Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) (17 page)

“Most excellent of plans.”

It is cheerful enough to earn my “game face” as punctuation, seeming to center Kathryn too. Back into doctor mode she rises—literally—standing with brisk efficiency. “Well, I think
you’re
an excellent plan, at least where it concerns my friend Cassian.” The strange shadows flit across her gaze again. “He’s been by himself for far too long.”

I return to my feet as well. “But…surely I am not the first ‘friend’ he has sent to see you.”

She does not placate me with a denial, which would also be a lie. But what she does say is just as huge a seed for disconcerting thoughts—and even deeper emotions.

“Giving a man ‘friends’ for his body doesn’t do a damn thing for his soul.” She pulls in a prolonged breath. “And fighting off the
alone
doesn’t mean you’re taking care of the
lonely
.”

The words dig into the sides of my mind, refusing to leave even after Kathryn handles the “business” of why I have come, then wraps our visit with a heartfelt hug. It clings as she taps her “digits” into the new cell phone Cassian has purchased for me—and even during her invitation for a “girls’ lunch” soon. Though her kindness imparts me with needed confidence, the dark disquiet about Cassian continues to creep in.

Intensity. Ghosts. Lonely.

Beneath the man’s rapier swagger and ruthless business cunning, is he truly a haunted beast in a solitary tower? And what—or who—put him there?

The queries overshadow even my awe about New York’s nonstop pageantry as Scott drives me back to Temptation—only the trip seems exceedingly short. As we roll to a stop, I peer through the tinted windows in wonder. We are not back at the house. Instead, I look out at wide cement sidewalks, buildings blocking the very sun, and edges of chrome and glass everywhere.

“Errrmm…Scott?”

But Scott is no longer in the driver’s seat. He suddenly appears, having opened the limo’s back door, extending a hand to help me out—

Onto the sidewalk before a set of massive glass doors—

gliding open like the gates of a modern palace…

Court Towers

Court Enterprises Incorporated

…with its very own, breath-stealing, king.

My lungs cease working at the mere sight of him. That transforms the journey toward him into an interesting experience—knees liquid, heart thudding, palms gummy—while my gaze works to connect a single thought within my brain.

I was naked with that king. Four hours ago.
In his bed. In his shower. On his window seat…

The memories lend me fortitude. I need it. I must attempt a feat so outside my comfort zone, only borrowed words from Vy explain it.

Sizing up my competition
.

I have always hated the vulgar words, but right now, there is no better phrase for the dozen women and three men who are just as fixated on Cassian as I am—who, I am certain, lust after the same experience I do. To explore the proud body beneath that luxurious suit. To dive fingers into that thick honey hair. To learn if the glints in those emerald eyes are really hints of deeper, hotter desires…

Perfect timing for
that
thought. Cassian surely reads it in my eyes as we approach each other—then again while taking my hands and yanking me close. Now our bodies are nearly flush…and I almost think he will follow through with a crushing kiss.

For a moment, even here, I wish he would.

Instead, with a tight grunt, he behaves. Lowers his face until only I am privy to his quiet murmur, delivered from barely moving lips. “Dear fuck,
armeau
. Does that light in your eyes mean what I hope it does?”

I giggle. Just for a moment. “You mean the desire I share with nearly every other woman in this lobby?” Stolen glance one way, then the next. “And a few of the men too.”

“Sucks to be them.” His fingers twist tighter around mine. His stare dips to my lips. “Because the only thing I can think about is where to get you private and alone.”

“I am certain Flynn Whelan might find
that
an interesting show.”

He growls then huffs. “The only ‘show’ Flynn Whelan cares about is the Canine Classic.”

“The…what?”

“Dogs,” he explains. “Greyhounds, to be exact. They’re his only passion besides his businesses.” His gaze swoops down again, teasing tingling energy into the bodice of my pink cotton dress. “But if you’re that into putting on a show…we can talk later on tonight.”

I sigh as his head lifts again. His gaze is a thousand shades of thrilling, so many verdant colors colliding. I am a heated, pulsing mess, craving the audacity to pull him close then plead for one of his thrilling bites on my neck…

“
Behave
.” I issue it to myself as much as him. We force ourselves back to the respectable hand hold—though his eyes remain hooded, and I can see his clenched teeth past the slight part in his lips.

When a long minute passes without him adding anything verbally, I prompt, “So…”

His dimples make an appearance.
Heart. Thud.
“So?”

“Ummm…why am I here, Cassian?” I resist adding a crack about showing me his etchings. The man is likely to take me seriously—and I refuse to be the reason for him missing the key meeting with Flynn Whelan.

“Does there have to be a reason?”

Heart. Thunk.
And…mortifying blush. “I…I guess not.”

“Guess I just needed to see that,” he murmurs.

“See what?”

“That blush.” His thumbs brush my knuckles. “I’ve missed it.”

A discreet laugh sneaks past my lips. “As Vylet would say, Mr. Court…you are full of shit.”

“Good thing my cock isn’t already half-hard for Vy, then.”

Heart. Melt.
Taking the rest of my body with it.

“How’d everything go with Kathryn?”

“Good.” I sound breathless and smitten. Who am I fooling? I
am
breathless and smitten. And now that the subject has shifted to us soon being able to act on our lust anywhere we want…a little sheepish. “Good, good,” I rush out. “Everything is…errrmm…working fine. And safely.” I already know he is. Even the memory of holding his clean lab results rushes more heat to my face. I must be the color of a ripe tomato by now.

Cassian shifts a little closer. “Did she…give you a prescription?”

“Better.” I lift a coy smile. “An injection.”

“Ah. Good…good.” He sounds as flustered as I am but when he lets out a long exhale, the force of his lust possesses every molecule of the air. “
Ella
.”

“Y-yes?”

“How soon can I be bare inside you?”

My gaze is snatched back up to his. My whole mouth goes dry. Somehow, I manage the response. “T-twenty-four hours.”

His hands slide to the backs of my elbows. His stare returns to its green fire, razing into me…through me. By the Creator, my thighs clench at its incursion. My sex throbs, feeling weighted but empty.
So empty
. Especially after he leans in, whispering words so molten, I am grateful he supports my wobbly walk to the car afterward.

“Twenty-four hours. And starting now, I’m counting every fucking minute.”

*

It only takes
ten minutes to drive from Court Towers to Temptation—but in that time, I must swing through just as many emotions. Everything from desire, need, and teen girl-style giddiness is mixed with a soul-deep recognition of the ghosts Kathryn so eloquently explained to me earlier. Of course I have observed the darkness in Cassian’s eyes before; I simply have been lacking a way of identifying them…perhaps even seeking an excuse for them, like extended jet lag or simply deep-seated concern about business matters.

No more pretending now.

No more simple veils or innocent oversights.

But Kate has given me no more to go on.
They’re not my stories to tell, Mishella.

And yet, confronting Cassian about them was simply not an option during our ten minutes together—in glaring public. Letting him make goo-goo eyes at me was one thing; bringing up Kate’s cryptic words another. A
huge
“another.”

So now I stand, in the middle of his home, knowing what I know—but unable to do anything about it. Knowing that there are, in Kate’s words, things that have
haunted
him so wholly, he has been obsessed with nothing but work excellence and professional success…

For how long?

For what reasons?

And to what purpose?

In the last week, I have locked stares with the man so many times, there is no more counting them. Every time, it is the closest I have felt to twining my soul with another’s…to knowing the heart that is also my own. When I take him inside my body, it is like welcoming
myself
home…a shore drawing the tide close…

Has it all been an illusion?

Do I not
know
Cassian Court at all?

And how, in the space of just a week, can I not bear to live with that information as my truth?

Hodge and Scott are downstairs, detailing the cars—Cassian owns three more besides the Jaguar, all prettier and more demanding of upkeep—and Prim is in the kitchen, baking things that make me want to declare dinner will be nothing but dessert tonight. I use the solitude to wander the rooms of the main living floor…not knowing what I plan to find, but hoping it will be
some
kind of clue about the secrets Cassian keeps behind such high walls in himself.

With every step, I battle myself.

You met him a
week
ago.

“A week in which our lives have completely changed,” I defend in a whisper.

Most couples barely know each other’s middle names after a week.

“We are not a couple.” I smile from that one. My inner Vylet even high-fives me for it.

He will not even share every secret with Kathryn.

“And the silence is shredding him!”

My whisper has not made it any less a melodrama—making me wonder why I still cannot laugh about it. Perhaps that is because of the twisting, deep in my belly, confirming that even melodrama can carry truth.

The thought gives me conviction. I walk through each room once again, searching for the tiniest sliver of understanding about who Cassian Court really is. About the secrets that don’t just motivate him…

They’re there, Mishella…haunting him…

I still find nothing.

I peer harder at the sleek walls, glass accents, and elegant furniture, all seemingly custom-crafted for each of his main living spaces. Every inch practically screams of the money spent on it—and the effort expended to separate it from the scrollwork and romance of the building’s exterior. Even the décor pieces are carefully crafted to fit the look: slick, clean, neutral.

None of it matches
him
.

Not the man I have talked with, laughed with, opened up to, and seen into for the last three days. Not the person to whom I feel more connected than anyone in my life, including Vy and Saynt. Not the lover who has given me himself in return—or so I have thought.

I have sensed them…those missing pieces of him…or rather, felt the empty spaces in him sometimes. The unexplained moments of stillness. The searching casts of his gaze, toward a horizon that does not exist…maybe for a person that is no longer there.

Ghosts.

Spurring. Haunting.

I should be patient. Let
him
come to
me
, in his time…

But he has known Kathryn since college—nearly ten years—and he still only gives
her
the shadows.

I cannot accept the shadows.

Ella…it’s time to live in the light.

I want his light too.

I have six months with him, not ten years.

Fortune favors the brave.

It feels like destiny to remember the words, a favorite expression often used by King Evrest back home. Evrest even credits their importance in helping his journey toward true love—though that is far beyond my ambition right now, and must remain that way.

It
must
remain that way.

I have no idea where Cassian and I are bound with each other. I only know that he has helped me at least see my light—and now, if I can help him step toward his too…

Determinedly, I search the spaces again. Living room. Game room. Movie theater. All three guest bedrooms. Even the gym. Still nothing. No mementos from travels, nor artwork that is not abstract. No knickknacks that are not completely curated or more than a few years old, and everything in sync with the out-of-a-movie décor.

I only find one photo, atop the desk in the study that is as sterile as a research laboratory. The image depicts a younger Cassian, between childhood and adulthood, probably twelve or thirteen. He hugs a woman with the same thick gold hair and piercing green eyes. If she is not his mother, I am the Queen of Persia.

Is
she
one of his ghosts?

I lower into one of the chairs in front of the desk—the leather is so stiff, I wonder if my backside is the first to ever touch it—and stare at the picture, fighting a helpless despair.

“Tell me what to do,” I whisper to the woman in the photo. “I am certain I want the same thing as you. I just want him to be…happy.”