Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (7 page)

The saucy was fun while it lasted.

But in better news, things slip into a warm familiarity, as I find myself gaping in full at my friend’s sex fiend grin—compelling my hand up, palm toward her. “It is time for you to talk to the hand once again, Brooke Cimarron. The only
swings
I want to know you have looked at are in the baby registry.”

“Cart before the horse, sistah-friend.” She rocks between her heels and the balls of her feet, letting more glee dance across her fairy-bright features. “Though it’s funny, how the ‘horse’ part still fits. If you saw my magnificent husband just out of the shower…”

“The hand is still waiting, Brooke. The hand is
still
waiting.”

*

Cassian

I
think back
on all the movies I’ve watched and books I’ve read containing scenes like this.

Opening shot. Two couches, one coffee table. Suitor braced on one couch. Parents watching from the other.

“So. You’re in love with our daughter.”

Never, in any of those scenes, is that line followed by the one spoken by Selyna Santelle.

“Well, then. Let us talk terms, Mr. Court.”

I wish I could say I didn’t see it coming from—literally—thousands of miles away. That the second after I asked Ella to marry me, my mind started writing nearly every move of this scenario, then preparing itself for it—which was exactly why I made Ella stay outside. She’s had to deal with the uglier side of her parents for twenty-two years, and now it’s time for her to stop watching them treat her like nothing more than a sack of rare sugar.

It’s not as if the woman hasn’t already discerned what’s going down in here already. At least part of it. She has the most amazing mind I’ve ever encountered—though how she inherited all this pair’s intelligence with none of their deviousness, I’ll never know. Nor do I want to.

I’m just determined she’ll never sit through the ugliness herself. Once was enough. Two months ago, she had to sit there like an obedient puppy while I “talked terms” with her parents, as if she couldn’t understand every word tossed in the air over her head. My stomach had turned. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to see hers did, too.

Mishella will
never
be put into that situation again. So help me God.

If that means staying one step ahead of this pair for the rest of my life—including everything I’m about to lay on them—so be it.

“Now that you’ve brought it up, Mistress Santelle…let’s.”

I push back, brushing an imaginary piece of lint off the burgundy brocade of the settee.
Lazing lion.
Ella tickles herself calling me that, though we’re usually in much different circumstances when she does. Occasions involving both of us clad only in the bed sheets and each other…

Don’t. Go. There.
Not right now, at least.

Ella’s mother rises. Rubs both hands down the skirt of her linen suit, a dark pink set with clean lines. She’s an arresting woman, though I’m secretly glad Saynt takes after her facial features. The DNA only got passed to Ella in the sun-kissed blonde hair and Grace Kelly figure type. “Well clearly, the initial contract has been…modified.”

I keep lazily stroking a finger along the top of the settee. Keeps the digit occupied, so it’s not tempted to join the rest in forming a fist—then doing something with it. “Modified.” Reining back my underline of tension is a little harder, but probably wiser. “That’s one way of putting it.”
And commoditizes your daughter that much more
.

Selyna pivots. Her head bobs on a sarcastic snort. “As I recall, Mr. Court,
you
were the one who presented
us
with the initial contract offer to be the first between our daughter’s legs.”

Mental file already open: the list of my expectations for this conversation.

Mental checkbox number one:
clicked
.

“Well.” I continue stroking the upholstery.
Better than a fist
. If I keep repeating it, maybe it’ll sink in. “When one is in an unknown wilderness, always try to speak the language with which the savages are most comfortable.”

Fortin grimaces. Sucks in air through his nose.

Selyna stares for a relentless pause. Then bursts into a melodic laugh.

Mental checkbox number two:
clicked
, with a pitching stomach.

Selyna juts her chin. “I may just like you after all, Cassian Court.”

I slide a mirthless smile. “Enjoy the party, Selyna. I’ll send over a few splits of champagne and cocktail weenies.”

Her gaze narrows. “Sounds delicious.” She sidles toward the window overlooking one of the Palais’ interior gardens. The space is elegant and peaceful, and I calm myself by imagining myself out there right now, walking with Ella, our hands twined and our bodies close. Anything except the haughty carriage of the woman strolling before the plate glass now. “But delicious is temporary—and now you are asking for the privilege of having Mishella for much longer.”

“Longer as in forever.” There’s no compunction in my statement—I mean every fucking word—but strangely, still feel like I have to
prove
that I do. Christ. This is ridiculous. It’s not like I’m meeting with a pair of people who actually care about this.

Correction. About
her
. The woman who means fucking everything to me.

Which is why you’re going to finish this out based on your original instinct, not what bullshit the Social Q’s have shoved down your throat about this garbage.

“Yes, well,”—Selyna laughs as if a four-year-old has ridden through on a tricycle, amusing her with toddler babblings—“we all know what ‘forever’ can mean in a world like yours, hmmm?”

“Of course.” I click off checkbox three while rising to my own feet, borrowing powerful languor from my lion den friends. “That’s why she’ll sign a pre-nuptial agreement, even if I have to rope her down to do it.”

Fortin stands with a stiff grunt. “Mishella has been raised with a healthy understanding of good business practice.” His gaze gleams with tight affront. “But if you
think
, for one
second,
that she would be less than a fulfilling wife—”

“She’ll get half of everything I own.”

They both go still as ice sculptures.

“You mean…half of everything you
acquire
,” Selyna finally blurts. “From this point forward—”

“No. I mean half my assets—as they stand right now, and in the future. Period.”

Here’s
the twist I hadn’t expected. The two of them, stunned so completely they can’t bring a reaction to their face or an utterance to their lips. And this was the part I’d pegged for their next step—

When we got to the best part of this whole damn thing.

“Court,” Fortin at last stammers. “Errr…Cassian.” His lips twinge as he tries the name on for the first time, perhaps even wondering if I’ll allow him. “That is beyond generous. And most,
most
appreciated—”

“Why?” I have to feign the bafflement.
Not
easy. I’ve anticipated this part too—so much, it wasn’t even a designated checkbox.

“Correct me if I am mistaken…but in America, a spouse is usually only entitled to—”

“Whatever is agreed in a contract recognized by the individuals in the marriage, then the state’s courts,” I supply. “And she
will
agree to this.”

“Damn correct she will.” Selyna stands firmer. I almost want to slip a whip in her right hand and an amulet in the left, a la Indiana Jones.

“The same way you two will agree to a second, separate contract.”

If the whip
had
happened, she’d be dropping it. Her tension spurs Fortin’s forward swoop, as if they’ve choreographed everything to go down like this. But no way in hell could they have predicted my ultimatum. I’m surprised the man doesn’t slip in their puddle of drool, as they speculate what half my holdings are worth.

Fortin pulls himself up—ballsy enough to look like he’s about to add puke to the puddle. “We are her
parents
, dammit.”

“Congratulations, Fortin,” I murmur. “You can actually say the word. But I won’t lose sleep wondering if you know what to do with it as a verb instead of a noun. Or that either of your children is a treasure, instead of a treasure
chest
.”

“What in Creator’s name is that supposed to—”

I slam him into silence with my vicious turn. Checkbox four—along with the nausea I expected with it. “We’re not having that conversation today. I’m too damn tired after our flight, and too pissed after the time it gave me to think about why I had to conceive of a separate contract for you two. The truth is, you should be getting
nothing
of Ella’s fortune.”

The look he exchanges with Selyna, a flash of guilt disguised as a moment of outrage, confirms my suspicions. Every damn one of them.

“You—you are a paranoid son of a
salpu
, and—”

“And you’re just a filthy one.” I start to pace. My steps make audible pounds. It’s either that, or I
will
drive a fist through one of those huge windows. Damn good chance Evrest Cimarron won’t be as understanding as Hodge about the damage. “And you know what, Fortin? Paranoia has nothing to do with it. Logic does.” I slow my pace enough to ensure they’re both listening. “You see, eight hours over the Atlantic gives a guy time to start looking at things.
Closely
. And—surprise, surprise—the more I studied the files of all the contractors I’ve hired for the Arcadian infrastructure projects, the more I realized exactly what all dirty ones have in common.”

“The
dirty
ones? Wh-what in Creator’s name are you—”

“Nice try, Selyna.” I cut her off with an extended forefinger. “And a beautiful lunge for the kill, especially with Fortin in front to fall on the sword for you.”

“I—I have no idea—”

“You have
every
damn idea. Both of you do.” I force myself to stop. My next words are too important to muddle with movement. Sole exception: the condemning glower I throw between the two of them. “The only way Rune Kavill could’ve known exactly what I was looking for on those projects was because he had someone on the inside of the process. And the only way
every single one of them
made it past Court Enterprises’ vetting team was
also
because of someone on the inside.”

Shockingly, Fortin has the wits to feign his outrage first. “You are making a very large allegation.”

The invisible whip returns to Selyna’s hand. “Why the hell would we sabotage the advancement of our own country?”

“Why did the Borgias and the Boleyns sabotage theirs?” I counter. “Because cracks in the crown mean holes for snakes to slither in—and take control.”

Fortin fumes. “How. Dare. You.”

“I
do
dare. In about a dozen different ways.” My dead-calm retaliation springs from the control I regain within. No more urges to shatter the window or wear out the floor tiles. “Because
you
dared first.” After having my life blown up twice by lies I never saw, seeking the truth is now one of my obsessions—and talents. The shit is as bold as subway graffiti across both their faces. “But right now, the Cimarrons are none the wiser—and any of Kavill’s minions who
have
already made it here will be hunted down and caught. The two of you will be kept out of that net, because it would shatter the shreds of affection your daughter still carries for you both—and unbelievably, it’ll tear her up to see you in the traitor’s pit at Censhyr Prison.”

Fortin’s face pales by five shades. “You would not
dare
.”

Selyna bursts with a mocking laugh. “Of course he would not. Besides, the traitor’s pit has not been used in seventy-five years.”

Folded arms. Calculated shrug. “I guess you trust Samsyn Cimarron’s benevolence more than I.”

The woman turns the same shade as her husband. After the better part of a minute, she utters, “What are the terms?”

I turn and take two casual steps the left. When reaching the wall, lean a shoulder against it. “You’ll receive a generous yearly stipend from the Court Trust, in exchange for
never
pulling this bullshit again with the business dealings of your country. As soon as I marry Ella—and I promise you, that will be as soon as humanly possible—you’ll both resign from your obligations and positions in the Arcadian court, using the excuse that you’ll be traveling more often to New York, preparing to spend time with your grandchildren.”

Only through supreme effort do I restrain a laugh at their first response. Selyna is more horrified about becoming a grandmother than I anticipated—though Fortin is the first to spit words.

“That—that is impossible. I am a respected member of the High Council—”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“—and there are
two years
left until reappointments—”

“I don’t give a
fuck
.”

Silence again. I let it fall. Am even grateful for it. I hadn’t lied; I’m toast from the last twenty-four hours, and pretending I’m not rejoicing in every second of this is an even deeper drain.

Especially because I’m not even done yet.