Modern Romance March 2021 Book 5-8 Carol Marinelli (ebook reader computer txt) 📖

among a great many other things, that gracious old house on its own point on Long Island Sound that she had brought to her marriage in the first place.

The first thing she did was invite her daughter and grandchildren to visit her there.

And it made Kendra glad that she and her mother had found a way to build bridges in these last ten years. They might not always understand each other, but they tried. No matter what, they tried.

In the end, Kendra thought as she stood in the doorway of her cottage and watched the love of her life and the four children they both adored beyond the telling of it draw close, that was happiness.

True happiness wasn’t one thing. It wasn’t static. It was layered and deep, forever changing in the light. It was all the colors, feelings and frustrations of each moment and the broader life around it, wound together into the same tight knot.

The secret to life wasn’t holding that knot in one place. It was learning how to do the knotting in the first place and then keep doing it, day after day. Year after year. To get up when knocked down, brush herself off, and do it all over again.

Happiness was in the details. Joy was all around.

Balthazar smiled at her as he approached, because gone was that grim, cold, intimidating man she’d met long ago. This Balthazar smiled. He even laughed. He was still fierce in business, demanding in bed, but best of all, he was happy.

They were happy.

They had built on to the cottage over time, adding space for their family, but still maintaining Great-Aunt Rosemary’s cozy aesthetic. Tonight, they ate together out beneath a trellis wrapped in wisteria, breathing in the glory of the Provence summer. Just as Kendra’s favorite great-aunt must have done herself.

And after the children had gone to sleep, Kendra and Balthazar sat out there together. Beneath the quiet stars, Kendra took her favorite seat. His lap.

“You seem particularly pleased with yourself, agápi mou,” Balthazar murmured, though his attention was on the line of her neck as he tasted his way down the length of it. “It makes me wonder what you can possibly be thinking about.”

Kendra was thinking about that gazebo, long ago. How overwhelmed she’d been. How thunderstruck.

She was thinking of the night she’d surrendered her innocence on that desk in New York that they had returned to again and again over time. Christening it repeatedly, because they could. Because the heat between them only grew.

God, how it grew.

She was thinking of the island, where they spent as much time as they could, grounding themselves in the quiet. In the peace.

And using the altar where they’d made their vows, first to a priest and then to each other, as a touchstone. A talisman. A way to remind themselves who they were. Who they wanted to be, come what may.

“Tell me,” Balthazar urged her, his voice dark and hot, and she could feel his smile against her skin.

“What am I always thinking about?” When he lifted his head, she smiled at him, more in love now that she’d ever known a person could be. And she could see the same reflected back at her, always. “Revenge, Balthazar. Sweet, sweet revenge.”

“I love you,” he told her.

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

And then he showed her exactly how much he loved her, the way he always did, muffling her cries against his chest.

Just as Kendra showed him the same in return. The way she always would, until he groaned into the crook of her neck.

Because, as always, love was the best revenge of all.

His Stolen Innocent’s Vow

Marcella Bell

To Kaleen, my real-life Hel.

CHAPTER ONE

HELENE COSIMA D’TIERRZA, inheritor of the great d’Tierrza fortune and titles—including the duchy—and seventh in line for the throne of Cyrano, stood unsteadily before the marble statue that dominated her family’s private courtyard.

Her silver-blond bangs feathered across her brow, swaying in time with her body’s slight motion, while her normally sharp sapphire-blue eyes glared with unfocused intensity at the carved figure’s face. Her dress was a long column of azure. Strapless and simple, it emphasized the elegant length of her figure rather than the unexpected muscle tone of her arms and chest. The dress flared gently at its base to provide what she supposed was a generous allowance for walking...if one minced.

Disgust curled her lips, the effect all the more striking for the fullness of her wide mouth.

Today might be the one day of the year she conceded to wearing a dress, but she never minced.

It was also the one day of the year when she drank.

Both the dress and the drink contributed to the uncharacteristic wobble in her stance.

With her arms crossed in front of her chest and a half-empty flute of champagne loosely clasped in one hand, angled at a slight tilt, she was also uncharacteristically alone. She had no one to guard and no staff lingered in the shadows. They were occupied with the guests gathered in the large seascape courtyard who mingled and drank, all in the dubious name of her father’s legacy.

The king and queen, two of her most constant companions, were in attendance, as was her fellow queen’s guard, Jenna Moustafa, who was on solo duty with backup from the king’s guard while Hel played dress-up.

The crease between her eyebrows deepened. She should be out there with her friends, alert and ready to back up Moustafa should the need arise. It would certainly be a better use of her time than standing in front of her father’s likeness, once again engaged in the silent battle of wills that hadn’t so much as ended with the end of his life, as become unwinnable. Not that she ever had a chance when he’d been alive. No one stood a chance against Dominic d’Tierrza.

Hel wouldn’t be the one to throw in the towel, though. Her father didn’t deserve the satisfaction.

Not even in death.

Instead, she sneered at the statue. “You’ve