Match Made In Paradise by Barbara Dunlop (black female authors TXT) 📕

carafe, with brandy on the shelf below. Shall I set it up for you?” He looked past them to the dining area.

“We’ve got it,” Silas said. He reached into his pocket for a bill and handed it to the man.

The waiter accepted the tip and wheeled the tray inside the doorway. “Please call down if you need anything else.” With a final smile to Mia, the waiter withdrew.

Silas stared at the meal for a minute, not sure if Mia would rather talk it out some more or just move on.

“It smells really delicious,” she said, and he decided to follow her lead.

*   *   *

Mia didn’t like to fixate on her trials and tribulations. They were what they were, and she was mostly a lucky person.

But Silas kept probing, and for the first time in forever she actually wanted to expand on her problems. It might have been the wine, or it might have been the brandy, or it might have been something about Silas himself. It was hard to know for sure.

“Gold-diggers are a dime a dozen,” he was saying. “I mean, that’s not a perfect metaphor . . . but you know what I mean.”

From across the villa’s round dining table, she couldn’t help but smile as he fumbled his way through consoling her. She rephrased for him. “You’re asking why that woman resented me in particular.”

“In a nutshell, yes. It’s not a crime to marry for money. Not that I’m saying you married for money. I don’t think that at all.”

Mia chose a mini cream strawberry tart from the oblong silver plate that was set beside the wildflower bouquet. The meal had helped soothe her emotions.

“I’d guess it’s because I’ve been more thoroughly vilified than your average gold-digger,” she answered.

“Vilified how?”

“They’ve called me everything from trophy wife to jezebel and a murderer.”

“Murderer?”

She responded in a mocking tone. “You don’t think a fifty-year-old man spontaneously died on his own, do you?”

“You said he had a heart condition.”

“A likely story.” She took a bite of the tart. It was as delicious as everything else had been. The pastry was flaky and the vanilla cream sweet and smooth.

Silas considered for a moment. “Wouldn’t there be records?”

She set the rest of the tart on her side plate. “I’m not about to release Alastair’s medical records.”

“I meant police records. If there was a murder investigation, there’d have to be a police record.”

“Unless I was clever enough to get away scot-free.”

“With murder? That’s a stretch.”

“You’d be amazed how many people believe I did. You’d be even more amazed by how many threaten revenge.”

His gaze narrowed on that. “Revenge?”

“Some want me impoverished. Some want me jailed.” She crumbled an edge of the pastry with her index finger. “Some want me killed. And some have suggested very colorful ways they would do it themselves.” She caught Silas’s expression and immediately regretted her words. She hadn’t intended to be so graphic.

“That’s why you’re in Alaska.” His tone had hardened. “You had death threats.”

She was in the thick of it now and decided there was no point in holding back. “It was either hire round-the-clock security or get out of town. And there were these protesters at the end of our driveway. A tenacious group of about twenty of them with signs and cameras; reporters too.” She shuddered, remembering. “You’d think people would have lives.”

Silas reached across the table to hold her hand again. Crumbs clung to her fingertip, but he didn’t seem to notice. Then, without letting go, he rose and moved around to her.

It was just a touch, she told herself, no more than a handshake, really. Yes, he was searching her eyes. But that was only a look.

“I can’t believe they’d be so . . .” His tone was somber now, preoccupied. “What is wrong with people?”

“I’ve never figured it out.” Her voice was huskier than she intended, more intimate as desire sizzled to life within her.

“They should be tracked down and arrested.”

“That’s not how the internet works.”

Their gazes locked, his sky-blue eyes simmering with compassion.

She’d expected sharing a villa with Silas to be tough. The minute they’d agreed to stay, she’d known she’d have to fight her attraction to him. But she’d steeled herself against raw desire. She hadn’t thought to mount a defense against his kindness. And that mistake let him slip right through.

“I thought you were delicate,” he said in his deep, husky voice, drawing her to her feet so they were facing each other. He gazed a moment longer then brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Weak and pampered.” He gave a ghost of a laugh. “But I was wrong about that. You’re much tougher than you look.”

Mia didn’t feel tough. She felt soft as the pastry cream, her knees weak with longing to lean into his strength.

He read her mind and drew her close. One arm around her waist, the other enfolding her shoulders, a hug that was gentle, like he didn’t want to break her. Their hearts beat together while he pressed her chest, hips and thighs to his own.

Their heat triggered her desire. She tilted her chin, looking for the kiss she knew was coming. It had to be coming.

And there it was, gentle, sweet and searching. His lips parted against hers, they firmed, delving deeper, drawing a moan from far within her.

In slow motions, she wound her arms around his neck, swept up once again by the power of their passion. It invaded her, engulfed her, demanded to be recognized and answered.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “Exquisite.” He kissed her hair, the shell of her ear, the curve of her neck, sending shockwaves of pleasure skittering over her skin.

“Silas.” She sighed. She couldn’t be more specific than his name, his wonderful name, his amazing lips, his talented hands.

He touched his forehead to hers, his breathing deep. “I can’t keep fighting this.”

She didn’t want him to fight. She didn’t want him to stop. She wanted to keep going and going and going.

“Please don’t fight.” She took the initiative and kissed