Seven
Acouple hours later, Griff followed Kinga into her apartment, gently closing the door behind him. He watched Kinga shrug out of her coat, hanging it up on the coatrack before turning to face her front door. He thought she was about to ask him to leave, but she turned the four locks on her front door instead.
She still looked pale, Griff thought, though not as white as she’d been when she joined him in his car after spending forty-five minutes within Senator Garwood’s mansion. Griff rocked on his heels, desperate to pepper her with questions but not wanting to upset her further.
He wasn’t particularly surprised that Portland’s princess was on friendly terms with the state’s first family, but he couldn’t understand why the visit would upset her so much.
Deciding to give her some space, Griff looked at the raindrops hitting the windowpane and sighed. So far, Portland had two weather settings, snow and rain, both accompanied by wind. Kinga’s apartment had great central heating but there was nothing like a fire to raise spirits. Wood sat in a neat pile next to the period-correct fireplace, so he walked over to the hearth and grabbed a handful of kindling.
Knowing that Kinga needed something to do, he asked her to make him a cup of coffee and set about adding logs to the hearth. By the time she returned with an espresso from her high-end machine, he had a healthy fire burning in the grate.
Kinga held out her hands to the warmth. “Thank you. I can’t remember when last I used the fireplace.”
Griff placed his cup on the table behind him and gently pulled her into his arms. Holding her, he wondered if he had any right to ask her the questions burning a hole in his brain. After all, he hadn’t told her, or anyone, why he’d abruptly left Portland the morning after spending an enthralling, smoking-hot night in her bed.
No one besides his immediate family knew that in Key Largo, Sian had decided to take an early-morning swim, which wouldn’t have been a problem if she’d stopped, turned around and headed back to shore. She hadn’t. If Pete hadn’t seen her when he stepped out onto his balcony shortly after waking up, Sian would’ve been halfway to Australia by the time they discovered her.
And dead.
Pete, a strong swimmer, had guided her back to shore and they’d immediately contacted her psychiatrist and Griff. A few hours after hearing from Pete, and after a detour to pick up Sian’s therapist, he was on his way to Key Largo.
After spending hours with Sian, Dr. Warfield concluded that Sian experienced a rare schizophrenia-induced delusion. Her meds were adjusted, and by the time Griff left the island a week later, Sian was happier and chattier. Her disease was a roller coaster, Griff thought for the umpteenth time.
With Jan and Pete insisting that Sian, Sam and Eloise remain on the island with them, he’d hired a psychiatric nurse to monitor Sian for the duration of her visit. After the therapist left, Griff had hung around for a few more days, playing with and watching over Sam and catching up with his sisters and brother-in-law, telling them about his return to performing.
Sam was in his element, completely spoiled by Jan’s girls, and it was obvious that he wasn’t suffering from any lack of attention in Jan’s household. They doted on him and Griff suspected that when Sam returned home, he might have a bit of a monster on his hands.
Thank God the press had no idea that Sian and Sam were in the Keys.
Walking backward, with a fragrant and soft woman still in his arms, Griff lowered himself to the nearest sofa and pulled Kinga down to sit on his lap. She curled up against his chest, her face in his neck. He rubbed her back and waited for her to speak.
He wouldn’t force her to talk. He hated being interrogated and suspected she did, too.
Griff yawned and played with the edges of her supple boots. Thinking she’d be far more comfortable without her footwear, he eased the stretchy boots off her legs. Pulling her closer to his chest, he placed his hand on her thigh, his thumb drawing patterns on the inside of her knee. “Better?”
“Mmm, thanks.”
He was curious, sure, but he could just sit here with this woman in his lap, her perfume wafting up to his nose, with the fire crackling and the rain turning to sleet as it smacked the windows. Sliding down a little, Griff rested his head on the back of the sofa and idly hummed the melody to a song he’d been working on earlier.
“That’s nice,” Kinga murmured.
“I thought you said you aren’t musical,” Griff gently teased her.
“I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a nice tune.”
Griff’s lips twitched at the hint of haughtiness in her voice and hoped it meant she was feeling a little better, a tad stronger. He decided to risk a probing question. “Can you tell me why you rushed over to Senator Garwood’s house in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon?” he asked.
Kinga shot up and winced. “Oh, God, I spoiled your practice session and you wasted all that time. I’m so sorry... The band and rental of the studio must be prohibitively expensive and I took you away.”
Griff pulled her back down, tightened his arms around her and dropped a reassuring kiss in her hair. He was one of the highest-paid artists in the industry, and one afternoon’s wages and studio rentals were less than petty cash to him. Not that he’d tell Kinga that—he’d sound like a boastful jerk.
“You were upset and you needed someone to drive you. I’m sorry I couldn’t deliver you to the door, but reporters were hanging around and that would’ve started a media story neither of us needed,” he added.
When he approached the senator’s impressive gates, he’d seen a blond-haired man talking to the sizable number of reporters on the sidewalk. Judging by Kinga’s feral growl, he assumed she recognized him but she gave no explanation of who he was or why he was there. Grateful the journalists weren’t paying the traffic any attention, and for the tinted windows of his car, he drove past, turned down a side road and suggested that Kinga walk the short distance to the house. Telling her that he’d pick her up at the house when the coast was clear, he had spent the next forty-five minutes in his car, catching up on returning calls and emails and trying to ignore his growing curiosity.
Thankfully, the press had departed by the time Kinga was finished and he could pick her up without any cameras flashing or people yelling his name.
“Thank you for thinking of that—I certainly didn’t. And thank you for driving me,” Kinga said. She lifted herself off his chest and rested her back against the arm of the sofa. She tucked her clasped hands between her thighs and when her eyes met his, he winced at the pain he saw within those honey-colored depths. “So...”