It took thirty seconds of pushing, pulling and trouser rearranging, but then it was done, and Sam, still on the floor, sat back and looked him up and down.

“God damn,” she said.

“Good God damn?” he asked.

“The best God damn.”

He reached down and helped her off the floor. With her hand in his, she dragged him over to the cheval mirror.

“Now that’s a sight to behold.” Sam leaned against him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder—his shoulder a mere four inches higher than hers.

Kingsley pulled her in front of him, his arm across her chest like a shield over her heart. She rested her chin on his forearm, and the small gesture of feminine surrender sent a surge of possessiveness through him.

“That’s an even better sight to behold.”

“I do look damn good in a tux.”

Kingsley smiled but didn’t speak. He’d meant the image of Sam in his arms was the better sight to behold. She must not have understood. Or perhaps she did understand and didn’t agree.

“I like the boots,” he said, letting her go before he got too used to holding her.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I love the boots. I want you to wear them every single day until they’re a part of you.”

“I will,” he said. Easy enough to do since they were a gift from her. They were already a part of him.

“I’ll help you put them on every morning. It’ll be our routine. I’ll help you put on your boots, and you can give me my orders for the day. Then we’ll drink coffee and figure out who to blackmail next.”

“Sounds like paradise.” Sam’s face being the first one he saw every morning? He could get used to that.

From outside his bedroom came the sound of laughter. Someone from somewhere in the house—Blaise from the sound of it—called his name.

“Party time,” Sam said. “Have fun fucking half your guests.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked as they headed to his bedroom door.

“Fuck the other half.”

The house was almost full by the time he and Sam made it to the main floor. Thirty minutes later, they had a full house and then some. Sam had done a masterful job with the food and wine, especially given what short notice she’d had. Apparently working as a bartender for six years had put her in contact with the best people in the business. They ate. They drank. They laughed.

And of course, they fucked.

Not Kingsley. He walked from room to room with a glass of wine in his hand. For two weeks he’d been fasting from sex. He wanted his first meal to be a feast, not a snack. He needed someone delectable, succulent, mouth-watering...

Søren walked in.

Kingsley rolled his eyes.

“Not you,” Kingsley said to him.

“Hello to you, too,” Søren said, glaring at him. “I’m here for five seconds, and you’re already upset with me.”

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “I’m trying to pick out someone to fuck, and you’re blocking my view.”

“Forgive me. I had no idea you were prowling.”

“When am I not prowling?” He handed Søren a glass of Syrah off a passing tray. Søren often wore his clerics when he stopped by the house, but tonight he’d come incognito—black pants and black jacket, but a white shirt. “I can’t believe you actually came tonight.”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“What changed your mind?”

Søren reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“This.”

He gave it to Kingsley who opened the envelope.

He found a minicassette tape inside.

“Fuck,” Kingsley said.

“It was delivered to the church two hours ago. I listened to it.” Søren spoke in French now, a wise move considering they were surrounded. “You seem to be confessing to sleeping with my Eleanor. Which is an impressive feat since you’ve never met her.”

“I lied because—”

“I know why you lied, and I appreciate it. But someone clearly does not appreciate it.”

“I’ll handle it,” Kingsley said, and took the tape from him.

“Is this something I need to be concerned about?”

“Non,” Kingsley said. “It’s mine to deal with, not you.”

“Do you know who sent it?”

Kingsley shook his head. “I talked to the man on the tape—Robert Dixon. He swears it wasn’t him. I believe him, but he’s not telling me everything. He admits to taping us, but he tapes everything out of paranoia.”

“You’ll let me know if this situation gets out of hand?”

“It won’t get out of hand,” Kingsley said. “But just in case...”

“What?”

“Pack a bag for Denmark.”

Søren started to say something, but Sam picked that inopportune moment to interrupt.

“Is this him?” Sam asked. Even without the Roman collar, Søren had a priestly air to him. It was no wonder Sam had known who he was without an introduction. “I’m Sam. You must be Our Father Who Art in Connecticut.”

“A pleasure,” Søren said, and kissed her hand.

“No. Stop.” Kingsley took Søren’s hand away from Sam’s. “Take two steps back right now. She’s my secretary. You aren’t allowed to flirt with her.”