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CHAPTER TWO
“I DON’TBELIEVEIT.” Morgan felt like she was made of stone, and she’d said these four words countless times in the past week. Now here she was, standing in the antechamber of the massive Kamaras home all in black, feeling faint.
She said it to herself. The staff was walking around brusquely, Alex’s mother had taken to her bed, his father was in his study.
Constantine was...
As if her thoughts had conjured him he appeared, dressed all in black, as she was, his dark hair brushed back off his forehead, his eyes like chips of obsidian, glinting in the dim light.
“You came,” he said.
“Of course.”
“My parents will be glad.”
“Will they?” She shifted where she stood, her heart beating so hard she was sure that he could hear it.
His lips shifted slightly. The ghost of a rueful smile. “As glad as they are of anything at the moment.”
“You don’t have to entertain me. I was ushered to the house, but I can go and join the rest of the funeral party out on the grounds...”
“Nonsense,” he said, his voice hard. “You were my brother’s girlfriend and he cared for you a great deal. Everyone knows that Alex never stayed with one woman for more than a night. And he was with you for six months.”
“If he’d stayed with that last woman more than a night perhaps he’d still be here.” She immediately regretted the venomous statement.
Alex was dead. She hardly needed to try to score points.
“You’re not wrong,” Constantine said, his mouth firming.
She took a deep breath and regretted it immediately because the air smelled of Constantine, and to her he smelled of sex. And it reminded her too much of that night.
His hands.
His mouth.
His body.
Him.
“My mother will wish for you to join us. To sit with the family. Come, have a drink.”
Thinking of alcohol made her want to gag. She was already so unsteady the idea of adding a mood-altering substance to the mix didn’t work for her.
“I’d rather have something soft, if you don’t mind.”
“A soda for the bartender?”
“I was a waitress at a bar,” she said. “That isn’t the same thing.”
“All right.”
He led the way, to a small—if you could call any room in the palatial home small—room off the main foyer, with dark wood and navy colored carpet. It was cozy, in a very old-fashioned interpretation of the masculine.
“This was once my grandfather’s favorite room to occupy when he would come and visit from Greece.”
“Did he visit often?” she asked.
“Yes.”
