Sweet Temptation (19 page)

“Just me and Gin. Father's up north.”

She sounds nervous and it puts me on edge. “What's up?”

“Something.”

I sit up, waiting, but whatever it is, she won't say it over the
phone. My heart picks up speed.

“Everyone all right, then?” I ask.

“Yes . . . we've just had visitors. I'm sure you'll hear everything soon.”

Visitors. She's dying to tell me—I can hear it in her voice.

“Did ‘A' visit?” I ask.

“Mm-hm.”

Something's up, and it involves Anna. I stand and begin to pace. “Who else?”

She clears her throat. “K.”

I stop.

“They're taking care of some business, that's all,” she says. “But you should be on the lookout.”

“Did someone send them on this business?”

“Yeah. B.”

B . . . ? Oh, Belial. I have no patience for these riddles we have to use.

“What are we talking about here, Marna?”

“Tell him not to get his knickers in a bunch,” Ginger pipes up in the background. “They're both too proper to be anything more than
friends
.” She says the word with disdain.

“They're traveling together for business purposes.”

What the hell is going on? Why has Belial sent Anna and Kopano traveling together?

I let out a low growl and Ginger mutters to her sister, “Told you not to call him.”

“I'm sorry,” Marna whispers. “Don't be upset, Kai. It's not bad.”

Not bad. “I've got to go.”

I hang up and pace the floor, growing more and more unsettled. I switch the music back on, letting it rattle my eardrums. For whatever reasons, good or bad, Belial has Kopano and Anna working together.

I can scarcely breathe. I bend into a crouch, grabbing my hair in my fists.

I can tell myself over and over that I want her to stop loving me, but it's a damn lie. The only thing that's gotten me through the past ten months has been my hope that she's thinking of me at night, as I'm thinking of her.

My phone rings again and I snatch it up, hoping it's Marna. But it's Blake. I hesitate, then switch off the music again and answer.

“Yeah.”

“You okay, man?”

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. Marna obviously called him to check on me.

“Don't go jumpin' to conclusions, brah. I'm sure it's nothing.”

I can't help it—it's my nature to go straight to the worst-case scenario. “Do you know anything?” I ask.

“Nope. Same as you. Freakin' weird, though, right? They've got me curious as hell.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Swear you'll tell me if you hear anything. No matter what.”

“I swear, Kai. No worries, though. I'm sure it's fine.”

I'm not sure at all. And I know it's going to kill me, waiting to find out.

“Now the son's disgraced, he who knew his father when he cursed his name . . .

But it broke his heart, so he stuck his middle finger to the world.”

—“Let It Rock” by Kevin Rudolf

I
t's never good to see your demon father's name on the mobile ID. I haven't spoken to him in ages.

“Is your band available in two weekends?” Father asks.

“I believe so, sir,” I say, wondering what this is about.

“
Pristine
is having an Oktoberfest party to celebrate our new fall and winter models. Someone mentioned hiring a band, and I thought of Lascivious.” He says this as if it's a brilliant idea, and he's doing me a great favor. My chest constricts.

Pristine
—the world's leading pornographic magazine. Father. Models . . .

I know what happens at these parties—I've been to plenty.

I rub a hand down my face, thinking of my ten-month streak coming to an end. I force a response.

“Thank you, Father. Sounds excellent. I'll speak with the band, to be certain.”

“I'm sure you can work it out—shuffle your schedule if needed. I'll send the jet.”

We hang up and I launch my phone across the room. It smashes against the wall and falls in several pieces. Damn it. I don't feel like visiting the wireless shop.

I collapse back onto the couch, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. The pain of not working has finally simmered into a dull daily thrum that's bearable. I don't want to ruin my progress. I don't want to work and start all over. I don't want to be with anyone but Anna.

I dig my hands in harder.

Under Father's eye, I know I will work, because I don't want to die. Not on his terms. Not for this. Dying at Anna's side is different.

A voice in my head whispers . . .
Kope would refuse
. . . and that thought infuriates me.

How the fuck is he so perfect? Why am I so weak? The absolute worst part of this—the bit I don't care to admit—is that a small part of me is rejoicing at what awaits.

The scents. The softness. The sounds . . .

My heart races and the beast raises its lazy head after a long hibernation.

It's not in my power to end this curse. I hate myself.

Michael, Bennett, and Raj are so loud on the jet, so hyper, the pilot has to ask them to keep it down. We've killed the chilled bottle of champagne and moved on to beer Father supplied us. I keep a steady buzz and laugh at their antics, but I don't say much. I'm resigned to my fate. That momentary guilty excitement I felt after Father called has long since diminished, replaced by a sense of numbness. I know what awaits.

Once the party gets rolling, there will be no boundaries. No modesties. No privacy. No saying no. By tomorrow morning my bandmates will have seen things they can't unsee. They'll have done things they can't undo. This will not be like the parties they are used to.

When we arrive in New York City, a limo is there to meet us. Full rock-star treatment.

Acid is churning through me by the time we arrive at the building of Pristine's penthouse suite. The guys completely geek out the entire way up.

“Are the models going to be walking around naked and shit?” Raj asks.

“Possibly. Or nearly.”

He and Bennett high-five while Michael rubs his chin, grinning.

“Seriously, man,” Bennett says to me. “How easy will it be to score?”

I shrug. “Depends. Loads of rich men show at these things. It helps that you're in the band, but you've got to calm the fuck down.”

All three of them stand taller, taking deep breaths, schooling their faces like cool cats. Better.

The lift opens and spills us into the sounds of laughter and tinkling glass. Women are walking about in those German Oktoberfest getups with tiny hats, loads of skin on show. The doorman looks us up and down and says, “Ah, the band. This way, please.” He leads us around a corner to the larger room with chandeliers sparkling above a raised platform. Our instruments are set up and ready. Through the crowd of suits steps Father in a navy designer suit, with four gorgeous females at his heels. They're all wearing indulgent smiles and tiny black skirts with string bikini tops, covered in different-colored gems for the fall.

“Bad. Ass,” Raj whispers as they approach.

Father comes straight to me, an award-winning smile on his face, and takes me by the hand, pulling me in to clap a hand on my back. His affection is all for show, but it's convincing. His hand grips my shoulder.

“I've been bragging on you to our Harvest Girls here,” he says, turning to wave a hand at the four models. “They didn't believe I had such a handsome and talented son.”

I grin, but not too big—more like a smirk. The girls look me up and down, taking in my black jeans, boots, and gunmetal-gray fitted shirt.

“God, he's practically your mini-me,” says the girl with dark red hair and brown-tinted jewels.

“A little Richie?” says the platinum blonde with burgundy gems. She steps closer to me. “I wonder how much of you is like your daddy?” Her pink tongue touches the corner of her shining red lips.

“You'll just have to see for yourselves, luvs,” Father says.
The girls laugh, gazing up in adoration and touching him with open intimacy—they've all clearly been with him. Now they're looking to me. My soul sinks, but my body stands tall.

I catch the eyes of my mates, ogling for all they're worth. I clear my throat.

“This is Raj, our bass; Michael, our lead singer; and Bennett, keyboardist.”

Father shakes their hands and introduces the girls.

“We've got one of every fall flavor,” he says. “Catherine was our September girl.” He points to the blonde in burgundy. “Emily did October.” The redhead in brown tones smiles. “For November we've got both Fátima . . .” The black-haired Latina in yellow-gold. “And Alina.” He motions to a girl with creamy brown skin and chocolate-colored hair, wearing orange stones. “They'll shoot together.”

Fátima and Alina share a small kiss. Raj makes an involuntary sound beside me.

Amateur.

I'm more than a little glad when Father motions to the stage for us to take our places. I can't see his colors, but I know he'd be dripping in the purple of pride when he introduces us to the room. All eyes are on me, filled with intrigue, as I take my place in front of the drums.

The son of Richard Rowe.

We begin playing, and I wish I could slam these sticks against the drums all night. I don't want to think about what I'll have to prove to these people later. Though I've attended my share of these events throughout my teen years, this one feels different. As I look out at the women dancing in front of
us, I realize this party is no different than the others. It's me who's different now.

I try not to think about Anna, and what she'd think if she could see all this, but it's impossible. She's in my every thought, and this party would make her sad. Everything is artificial, eye candy. Things that aren't okay by normal standards, like the objectification of women, are made acceptable and enjoyable within these walls. But it's all temporary and shallow and fucking depressing.

Yet, I know it will feel good at the moment. I know too well.

Hours pass, and my arms burn at the finish of our last song. The room erupts into cheers. I look at my mates, flushed and sweating as they stare out at the sea of bodies, the breasts that defy gravity, the carefully crafted perfection of bodies there for the taking.

The sickening pit inside me deepens.

Father approaches, beaming at the crowd as he holds an arm out toward us. They cheer wildly again. He ushers us offstage and a horde of women surrounds my mates and sweeps them away into the party. The Harvest Girls are on all sides of me, having lost their bejeweled tops somewhere along the way. My eyes are locked on Father's knowing grin as acrylic nails run down my arms, and extended eyelashes flutter up at me. But beyond all of the fakeness is warm skin, and that is real.

My chest is tight. Father thinks he owns me, but he cannot control my mind. I choose to work tonight, because I refuse to give him the power of ordering my death.

Anna believes there is a purpose for me, but I'm not certain.
I used to think
this
was my purpose, jobs like this, but I was wrong. I don't know why I'm here, on earth, other than to love her and protect her if I can. I can't do that if I'm dead.

So, I know what I must do. I must let the beast have complete control. I must live another day.

“When you're living a life that you gotta deny,

When you feel how we feel, but you gotta keep lying.”

—“Secret Love” by Hunter Hayes

I
n spite of the sunny southern California weather, it's possibly the worst winter of my life. I'm filled with self-loathing over my work in New York, I'm missing Anna like mad, and I'm certain she and Kope are together now. I expect a call from Marna any day to give me the bad news.

At Christmas I get the call I've been waiting for—the one I'm certain will break me for good. But to my surprise, the call is from Kope himself. My initial thought is that something's happened to Anna, and my innards plummet.

“Hallo?” I stand in the middle of the television room, gripping my mobile.

“Brother Kaidan.” His voice is too smooth. Too bloody calm.

“Kope. Is everyone all right?”

“Yes. Everyone is fine.”

Then why the fuck are you calling me?
I nearly rail at him, but I contain it, needing to match his proper tone. I ask, “Then to what do I owe this pleasure?”

He pauses and I want to reach through the phone and wallop him.

“Anna says you will not speak with her.”

I stand there, momentarily stunned. Who is he? Her
BFF
? The last person I need to explain myself to is Kopano.

“What is your point?” I ask tightly.

“My point . . . she still cares for you. I wish to know how you feel for her.”

I nearly laugh. My head falls back and I stare up at the ceiling. I know what this is. Kope is asking permission to make a move.

“That's none of your concern.” I feel something deadly seeping through me.

“I am concerned because she hurts,” he goes on. “If you care, you should let her know. And if you do not care you should release her.”

The snake. I bloody knew it. I love how he's trying to make it all about her, not himself.

“So you can have a go at her?” I ask. My heart and lungs have gone haywire.

“I will not pursue her if you do not wish me to. But you must tell me.”

The room goes spotty. This is really happening.

I can barely unhinge my jaw to speak the next words. “It's
not my permission you need, Kope. Talk to her father.” Perhaps if he asks Belial, he'll get the same heartwarming pep talk I received. Then again, this is Kopano, perfect and safe, with a father who's not interested in killing Anna—not set on making her work.

Kope wants to make her happy. Is that what she wants from him?

“Please, Kaidan.” He sounds weary, and I wonder where he is and what they're up to. “I do not wish to quarrel.”

“Tell me: Does she know about you yet?”

He falls silent and I slowly grin without humor—I've reminded him he's not perfect.

“No,” he finally whispers.

I think about him unleashing himself on Anna. Who knows what would happen if Kopano actually let loose? “Be careful,” I say.

“I am ever aware, brother. And now I need your honesty. What are your feelings for her?”

A laugh escapes me, but I'm not amused. Not one bit. I feel like an animal backed into a corner by his persistent pushing. I hate Kopano at this moment more than I've hated anyone. He knows I have no right to keep her from moving on. She is her own person, and I'm not allowed to see her. If I've truly let her go the way I swore I would after the summit, I cannot hold on to any part of her, even from afar.

Perhaps to the outside world it looks as if I don't care about her anymore, but I believe Kope knows the truth. He's taking advantage of my inaction.

As much as it kills me, I have to wonder if this is my true
test of self. Can I do what's best for Anna if it means she'll be with Kopano? If they are meant for each other, can I stand aside and let them be together?

I squeeze my eyes shut and try hard not to crumble as I say the next words. “I've made it clear to her there's no future for us, mate. So have at it. Best of luck to you.”

I wish I could say I spoke those words with a gracious heart. I wish I could say I'm happy for them. That doing the right thing feels good. But I can't, because my heart is full of malice, and I'm afraid it will eat me alive.

I want Anna to be happy. I want her to have what I can't, even if it murders my heart every day of my life.

Come February, Blake and I are still in the dark about where Anna and Kopano are traveling, and why. It's taking every ounce of self-control I can muster not to call Anna and ruin a year's worth of self-control. It is work staying away from her, knowing her feelings have likely changed. It's the only selfless thing I've done in my life, and let's just say I'm not happy about it.

I'm a right bear to be around.

No sex, plus no Anna, plus Anna with Kope, equals the recipe for one mad chap.

I've been in two fights this month already, which hasn't happened in ages. The second was yesterday in Santa Barbara with some knob who does motocross with Blake. So I'm not surprised today when Marna rings me.

“Babe, you've got to stop this. I mean it.”

“Stop what?” I fall back on my bed, rubbing my forehead. “Everything's fine.”

“They're only friends. I swear to you.”

“I've no clue who you're talking about, but good on them.” Bloody well hope her father's not listening.

“I'm out of town,” she says, as if reading my mind. “About to make my next flight.”

“He asked me to be with her,” I blurt.

“Eh? Don't know anything about that. But it's not happening. Believe me.”

She sounds certain, but I refuse to hope. “Was there a bond when you saw them?” I can't believe I'm asking. My chest shakes when I exhale.

“No relationship bonds,” Marna says. Then, because she can't help herself, she rushes on. “Perhaps a
slight
attraction, but you know how fickle that is. Nothing to worry about.”

I grunt.

“I mean it! Be careful, you. And chin up.”

I grunt again and she sighs before hanging up.

They're only friends. I swear to you.

A bit of the dark cloud I've been living under lightens.

I haven't truly worked in four months, since the party in New York. It's been brutal restarting my sensual fast. If this is what Kopano feels like all the time, I feel sorry for him. And I hate him even more for being so calm all the damn time, making it seem easy.

Every interaction is difficult for me. In my muddled mind, a simple “How are you today?” turns into a purred “How do you want it, baby?”

But still, the only person I want in my bed is Anna Whitt. And that will never happen. Hence, anger and frustration.

These sour feelings are compounded when Father rings me on February 13, saying I'm needed in Atlanta the very next day. He gives no details, but my blood runs cold. Working in Atlanta can mean only one thing: Marissa. I suppose I should consider myself lucky this is the first time he's called me to Georgia in the fourteen months I've lived here. Still . . . it's one call too many.

Then one tiny spark of light fills my mind. I'll be close to Anna. So very close.

I can't see her—I've been strong, staying away all this time, and I can't ruin my efforts now. And I don't need Belial tracking me down to make good on his threats. However, being so near to her just might give me the fix I need, which goes to prove just how pathetic I've become.

It's not until I'm breathing frozen Georgia air and see the sedan waiting for me outside the airport that I allow myself to think on my purpose for being here. I half expect exhilaration to hit me at the prospect of being physical with a girl again, but it never comes. I don't want this. I ruined my first-ever streak of goodness in October, and I've been an angry shell of myself ever since.

I feel ill the entire way to Father's house. Over and over I stretch my hands open and close them into tight fists.

Do I dare refuse him about a niece of Marissa's again? What if it's another child? How far will I go to stay alive?

When I enter the house I find Father and Marissa having tea. They both glance at me, and then continue talking business. In a chair beside them sits a tall girl with her hair pulled back. She looks around sixteen or seventeen, thankfully
no younger. Father and Marissa are speaking in French, which I understand, but the girl likely doesn't. I don't listen because I don't care to hear whatever they're discussing. I stand in the doorway of the posh sitting area, grinding my teeth as they murmur. I stare at an ugly, abstract painting on the wall. I can feel the girl watching me.

When they finish, Marissa turns to me in her chair. “Kaidan.” I force myself to look at her. “This is my newest niece, Iva. I am hoping you can keep her company today.”

Marissa reaches over and pets the girl's head. Iva smiles at her shyly, and then at me, which makes me grind my teeth even harder. The girl has no idea what she's in for. I force a nod and my mouth goes dry as I search for a way out of this. I devise a quick plan, though it's weak.

“I've heard there's a rave in the city this evening,” I say, my heart thundering. “Thought I'd try to kill two birds with one stone. May I take Iva out with me this afternoon, and then drop her back at Marissa's on my way to the party?”

Shite. I didn't think this through. They're going to ask me where I'll take her. Lookout Point, perhaps? Father turns to Marissa and she shrugs, flinging her waist-long black hair from her shoulder and clicking her long fingernails together. Blast, that sound. I steel myself against a shudder.

“Makes no difference to me,” Marissa says, reaching out to stroke the girl's cheek, “as long as the job is done and she makes it home to me safely. But keep her out of public.” Marissa eyes me and says in French, “Teach her
all
the ways to pleasure a man. No need to keep this one innocent.”

“Oui.”
I nod tightly and try not to look relieved.

“You may take the BMW.” Father tosses me the keys, smiling devilishly at Marissa, his mind otherwise occupied.

I look to Iva and jerk my head toward the door. The girl is quick to follow.

Aside from the young girl last year, I've never left a niece untrained before. This is the first time I've even considered it. I start the car and catch sight of the date on the dash. Valentine's Day. How apropos.

I drive in silence, tapping the wheel in nervous thought as the girl sits there with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her threadbare sweater is no match for the winter air. I crank the heat up.

When we're well out of the five-mile zone I take a deep breath and huff it back out.

“You speak English?”

“Yes,” she replies in a heavily accented voice.

“Do you know why you've been brought to America?”

“Oh, yes. My brother tells me. I am to be married to handsome, wealthy man who will care for me.”

I swallow. I usually have my guard up with the nieces. I keep myself numb and don't allow any thoughts in. But it's been too long, and my mind's been infected. I cannot ignore this girl's words. They seep into me.

Iva asks timidly, “Are you to be my husband?”

I shoot a glance in her direction and find her scanning my face with hope. I look back at the road and stare straight ahead as I speak the words that will shatter that hope into a million cutting shards. For once, I will tell one of Marissa's nieces the full truth without trying to sugarcoat it, downplay
it, or glorify it in any way.

“Iva . . . I'm very sorry, but there is no husband. Your brother lied to you. He sold you. You're a slave now, and Madame Marissa is your master.”

“I . . . What do you say?” Her voice shakes. I'm willing to bet she came from an extremely poor family. If her brother was the head of her household, her parents most likely died from illnesses because they didn't have the money for treatment. I'd seen this before, with too many nieces. Her brother probably squandered their small pittance of funds on drugs or alcohol. She's begun to tremble next to me.

I drive us to a state park, away from prying eyes and ears, surrounded by trees.

Iva's chest heaves with quick, frantic breaths. This is not uncommon. I need to calm her. I stop the car and turn in my seat.

“Please, sir,” she says. “I don't understand!”

I'm filled with dread as I explain Iva's new world to her. I tell her what she will be expected to do, and what will happen if she doesn't. I make it clear that if she utters a single word of what I've told her, I will be killed.

“Why do you tell me this?” she asks, hugging herself around the middle.

I shake my head, staring off. “I want you to know the truth. I'm very sorry.”

“You work for them, yes?”

“Not by choice. I'm kind of like you, Iva. I do as I'm told or I die.”