Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) (6 page)

They know.

I have been circling the ugly words, unwilling to accept them, but now they sting as sharply as the cold on my feet, and throb as hard as the pain behind my eyes. I drop my gaze to the floor. Wish for a way of lasering an escape hole through the polished wood.

Am I supposed to say something now? What on Earth do they expect?

But I know the answer to that already.

It is me. I am the one who derailed it all. Who ruined any respect he had for our family by flirting with him, making stupid eyes at him. Letting him into my bedroom…and letting him do other things there.

And Creator help me, I liked it.

A lot.

And I made him like it.

At least I
think
I did.

Sweet Creator
…did
he like it? And why am I stopping to even wonder about it? Or to care?

But I do. If hell takes me for it, then so be it. My virginity is still pristine, and I shall never again see the man who tempted me to change that, so I cling to the memories of the feelings…all the passionate, exquisite perfection of those moments with him. It is shameless and selfish and for one sublime moment,
I do not care
. For a collection of perfect breaths, I am again simply a woman letting a man climb up her balcony then kiss her senseless…render her breathless…arouse her to that perfect place called
mindless
…

All too soon, it is over.

With the stiffness in Father’s shoulders, as he abruptly turns away.

With Mother’s censuring glance, before she rises like an empress. “What happened after that? When Court returned from the
tuvalette
?”

A blush attacks. The Arcadian word makes the subject
sound
prettier, though the gritty reality remains. And the guilt. Always the guilt. While I hate their bald zeal on so many levels, I crave their parental pride and approval. My flirtations with Cassian did go too far—perhaps the “romantic” breach into my room was even his way of testing my character—making my overnight moping about it even more pathetic. And how many times have I replayed his kiss in my mind, shamelessly using it to keep myself awake, while my parents watched their plans vanish like a sandcastle under a wave?

In Vy’s terms, I suck as a human being.

In Brooke’s terms,
maybe you’ve earned the suckage, girlfriend
.

Father gets up. Walks to his desk. Slumps into the chair behind it before drumming impatient fingers atop the unsigned contract in front of him. “He did not say much more than that,” he finally states. “‘Unable to commit.’ Those were his exact words. Then he said he would be ‘taking some matters into advisement’ and would ‘be in touch soon.’”

Not much is different than the first twelve times he has told it—but this time, the words click differently. I jerk up my head to look directly at him—a penance I have avoided for the last six hours. Crazily—perhaps insanely—it drives words to my lips too.

“‘Be in touch’,” I echo. “That is not a full
no
…right?”

Father does not answer. His features are fixed, frozen and dispassionate, as Mother answers me instead—by digging a scalding grip into my ear. I gasp in place of a scream. The woman has perfected ear twisting to such an art, Saynt still bears a tear at the back of his lobe from the day he skipped school as a boy.

“Stand. Up,” she seethes. “You know nothing of these matters, girl—and now you will admit that as you apologize to your father, who
might
be able to salvage the mess you have made of this.”

A thousand needles stab the backs of my eyes. I grit them back while trying to nod, but her fingers feel sewn to my flesh. Her grip is unyielding. And maybe it
is
what I need. Maybe I am just a stupid girl, playing with fire much too golden, beautiful, and hot for me to ever handle safely. Maybe, Creator help us, my lustful idiocy has not torched everything they have worked for. Maybe Father
can
fix it…if I get out of his way. If I am humble and prove it by being truly sorry.

It feels right, this simple acceptance of their truth…of my fate. Fighting it, doubting them…it has been exhilarating and exciting—and exhausting. Now a sad peace sets in, like a field mouse surrendering to a hawk’s grip, simply letting the end happen—

Until
Maimanne
jerks to a stop.

I save my ear by skidding short with her—or have my senses been my saviors, sizzling from the blast of new electricity on the air?

Oh…my.

Every neuron in my body is fried from it, letting the energy in—recognizing it at once.

Knowing
him
at once.

By the Creator.

He has returned.

But my joy is instantly shadowed—by mortification. Cassian Court has come back—to find me being led around by the ear, clad in nothing but my sleepwear. And there go any lingering thoughts for him, at least the good ones, about our passion last night…

Though all I behold on his face right now is—

Fury.

Taut, defined, and clear, all across his perfect, noble features—

And all directed at Mother.

“Let her go.”

I blink. Again. Yes, the words have emanated from
him
—inducing
Maimanne
’s incredulous sputter. Then her forced, tinkling laugh. “Ahhh, Mr. Court! What a delightful surprise. Did you have to let
yourself
in? I apologize; good help is so hard to find on this tiny island, and we were not aware you would be—”

“Mistress Santelle.” Every syllable is a scimitar, bleeding even her conjured civility from the air. “What
wasn’t
I clear about?”

He steps over, readjusting a black messenger bag over his right shoulder, making me wonder if there’s a gun stowed inside. He looks like a man intent on drawing a firearm—and using it.

I shiver, boldly afraid. Then gasp, blatantly stunned.

Dear
Creator
. Has the fear…aroused me?

Though Mother drops her hold, everything still feels surreal. Never has a man said such things on my behalf…been so
enraged
on my behalf. Or is that it at all? What in Creator’s name is going on? Cassian’s energy is so different now. While he has changed into more relaxed attire—a white cable-knit sweater and tailored khaki slacks—his demeanor is more high protocol than at any court event I have attended. And I have been to
many
.

The same curiosity governs Father’s face as he rises. “Cassian.” His extended hand is given a mechanical shake in return. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your return?”

One of Cassian’s tawny brows hikes up—which, of course, makes more of me quiver. Even the forbidden parts. “You weren’t expecting me to?”

“In a word,” Father rejoins, “no.”

Bizarrely,
that
nicks Cassian’s armor. He chuffs without humor. “Then you’ve misread the business, Fortin. In this case, luckily, it hasn’t cost you the business too.”

My jaw almost plummets. No one has ever dared this kind of thing with Father. Reproving Fortin Santelle like this, even disguised as “casual” conversation, would drop jaws up and down the halls of the palais. Father has even struck servants for less.

But the look on Cassian’s face…as if he is nearly
enjoying
this…

My nerve endings go icy. By the powers…I actually afraid for him.

Until a new recognition sets in.

Father cannot call on a single recourse against this man. Before him stands Cassian Court: an equal individual. A leader from the most cutthroat kingdom on Earth. New York City.

My lungs clutch. What will
Paipanne
say? Do?

“Ah. So we still have business?” His desperation is hidden beneath the diffidence, but Cassian sees through it…is utterly beautiful about it. I am only aware of movie stars through pictures Vylet brings up on her computer—when the Arcadian internet chooses to function—but I easily imagine the man as the chiseled star of a high-stakes spy thriller, detecting every weakness in his opponent in the space of a glance.

Cassian himself only fuels that vision—perhaps even enhances it, with a study of Father that reminds me of straight-from-the-mine emeralds. He is…breathtaking. “I said I needed to take advisement, not my complete leave.”

Father stiffens again. “You also said you could not sign the agreement.”

“I said I couldn’t sign
that
agreement.” Out from the messenger bag, in his impossibly long fingers, comes a sheaf of papers. “This one, I’ll sign.”

Mother snags the air with a caught breath. Father balances her, barely flinching. But his gaze goes to work, descending in another silent assessment of Cassian…searching for weakness. He will be out of luck. Cassian remains a perfect, unreadable wall: a hotter, steelier version of Jason Bourne, Jack Ryan, Ethan Hunt, and all their friends put together. He stands tall and determined, legs braced in a solid
A,
locking hands firmly as soon as Father takes the papers…appearing like he has all the time in the world to wait for feedback.

It does not take nearly that long.

Less than a dozen seconds, to be exact.

Which has to be a record for transforming my father from practiced deal broker into stunned gaper.

“We discussed a loan of twenty million.”

“Correct,” Cassian replies.

“This offer is for twice that.”

“Also correct.”

Maimanne
gasps again. I join her.
Forty million dollars
? Am I doing the math correctly? I cannot be certain, since every cell in my brain is short-circuited.

“And you cut the interest rate…in half.”

As Mother and I now struggle against fish gawks, Cassian’s face is unchanged. “Also correct,” he states.

“As well as a finder’s fee for any additional opportunities in Arcadia that arise within the next year.”

“Yes.”

I almost beg Mother to pinch my ear again—or anything else, to ensure this is not a dream. The only thing holding me back: the look on Father’s face. His gape is gone, replaced by a troubled scowl—shot at me then Cassian, in that order.

My heartbeat stutters all over again. By the powers, what have I done now? More precisely, what kind of concessions has Cassian demanded in return for this astounding new deal? The contract is practically Faustian—except the Devil looks like an angel, moves like a prize fighter, and enthralls like a wizard.

“All for this sole condition?” Father presses.

Mother practically leaps forward. “Accept it! Whatever it is, Fortin, say yes!”

Father looks at her for a long moment. Then once more at me, his gray gaze suddenly hazy—like that of a field mouse in a hawk’s talons.

“The acceptance is not mine to give.”

*

Cassian

“This is insanity.”

It’s the eighteenth time she’s blurted it. Yes, I’m counting—wondering if she’ll hit the internal estimation I set during the drive back over here, after having the new contract printed up in one of the palais offices. Somehow, Doyle found a security guard to open one of the rooms for us at four in the morning. Not that I’d ever planned on sleeping, after walking out of here consumed by the proposal now outlined in the pages in her hands.

Proposal.

That’s one way of putting it.

In the last half hour, she’s come up with quite a few more—though
insanity
is the favorite, as I’d predicted. Doyle—I make a mental note to give him a massive bonus, after the miracles he’s pulled to make this happen in less than six hours—clearly has some more for the list. His stare, filled with have-you-lost-it perplexity, burns from the shadows of the wingback in the corner. I don’t earn myself a reprieve by jerking my head, motioning him out the door—
not
the one beyond which the Santelles are waiting in suspicious silence. It’s the one opening onto a small patio with the morning sun now glittering in a small fountain flanked by padded chairs.

Doyle’s eyes narrow tighter.

I nod toward the patio again.

With a grunt, he rises. Fortin has all but ordered him to witness every second of my conversation with Mishella, but we’re not going to move past the next “this is insanity” at this rate. The dynamic in the room badly needs to change—and D has to know that too. On paper, the guy is my valet, but that bullshit flies as much as saying the same thing about Kato and the Green Hornet. Doyle and I finish thoughts, sentences, and cheeseburgers for each other. He’s the closest thing I have to a sibling. At least one who’s alive.

As soon as D steps outside, my theory proves out. A rush of relieved breath leaves Mishella.

Just as rapidly, she pulls one back in.

Wheels on me so fast, her loose hair tumbles over her shoulder—

And her breasts pucker beneath her pink sleep shirt.

She’s so fucking sexy, I can barely think.

But I must. Force myself to, with willpower I’m now grateful to have fortified over the years…the only thing riveting me in place as blood rushes to stupid places in my body.

“This is insanity!”

So much for theories.

“You must know that,” she continues, once more pacing the length of the room. “You—you
have
to know that.”