemeral and delicate to hold. “If it had sequins or a purple bra, it would be too Little Mermaid,” I said. “This…this is delicious.”

  “As will you be when you’re wearing’ it,” Allan said, securing the hanger back over the brass hook on the back of Mark’s office door so he could begin work on its lacings. “Just try an take it easy on Mark, will you?”

  “Me?” I asked, incredulous. “Take it easy on him? Are you serious?”

  “He’s under a lot of strain, love. Fings ‘aven’t been goin’ well with Akhenaten, as I’m sure you can guess wif all the meetings. He’s none too happy about all de vampires disappearing in Mark’s realm. Then there’s you. We’ll need to assign you your own security task force just for de weddin’.”

  Chastened, I turned my eyes to the floor.

  “And that’s to say nuffink of your resignation, which has got him goin’ off his tits.”

  “Bullshit,” I challenged. “He accepted it without so much as a passing protest.”

  “Course he did, you daft lass! He’s a four ‘undred year-old bloody alpha male! He’s been abandoned and betrayed more times dan you’ve changed your knickers. It’s a defense mechanism.”

  “And not telling me about the last heir? Is that a defense mechanism too?”

  It was Allan’s turn to consider the wood floor. “You need to hear de whole story a’fore you condemn him for not tellin’ you ‘bout her.”

  “I’m all ears.” I rested my hand on my hip, defiant and inviting.

  “I told you, love. It ain’t my place. My place is to get you fitted for dis dress, which task I couwd carry out much easier if you’d take off your shirt and pants and let me have my way.”

  “Seems like a lot of men have been saying this to me lately.” I kicked off my converses and gave him my back while I shrugged out of my t-shirt and shimmied out of my jeans. “I thought you’d be immune to my charms.”

  “Immune, yes,” he said, pulling a length of yellow tailor’s tape from his suit coat pocket. “Patient, no.”

  A yelp escaped me when he popped the clasp on my bra. “Allan!”

  “I need to see this wifout straps.” He unzipped the bodice and held the gown out for me to step into. “And let’s not pretend like I didn’t strap you into a pair of stockin’s and garters at de state dinner.”

  With hands covering the ladies, I stepped into the pool of silk, and raised my arms above my head as Allan drew the dress up my body and began fastening an innumerable row of buttons. “Wouldn’t a zipper be quicker?”

  “So would paint by numbers, love. Do think Da Vinci would have gone in for ‘at?”

  I held my breath as he reached my ribs. “Point conceded.”

  “There!” He stood walked around the front of me and frowned. “You’ve lost weight! Where are your tits?” He stalked over to me and peered down my bodice.

  I clapped my hands over my chest before he could perform any kind of archeological excavation. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  “Shit. This corset is going to be de hardest part to take in.” He ran his hands down my ribs and tugged the stiff fabric backward.

  “I ate doughnuts this morning!” I offered, remembering. “Like, three of them! That could help, right?”

  “We might have to stuff you,” he said, looking over me with an assessing eye.

  “I have some...inserts.” I cleared my throat, glancing around to make sure no one was there to overhear us. “You know, just for special occasions.”

  “Bring a couple pairs of socks,” he advised. “Just in case.”

  “Fine. Any preferences on the hair?”

  “Wear it down.” He reached beneath the skirt to shimmy the corset higher up my back. “Wild and wavy. Big.”

  “The big part is a guaranteed,” I said. “Beachy waves? Or organized waves?”

  “Beachy. And wear the corset I got you for de other gown.”

  I gave him a thumbs up. “You got it.”

  He walked around behind me and began the complicated process of unfastening me.

  “How are Steve and Shayla doing?” I asked. “I haven’t seen them since I’ve been back.”

  “Steve is ducky as ever. Insisted ‘e wanted a kilt as Mark and Joseph would be wearin’ them, and them being part of the wedding party and aww.”

  “Shit. I hadn’t even thought about that. Are we doing a rehearsal or anything?” I asked.

  “Naw. We’ll pair up bridesmaids and groomsmen tomorrow mornin’ and give a few last minute instructions. Should be pretty simple beyond that.”

  I folded my arms across my chest as the gown pooled at my ankles, then stepped out. Allan whisked it away and returned it to its hanger.

  I slid back into my bra and pulled on my jeans and t-shirt. “And Shayla?”

  “I had to let her wedding gown out. As well as Helena’s, for ‘at matter. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten how quickly werewolf pregnancies progress.”

  “Oh God. Helena. I had completely forgotten she’s knocked up too.”

  “I fink Steve wanted Scott Kirkpatrick as a groomsman, and we needed a bridesmaid to match. It sort of made sense, you know?”

  “Works for me,” I said.

  “Mark will be back later today. In case you were wanting to see him.” Allan flicked a glance over his shoulder.

  “Actually, I think I should get out of the way. It seems like the arrangements are pretty well in hand, and there are a few things I should take care of before the wedding tomorrow.”

  “Whatever you say, love.” Allan guided a filmy sheath over my gown. “But do me a favor?”

  “Anything,” I promised.

  “Don’t sleep wif the detective tonight. A werewolf weddin’ ain’t considered a success wifout at least three deaths, and I’m guessin’ you’d prefer ‘is weren’t one of them.”

  Chapter 22

  Morrison’s knock tattooed my door with the same pattern I’d come to know, dread, crave, and love. The first time I’d heard it, I’d spilled coffee on his lap. The second, he’d brought doughnuts, and a handful of orgasms.

  But I’d eaten his doughnuts earlier this morning, and sleeping with him had been strictly forbidden me by a millennium old werewolf.

  How times had changed.

  I opened the door to find him leaning against my doorway, groceries hanging from his wrist, a brown paper bag tucked under his arm.

  “What’s in there?” I asked, nodding toward the groceries.

  “This is a Serego Alighieri Armaron,” he said, grabbing the bottle with the grocery-laden hand and holding it out to me like me like an offering. “And these,” he said, shaking the bags, “are the makings of an antipasto platter.”

  “Bastard.” I took the bottle and opened the door wide. His jeans-clad ass drew my gaze by magnetic force as he sauntered into my kitchen and set the bags on the counter. He navigated my space as easily as I had his earlier this morning, pulling down two wine glasses from the cabinet over the counter and opening the drawer below it to select a bottle opener.

  I perched on a stool in front of the counter while he poured rubied liquid into both of our glasses.

  “Might want to let it open up for a few minutes,” he said.

  I took the glass he slid over to me and swirled the contents, watching the scrim of burgundy slide across the swell and dissolve, again, and again.

  Morrison dumped olives, marinated artichokes, caramelized garlic, and capers into separate bowls then turned his attention to the cheese.

  The man brought me cheese. I tried not to think about how it would probably be a perfect room temperature by the time I’d fucked him on the kitchen floor.

  He laid a slab of aged Parmesan on a plate and anointed it with a smear of thick golden honey. “It’s supposed to be
excellent with the Armaron. Oops, almost forgot.” He reached into the bag and withdrew a can of white albacore tuna, which he opened and divided among the three bowls on the floor. The three sets of eyes that had been watching his preparations with abject fascination turned their attentions to this unexpected gift. “Thought they should have a little something special if we were going to,” Morrison added.

  On second thought, we’d have time for a go on the floor, and against the wall. Parmesan holds beautifully, after all. “Looks wonderful,” I said.

  A tumbling handful of figs and silky slices of prosciutto completed his masterpiece of a plate. “Should we do this here? Or on the coffee table?”

  “Both,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “What?” I repeated. “I mean, sorry. Let’s sit at the coffee table. More comfortable.”

  We each grabbed a couple bowls, balancing them in the crooks of our elbows while we held our glasses and plates, unwilling to make two trips even over such a short distance.

  He picked up his glass and held it out to me. “Cheers?”

  “To what?” Lest I clink glasses to a cause I didn’t support. A girl couldn’t be too careful these days.

  “To cheese. And food. And you.”

  “I’ll give you two out of three.” We clinked and sipped. The aroma of figs and licorice tickled my nose before the wine stroked my tongue with deep, raisiny resonance. My throat warmed as the liquid burned its way to my belly. “Whoa. This packs a punch. What’s the percentage on this stuff?”

  “Fifteen, I think.” He swirled his glass and inhaled the bouquet before taking another sip.

  “Mee-ow.” I let another bolt of warm liquid velvet slide down my throat.

  “I like it when you make animal noises.” Morrison reached out and tore the crusty end piece off the baguette, and, knowing it was my favorite, offered it to me.

  I took it and we built our plates in silence. It had always been so with us—appetites assuaged first, questions asked later.

  “I didn’t have time to check if your fridge had been replenished along with the rest of your apartment. I took a chance you might need dinner,” he said, building himself a bite of prosciutto, honeyed Parmesan, and baguette.