Page 71 of New Orleans Rush

Round Two involved him burying his face between her legs until she begged him to stop. Round Three was so slow and tortuous sweat slicked their skin and the room temperature shot to scorching.

They lay latched together now—legs threaded, fingers tangled, the morning hours creeping closer. His room smelled of Beatrice and sex.

Each time she blinked, her lashes brushed his chest. “What happened,” she asked softly, “the night your father died?”

If she’d asked the question before tonight, he might have simplified the truth. Left out details and given her generalities. But she was his valentine now. If he wanted her to drop her guard and not hide behind her smiles, he’d have to offer the same.

A streetlight filtered through his window, lighting the top hat on his dresser, the Max Marlow poster on his wall, the cape he’d carelessly tossed on his floor when changing tonight. All memories of his father. “I was the only Marlow who went to his last show. Fox and Axel were tired of the same routine. Xander and Paxton hated the magic scene. But I loved watching my dad. He did this yearly number where he lowered himself into a water-filled barrel, handcuffed. The crowd always went nuts for it and applauded like mad when he popped out of the top. The last time didn’t go as planned.”

Beatrice ran her nose back and forth along his chest. Such a simple gesture. So much affection in it. It made him wish he could write a romance novel and base every heroine on her—captivating, strong, full of life.

“He was in the barrel too long,” he went on. “I knew it, but if there was one thing my dad drilled into me growing up, it was to never lose the illusion. Don’t break character or let the audience see your tricks. But there was a dent in the side of the barrel he hadn’t noticed. It didn’t give him the room he needed to release the handcuffs. He was locked inside, drowning, and I stood and watched.” Bitterness coated his throat. Nine years of regret.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He’d heard the same before, but not from everyone. “Tell that to my brothers.”

“Fox and Axel?”

“No. They love the theater and were as obsessed with magic as me. They knew the drill when it came to performing. But Paxton and Xander resented everything magic-related, and it caused a rift between them and our father. Dad neglected them and focused on us. There was a lot of bad blood, but that didn’t stop Pax and Xander from losing it after Dad died. They were furious I didn’t do something sooner, blamed me for caring more about the illusion than our father. They weren’t wrong.”

“No, no. They were.”

He didn’t answer. Max Marlow had taken risks with his routines. It was why his father had organized life insurance and planned a detailed will, down to an infuriating puzzle box Huxley would probably never open. But Huxley had known something had been wrong that night. No matter his father’s teachings and the audience watching, he’d known, and he hadn’t acted. He’d lost his father because of it, and he’d alienated Paxton and Xander in the process.

“And the scars?” She traced his burns. “How’d they happen?”

It was another bedtime story he wished he didn’t have to tell, but she needed to hear it all. He tucked loose hairs behind her ear and breathed her in. “When I realized Dad was gone, I stumbled into the first bar I found and drank my body weight in vodka. They eventually stopped serving me, so I hit another bar, where I wound up picking a fight with the wrong guys.”

A lot of that night was a blur, but not his fury. His absolute rage. “I could barely see, but my mouth worked just fine, and I mouthed off. I wanted to punch something or someone. Or maybe I wanted to get punched. Whatever I said was enough to have several guys hauling me into an alley.”

“Baby,” she murmured, stroking his scarred chest.

His face and body were a constant reminder of how he’d failed his father, the choices he’d made, but he didn’t remember the last time he’d spoken about that night. Nine years ago, probably. Tonight, in his valentine’s arms, in a dark room, the words tumbled out. “As far as anyone figures, I got stabbed with something rusty that wasn’t a knife. My ear got mangled in the process, as did my face, probably while I fought back. Then some guys held me down while others poured alcohol on me. They lit me up.”

Beatrice sucked in a sharp breath. She kissed his mutilated ear, then the scars within her reach.

“It’s okay, Honeybee. It was nine years ago.”

She fussed over him some more. “If I told you about someone dousing me in alcohol and lighting me on fire, would you be okay right now?”

He stiffened. No. He would not. It made him think about Big Eddie and threats and his sweet girl fighting for her life. “Point taken.”

She pushed onto her elbow. “Who found you?”

“Fox,” he said, swallowing through his tension. “He followed my trail, dragged our other brothers with him. They got there shortly after the flames caught. Much longer, and the burns would have been way worse. But it was the stab wound that had me laid up awhile. Whatever they used tore up my insides and left a nasty infection.”

Fierce determination sparked in her startling gray eyes. “Don’t you ever get drunk and pick a fight again. I won’t allow it.”

Since he made it a habit not to lie, he said, “Promise you won’t, either.”

“I’m more likely to vandalize property than start a fight.”

That she was. And he couldn’t promise he’d never succumb to that level of violent despair again. One thing that night had taught him was that he had a dark side. He wasn’t above lashing out when life turned on him. The past month, Beatrice Baker had become an integral part of his world. If something happened to her, his anger would raze the earth.

25

The last thing Bea wanted was to leave her love nest and fly to New York, even for a night. Being Huxley’s valentine was better than building Skittles castles. She’d rather lie in bed with him than paint over all the taupe in the world. But here she was, packing a bag to meet Maude the Dog, while Huxley lounged on her bed in nothing but black briefs, flipping through a Bon Appétit issue, pretending like he wasn’t distracting her.