Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (4 page)

“Tell Sancti we’re climbing then holding for a few minutes. Throw some of that Duran Duran drawl into your accent too. Not even dudes can resist that shit.”

Laith pinches the bridge of his nose—his version of an eye roll. “And if they ask what the hell we’re doing?”

“Tell them we’re on the phone with their king.”

Doyle pumps a fist. Laith looks like he wants to, but only indulges a smirk that does, uncannily, evoke a Duran Duran pout.

I turn from them both as soon as my laptop connects to the private back line of King Evrest’s offices. I have no doubt His Majesty and every last member of his staff are at their desks this morning, probably having never left them all night.

“
Bon sabah
. The offices of His Majesty, King Evrest of Arcadia.”

“
Bon sabah
. Put your king on the line, please.”

“
Désonnum
. I am very sorry,” the sweet young female on the other end trills, likely reacting to my New York-based number. “King Evrest is not making any statements to the media yet and—”

“That’s good, because I’m not with the media.”

“Oh.” She stammers it out in so many pieces, it turns into a four-syllable work of art. “And may I say who is…?”

“A friend.”

“Calling from…?”

“No place that matters on a map.” Not a standard one, at least, lending credibility to my tone. Also sounds a hell of a lot better than
thirty-five thousand feet over your island
, since everyone in the country is probably wondering where their next attack will come from.

I wait through the young woman’s pause, a few seconds that feel like forever, hoping she doesn’t make me pull out my Court-style hammer this early in the exchange. The Arcadian welcome wagon isn’t exactly ours to hop on right now. Hell. At this point, I’ll be happy with a Radio Flyer on working wheels.

Finally, the secretary stammers, “Errr—all right. Thank you, sir. One moment please, sir. I need to check—”

The girl’s own helpless squeal is her interruption, accompanied by a scuffle as if the phone has been yanked out of her grip. Once more, I wonder whether to prepare for a big wagon, a little wagon, or—

“Cassian Court.”

“Your Majesty. Thank you for—”

“You son of a fucking lust goat.”

Okay. Forget the size of the wagon.

Skip straight to the size of the firing squad.

*

Mishella

My senses rock
lazily in concert with the gentle dips of the plane, lulled back and forth between slumber and consciousness by the drone of the engines—

Until a voice thunders, with flawless Arcadian inflection, about lust goats.

I bolt upright. Curl a hand against the center of my chest—and the new sprint of the beats there—while listening to Cassian’s response. His cadence is completely him—calm, deep, determined—but completely
not
him, infused with a placating timber I have never heard from him before.

Cassian Court is
not
a man who enjoys placation. Receiving it
or
giving it.

Another thirty seconds of careful listening, and I am certain the new Arcadian voice is coming from Cassian’s laptop speaker—and belongs to a man. A growling, pissed-off man.

Father
?

My heart speeds faster.

What on Earth would prompt Cassian to call
Paipanne
from the air, especially to be so mollifying with him, and
especially
when we must be close to landing in—

No. Not even close.

We are here.

Despite the confusion tangling my brain, a smile bursts across my lips. My homeland gleams far below, a multicolored gem on a swatch of sparkling cobalt. Not even the mar of smoke can deter my initial thrill at seeing Arcadia again. She is as much a part of me as my blood, my skin, my DNA.

I scramble from the bed, scoop my panties from the floor then quickly step back into them. Just as swiftly, smooth my skirt back down. Thank the powers for textured summer skirts made for humid New York City summers—which are a lot like the year-round weather on Arcadia.

Now to lend Cassian some support—in whatever he is dealing with from Father.

Only…

it is not Father.

One look at the tension in Cassian’s stance—the taut angles of his shoulders, the sprawl of his fingers at both sides of his lean hips—and I know exactly, even before hearing him say it, to which Arcadian he is really speaking.

“Cassian?” I leave the query at that. There are far too many ways to finish it.

Why have you called the king of my country from the plane?

Why have you not simply waited until we landed?

Why have we
not
landed yet?

Why do you look like a lust goat stampede is about to storm in
here
?

And why are you staring like you wish
I
were those goats?

Seeming to realize the same thing, his eyes crunch shut. When he reopens them, a silent apology glows from the green depths—though the way he reaches out, palm up and fingers curled, is damn near a summons to his side.

I answer it without second thought.

Step to him, sliding against him. Press a hand to the center of his chest, knowing his heart needs the extra fortification as Evrest roughs up the connection with an impatient clearing of his throat.

“My apologies, Evrest,” Cassian states. “I was greeting the newest arrival to our conversation. Mishella Santelle has joined us.”

“Your Majesty.” I murmur it with the respect reserved solely for the Cimarrons, while tucking a toe back and bending my knees.

To my surprise, a short chuckle escapes the king. “Miss Santelle, are you dropping curtsies at me from thirty-five thousand feet in the air?”

Cassian chuffs. “Damn straight she is.”

“And I suppose you shall turn that into another reason to believe you?” Evrest retorts.

“I don’t need another reason and we both know it.” Cassian leans over the work table where his laptop is set up, ensuring the device’s microphone picks up every syllable he utters. “I’ve been above board at every step of every project Court Enterprises has begun in your country. I’ve always believed in the great things we can accomplish together, Evrest,”—he circles his head back, taking me in with a tender glance—“and that was before I fell in love with one of your most beautiful citizens.”

“Fell in lo—” Evrest’s hesitation is half a second behind the halt of my heartbeat. Even Doyle seems nonplussed by the declaration. The only normal pulse in the conversation belongs to the man with his hand in mine, his grip tight but warm, soothing my knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

“You heard me right,” Cassian asserts. “I know it sounds a little crazy—”

“No crazier than how I fell for my Camellia.” Evrest’s reply brings welcome warmth to the exchange—and my bloodstream, giving a not-so-fun preview of what it will be like to break this “news” to my family.

Saynt will be peeved at first, though will warm up given the respect Cassian has already earned from him. But
Maimanne
and
Paipanne
are the giant enigmas, their reception as unpredictable as what King Evrest faced from the whole kingdom last year, when kicking Arcadian tradition square in the teeth. Taking Camellia Saxon, an American filmmaker, as his queen…
Dear Creator
.

My head spins from the concept of it, even now—but the man himself underlines the point with his fresh laugh. “But the heart wants what it wants, my friend.”

“Would’ve called you a fool for that a few months ago.” Cassian pulls me tighter, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Now, I’m the president of the club.”

Doyle snorts. Pushes back in his seat. “Just keep those cooties away from me.”

In any other circumstances, I would be concocting something to zing back at him. But with more of this scenario snapping into place by the second, I focus all my energy on the situation at hand—and the leader of my country, only accessible via the monitor atop the jet’s work desk. “Your Majesty, with humblest respect, you must believe Cassian had no foreknowledge of Rune Kavill’s ties to all those contractor companies.”

“I’ll swear to it in court as well,” Doyle inserts.

Cassian slides his hand free from mine. Braces it fully on the desk, in order to nearly straddle the laptop with his arms. “I
will
say this, Ev,”—his use of the king’s nickname, granted only to close friends and Queen Camellia, is a surprise but not a shock—“that asshole is damn good.”

Evrest grunts hard. “How so?”

“I mean that my legal team is a group of research sharks. They don’t just vet every company we sign contracts with. They dig in, tear shit apart. Reference checks are only the start. There are also thorough investigations of past projects, employee backgrounds, safety records, Better Business Bureau standings…hell, I think one of their files even included pictures from their employee picnic.” He shakes his head, his whole body slackening. “The thing is, Kavill
knew
all of that…”

“Which means…” Comprehension hits me in a sickening rush. “He was a shark about you too.”

He jerks a succinct nod. “He knew exactly what we were looking for with every project, then streamlined that contractor’s qualifications to fit the bill.”

“So on paper, they looked better than everyone else.”

“Which is why so many of them ended up on your vendor list.” Evrest himself supplies the logical but disturbing conclusion.

“Fuuuuuck.” Doyle presses farther back in his seat. His eyes slide shut.

In front of me, Cassian’s hands tighten to fists. There is not a single shower door around, though I worry about his laptop screen. My
betranli
is a man of unstoppable conviction, drive, passion, and focus. When those traits are applied to the things he knows and loves—connecting, reconstructing, and improving countries—he is a force of heart-stopping energy, breathtaking beauty. But when he feels helpless and trapped, he becomes a beast in a cage.

“Dammit.” His guttural snarl confirms the assessment. He shoves upright, at least relieving my fear for the laptop screen, beginning to pace a figure-eight, hands remaining white-knuckled at his sides. “Evrest—look—I didn’t play a hand in creating this fuck soup, but I need to help make it right. In half an hour, you can have me on the ground and in your office, granting you access to every file for every vendor I’ve hired so far for the Arcadian projects.”

My king’s heavy breath precedes his answer. “I could also have a lynch mob outside the Palais gates, screaming for your head on a spike.”

“So keep the peace.” Cassian concludes the bite by spreading his arms. “And make me go back to America—then wait for the weeks, perhaps months, it’ll take you to wade through our legal system, subpoenaing those files like our fun legal-eagles will make you.”

Silence.

So long and so deep, I wonder if the connection to King Evrest has somehow been lost.

Until a few select words of Arcadian trickle through the laptop speakers. Select, as in filthy and furious. I glance at Cassian, wondering if he understands that “fuck goat” is the least of his concerns now.

“You need to give me twenty minutes,” Evrest finally barks. “I must find Samsyn.” His brother, the spearhead of Arcadia’s military forces, is Creator-knows-where in Sancti right now. “Tell your pilot the Sancti Tower will radio him when we are ready for the landing.”

Cassian’s head drops, heavy with finality, while the rest of his body remains stiff. He is a warrior who has triumphed in a skirmish but understands a whole battle waits ahead. “
Merderim,
Evrest.”

My king’s snort is harsh, perhaps scoffing, over the line.

“I accept the sincerity, Court, but not the word. In a few hours, gratitude may likely be the last thing on your mind.”

*

Cassian

“B
y the damn powers
, Court. Are you completely demented?”

“He must be. It is the only explanation.”

“Creator’s balls. We thought that contract stipulation for Mishella was insane—”

“But now
this
—”

“Now coming
here,
to the Palais, while the bridge is still burning—
literally
—”