Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) (23 page)

“So…what happens now, Ella?”

She shifts, nuzzling closer.
Good sign
?

“Are you asking if I want to go home?”

Bad sign.

“Yeah.” I practically choke on the syllable. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I
am
asking.”

I remember something about her taking special courses on Arcadia, about courtly arts and practices. Undoubtedly, the fine skill of torture was in that mix. Her silence is nothing less.

“I do not want to go home, Cassian.”

I breathe in, claiming back the year she’s just stripped out of me. “Thank you.” It needs to be said. Perhaps more than once. Maybe from that position I was contemplating, at her feet.

“But I need to move into one of the guest rooms.”

“Sure.” It spews too quickly and too eagerly, and I don’t give a flying shit. I make a mental note to text Hodge and direct him to clutter up the two guest rooms farthest from the master, forcing her into the third. “Yeah. Okay.”

“And we make dates to see each other,” she goes on. “Real ones, where we go out in public and I get to meet your friends. What?” She knuckles me curiously in the ribs, responding to my snort. “You
do
have friends?”

“I suppose.” I don’t have the heart to tell her my closest “buddy” is Doyle, whose idea of stimulating conversation is four grunts, two beers, and a good Knicks game.

“Well, we can start with Kate. Is she dating anyone?”

“I don’t know.” Which is usually the case—which, for the first time, comes as truly troubling.

“We can figure it out.” The woman in my arms shifts back to central focus. I curl in my fingers, making light circles on her creamy shoulder, enjoying the musical cadence of her voice…rejoicing in the fact that it’s not leaving me anytime soon. “The important thing is, we get
away
from Temptation, so we are not always…well…
tempted
.”

Light chuckle. A gentle kiss into her hair. “Why, Miss Santelle, whatever do you mean?”

“Says the man with a woodshed poking my thigh?”

I laugh harder.
Much
harder. “You mean some wood?”

“Hm. That too.”

*

Mishella

“M
ishella?”

I hear Scott’s concerned prompt, backed by the rush of traffic along 5th Avenue behind us, but cannot answer. My jaw has dropped on one of the most stunned gapes of my life.

“
Armeau
?” Cassian now, his body large and close, one hand curving around my elbow, his cedar scent a perfect blend with the grass, trees, and spring flowers abounding through Bryant Park. I now remember Brooke gushing about this place, once she learned that the Literacy Ball would be held at the big library here. Before her family went into hiding on Arcadia, when she was just a young senator’s daughter, she attended something called Fashion Week. The event was a bore, she claimed, but the magnificence of Bryant Park was a win.

Now I understand why.

“
Ella
.”

The urgency in his voice finally causes me to turn. I do not hide my continuing shock—as if that is even possible. “Cassian…”

His mouth hitches up at one end. “What, beautiful?”

“We are in the wrong place.” I blurt it despite the small throng of other partygoers, strolling along the wide pathways and majestic steps of the soaring Beaux-Arts building before us.

Scott steps forward, darting a worried look. “This thing
is
at the Library?” he queries Cassian. “Right?”

“But this is not a library.”

“Huh?”

“It is a palace!”

Though Scott relaxes, his posture takes on a shrug. “No better place for books then, yeah?”

I absorb that with a wider smile. “Cassian?”

“Yes,
armeau
?”

“Give Scott a raise.”

The young man breaks into a chuckle. “I think I’m going to like having her around, Mr. Court.”

Cassian loops an arm around my waist, tugging me tightly. “Me too, Scott. Me too.”

The Schwarzman building is more breathtaking on the inside. We enter Astor Hall by descending wide stone steps flanked by balustrades worthy of a Parisian palace, their fancy scrolls and swirls matching archways down the length of the room, all supporting a soaring, ornate ceiling. Similar carvings adorn the stone bases of multiple candelabra, all at least twenty feet high, lending a romantic glow along with colored lighting, purple and orange and amber, around the room’s perimeter. From some hidden location, a string ensemble plays classic pieces.

I pull Cassian to a stop at the top of the stairs. Pull in a long breath, celebrating the very best aspect of the place.

“Books.” I close my eyes, letting the glorious scent fill me. His guttural growl brings me back to attention. “What?” I add a perplexed giggle. It turns into a sigh when he lifts a grin, dimples on full display.

“Just ignore me.” He leans closer, gaze hooded. “I was pretending the smell of three and a half million books really just hit you like an aphrodisiac.”

I slink my regard to his mouth. It’s one of the most fascinating parts of him, curving in new ways with all his moods. Aroused is definitely one of my favorites. “Maybe…it did.” I slide a finger up his satin lapel. “Add some chocolate and you may get lucky in the library, Cassian Court.”

New growl. “I thought we were ‘scheduling’ dates now.”

“Chocolate gets you priority status on the calendar.”

His eyes darken to my favorite color—sage smoke—as he dips in, brushing those captivating lips to mine. “Before we sprint to the dessert buffet, I need to make a mental note.”

“About what?”

“About buying a chocolate factory.”

My giggle expands to a laugh, opening me for his full plunder. I am secretly—perhaps not-so-secretly—delighted when he does just that. Though we do not give in to a full “mack session,” in Vy’s terms, it is enough of a tangle to reheat my body’s need for him—and rekindle my heart’s hope that one day, he will think about trusting me with more than just his playful side.

“Well, Cassian Court!
There
you are!”

The exclamation, bursting the air like a full flock of geese, breaks us apart with matching effect. I look up, stunned to realize the voice belongs to a woman who appears more like a swan. Her steps are fluid glides, her arms float like a ballerina’s, and her eyes are huge and dark against practically translucent skin.

“Carol Idelle.” Cassian transforms back into a gallant courtier, stepping forward and bowing low. The woman laughs, a new honk on the air, while tugging him close for air kisses. “Yes. Here I am.”

Carol bats her eyes, making her false lashes look like swan wings in flight. The impression cannot be helped, since the lengths are a curious blend of black and white strands—but when the woman notices my gawk, she exaggerates the effect by tossing me a saucy wink.

I believe I like her.

“Well, better late than never—especially in your case, darling. You look a-maz-ing. Who did this for you? Tom Ford?”

“Valentino.”

She huffs, accenting with a honk. “Of course. I was just speaking with Yolanda Wood. She guessed you’d pick Valentino. I was hoping for Ford.”

Cassian’s responding smile is, for a long moment, mesmerizing. I have not seen the expression for two weeks, since becoming obsessed with it from across the room at official Sancti court events. It is one part charm, one part decorum, one hundred percent sexy. From his first night on Arcadia, Vy nicknamed it “The Panty Melter.” Watching Carol Idelle react to it now, I send a long-distance fist bump to my friend.
Right on the money, Vy
.

The reminiscence of my friend brings a shot of confidence at the perfect moment—for the woman decides to ogle
me
now. “And who is
this
…exquisite…creature?”

She draws out “exquisite” in a way that makes me doubt her sincerity. Glancing to Cassian for clarification lends no help. The Panty Melter remains across his lips but the warmth is miles from reaching his eyes, even as he curves a hand around my waist again.

“I’m honored to introduce Mishella Santelle, gracing us with her presence from the Court of Arcadia. Ella, this is Dame Carol Idelle, a bastion of the city’s library foundation, among other worthy endeavors.”

I dip my head, offer my hand, and debate a curtsy. In the end, I simply murmur, “
Bon aksam.
It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Dame Idelle.”

I refrain—barely—from starting when the woman releases her largest honk of all. Since the sound could be anything from a climax to a sneeze, I am not sure about selecting any other reaction.

Finally, she exclaims, “Oh, my
word
. Cassian, she is a-
dor
-a-ble. It is lovely to make
your
acquaintance as well, Mishella.”

I open my mouth, preparing a proper return in the form of asking about the building’s grand architecture—but the air is sliced by a new interruption.

No. Not sliced.

Butchered.

“
Lovely
.”

The word hacks at us, a mixture of drawl and shout that is so unmistakable, I can think of at least three Vy-isms to fit the mahogany brunette in the Romanesque red sheath, approaching on slinky steps with her clutch in one hand and martini glass in the other.

Tanked.

Shitfaced.

Annihilated.

But none of the labels matter, the moment Cassian gives her just one.

“Amelie.”

My heart tumbles into my stomach. Plummets even further, sinking until my knees are weighted with the burden, and I grip Cassian for purchase. I have no doubts about getting it. Beneath my hold, his arm is a log of tension—a limb extended from the taut tree of his whole body.

Yolanda Wood at the Literacy Guild will need to be called. Clarify my RSVP is for two…my guest’s name will definitely not be Amelie Hampton’s.

“Well look who’s here!” Carol saves us all from a honk—thank the Creator—with a cheerful clap. “Amelie, my dear. Don’t you look stunning? Is that Christian Siriano?”

“Valentino.” Amelie’s button nose quirks with a strange expression, something between a huff and a flare. “I picked it tah match mah date.” New nostril twitch. At some point in her life, someone probably told her the expression was cute. It is
not
cute—but it is also impossible for me to accept it for what it is: a drunk girl’s dig at the man she wants to keep her claws embedded into. My heart continues racing through my body. My belly lurches, trying to keep up with the pace.

“Isn’t
that
a coincidence,” Carol croons. “Cassian is also—” She stops herself with a comprehending honk. “Oh. Oh,
dear
.”

Cassian, confirming he truly must have been James Bond in another life, dips a nod as if Amelie’s glare is made of silk instead of mud. “You always
have
been the go-getter, Amelie. But it’s always best to make sure the parachute’s strapped on before you leap from the plane.”

“Ha!” Carol claps again. “Isn’t
that
just the way of it? Ohhh Cassian, you’re a clever fellow by half.”

Amelie sips at what is left of her drink. Bursts with a brittle laugh. “Isn’t he
just
? Carol, ya make the most
astute
obsahvations.” Another laugh gurgles out her nose. “Ya gettit? Asssss-tute. Asssss-tute. Hee hee.”

Carol huffs. “It might be time to call a car for you, young lady.”

Amelie hurls her a glare. “Ah’m
fine
.” Pulls back her shoulders so hard, her balance is thrown off. She wobbles. Drops her clutch. I hasten to help but am shoved away. “I said ah’m fine! Don’t you
dare
touch my things, bitch!”

“
Amelie.
” Cassian steadies me with both hands, his grip as forceful as his voice. “
Enough
.”

“I am all right.” I address the question in his gaze before he even utters it.

“I am all right.” Surprisingly, her sing-song echo does not change my stance—perhaps because I know it for the imbecile move that it is. Even so, the poor woman does not know the difference. “‘I am all right, Cassian. Jush because you’re here now, Cassian. Oh, hold muh now, Cassian. Ah love you, Cassian!”

By the powers. Could she dig her grave any deeper?

“Amelie.” Cassian is not a tree anymore. His frame is now a monolith of rancor, pushing the confines of his clothes. His hands tremor against my arms, betraying his battle for composure. “You. Are.
Done
.”

She spurts a high-pitched laugh. “Oh God, Cassian. I’ve known that for weeks now. But does
she
?” One whip of motion in my direction, and the woman has surrendered her martini to the center of my chest.

“Saint George on gingerbread,” Carol mutters.

Cassian wheels away from me—straight at her. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“No.” She plants an action hero stance—stunning, given her gown
and
condition—and flings up an arm, cocktail glass still in hand. “But it’s clear
you
are.”

Before I can blink in comprehension, the glass has left her hand—cracking against Cassian’s forehead before smashing to the floor.

“By the Creator!” I rush to him as Carol shouts for security. Amelie struggles against the two officers who arrive, though the stare she swerves toward me, filled with she-cat celebration, is the first thing to truly scare me about the woman since she arrived.