Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) Read online

  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.”

  I can reply right away—I actually have known that since leaving this mansion the first time—but I don’t. Instead I lean against her father’s desk, bracing hands to the wood at my sides, giving her the full thrust of my gaze, the full recognition of my intent—

  The full truth of my spirit.

  “It feels more crazy to think of leaving without you.”

  It’s a bomb drop even to me, but I don’t try to mitigate the blast. I don’t want to. The shrapnel cuts in, and I let it. I welcome the blood; the sensation that I’m watching my heart fall on the floor. For a second, I simply revel in watching it pump. For so many years, I’ve had my doubts.

  I’m braced for the twentieth reference to lunacy but she turns instead, brow tightly knitted. In a rasp, she asks, “Why?”

  I quirk a small smile. “After the last two days, do you really have to ask? Wait.” I push up, a move easily carrying me into the steps remaining between us. “After last night, do you have to ask?”

  She tilts her head up. I’m certain she must hear the thunder in my chest, now so close to her stunning face, as I take in her flash of joy. She hasn’t just remembered what happened in her bedroom. She’s relived it as many times as I have.

  Which doubles my confusion about the new mask she slams down over that bliss. “Cassian—”

  “Ella.” Yes, I use the name intentionally. With just as much purpose, grip her by both elbows. I don’t shirk the hold, even when she stiffens against it.

  “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

  “Why do you insist on pretending you don’t like it?” When she relents, just for a moment, I seize the chance to move an inch closer. Nearly fitting our bodies against each other… “Why do you insist on acting like you’re not pleased with my revised proposal to your father?”

  “Proposal.” She twists both arms free, stumbling back. “That is what you have titled it?” The arms fold back in. She spits a bitter laugh. “And I thought Arcadia had been missing out on so many miracles of the modern world. But if buying a human being is still simply relegated to a piece of paper—”

  Okay, slow down.” I half-expected her to go here. I didn’t expect the vehemence with which she’d do it—or the pain in her eyes as she did. “Nobody is getting ‘bought,’ Mishella.”

  “Right,” she retorts. “Désonnum. So sorry. My big bad. You do not wish to purchase; you simply want to rent.”

  “What?” I want to be angry but shock makes that impossible. “Where do you get—”

  “Six months.” She sweeps a hand toward the contract. “I have that correct, yes? Is it not all completely spelled out in your pretty papers? You agree to invest forty million dollars in Arcadian entities recommended by my father, in exchange for getting to have me on call to you for the next six months.”

  A band of pain clamps my head. I step back before snarling, “Not on call.” It’s no less crude than her inflection.

  “Oh?” One of her hands hitches to a hip. “What, then? Forty million dollars’ worth of companionship? A ‘plus one’ for social affairs? A movie buddy? A dog trainer?”

  One side of my mouth kicks up again. “You want a dog?”

  Her eyes widen. I swear that inside, she’s just regressed to the age of six. “Do—do you have one?”

  “I can get you one.”

  The six year-old disappears. The woman is back, head tilting, going for what she perceives to be cynicism. “Cassian, are you seriously saying you expect me to return to New York with you…and not fuck you?”

  Well, hell.

  I’d anticipated that question too—hello, obvious—just not those words for it. And those words, flowing in her musical voice…what they instantly do to me…

  Damn. Damn.

&nb
sp; Everything in my body tightens. The skin around my cock does not get a free pass. The fucker just got charged double fare, and he’s not happy about it. The insult to the injury: that tiny tick of her auburn eyebrows, which might as well be fist pumps in some unseen boxing match to which she’s challenged me.

  Okay, sweetheart. You take that victory dance. I’ll wait riiiight here.

  I’ve never looked forward more to surging off the ropes.

  And I do.

  One unwavering step—two—then I’m right back next to her, screwing propriety, manners, and personal space, molding our bodies exactly as they’d been in the recesses of her bedroom. Just as intoxicating as those shadows is the Arcadian morning sun, surrounding us…warming her lips for a kiss I long to brand on her, into her, through her. But I don’t. I lean until only the tips of our mouths touch, enlivening those areas so exposed yet so erotic, making us breathe together—me out, her in, then reversed—until she shudders harder than the motes in the rays around us.

  “Mishella.”

  Her eyes drag open. Just a little. “Hmmm?” Then pop wide, as I drop both hands around her ass. Wider as I jerk her body tighter against mine.

  “You’re not going to fuck me in New York.”

  “I—” For a moment, before she attempts to hide it, she looks dejected. “I’m not?”

  “I’m going to fuck you.”

  She swallows. “Oh.” Pulls in trembling air. “Um…oh.”

  I roll my hips, making sure the layers of our clothes don’t cushion the erect enforcer of my meaning. Complete backfire. My dick rails it at me, screaming to be set free in the hot, soft valley between her lush thighs. Somehow, I’m still able to get words out. Hoarsely.

  “You know what else?”

  “Wh-what else, Cassian?”

  “You’re going to beg me for it.”

  Bigger gape. So goddamn captivating. I could get lost in every facet of her huge sapphire eyes. “I’m—oh.”

  Her helpless rasp warms my neck. The heat from it reverberates, echoing along my muscles and tendons, my blood vessels and skin cells, an assault of demand to give her a preview of exactly what I’m talking about. But another element shimmers in her breath…and now in the gaze she lifts at me.

  She’s still afraid.

  And I refuse to push her…until she’s afraid of only the good things.

  With gritted effort, I loosen my hold and step away. My hand finds one of hers. I lead her over to the wingback Doyle was moping from. She looks much better in the thing, the golden tumble of her hair contrasted by the dark leather. Her posture is pristine, though her gaze doesn’t miss an inch of my actions. Christ, she’s beautiful. My misplaced Cinderella, complete with the princess pink PJs.

  “All right,” I state, hunkering before her. “Perhaps we should step back.”

  Her stare clouds. “But you just made me sit.”

  I quell a chuckle through supreme effort. Lift an indulgent smile—not an effort at all. “Just an American expression, favori.”

  The Arcadian endearment is clearly a surprise—but her small smile confirms it’s a pleasant one. “What does it mean?”

  “That we should look at this with the body parts above our necks.”

  She flushes. “A wise idea.” Nods. “And a good term. I shall have to journal it.”

  More of my chest warms. Her journals—one of the first things that fascinated me about her, after recovering from the blow of her beauty—are so much a part of her, it’s strange seeing her without one. She keeps them about everything, as if afraid facts will slip into nothingness if she doesn’t harness them on paper.

  Or maybe they’re tangible proof that she controls something in her world.

  I tuck away the observation—and my anger from it—to the Deal With This Later file. Just like the surges I battled during dinner last night, when once more she was spoken to like a dog to be curbed, the emotion has no place or use here. Instead I focus on the gentle trust in her grip, while softly prompting, “You remember the most important point, don’t you?”

  She nods like a child pulling up multiplication tables. “There are three signature lines on the new contract. Yours, Father’s, and mine. The contract is not valid without my agreement.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means the ultimate choice about this is mine.”

  “Good.”

  My voice is serrated and I don’t hide it. God help me, even her earnestness is a turn-on. I’m a bastard for fantasizing about what it could be when used for carnal purposes, but my guilt is balanced by conviction. She’s the pure air my life has needed for so long. The fresh start I didn’t even know I craved, until two days ago.

  “What else?” I manage to continue. She fidgets a little. Then more. How the hell has a woman with such light been forced to hide it so thoroughly? “Ella, it’s all right. It’s just us. I’m listening.”

  I’ll always listen.

  “This—this is not you ‘buying’ me,” she finally mumbles.

  I let my hands slip free. Lean back on my haunches, sensing she needs the distance. “But you don’t believe that.”

  Her lips purse. “It is a non-negotiable part of the contract, Cassian. What would you have me believe?”

  I firm my own features. It’s the hardest goddamn thing to do around her, screwing on my “business” brain, but I cinch the fucker tight and go on, “Because your father would be open to considering the courtship of an American otherwise?”

  “You underestimate my father’s open-mindedness when money is part of the equation.”

  “I don’t underestimate it one bit. But for all intents and purposes, at least in his eyes, I’ll be carrying you off then ruining you.” I have to force the next words out. “Making your involvement an ‘option’ gives him an opening for sneaky bullshit. I wouldn’t put it past him to double-dip on this opportunity.”

  Her nose crinkles. “I do not understand. Double…dip?”

  “He’ll take my money, but still sell off your greatest asset to some horny Arcadian courtier who’s stupid enough to believe some made-up line about your absence, like you’ve been on the other side of the island on a ‘research trip’ for Brooke.” I raise both brows. “There are men that gullible in the Arcadian court, Ella. If I can discern that after two days here—”

  “I know, I know.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Your assessment is—” A wince takes over. “Correct,” she finally concludes. “You are…correct.”

  More than she wants me to be. The slew of truths has stabbed her, as I knew it would—but this is why I’ve ordered her parents from the room. If they were still here, she wouldn’t feel safe to speak this honestly. “My ‘greatest asset’,” she finally echoes, blinking at me with aching eyes. “Is that what you are after too, then? Have all the shops on Fifth Avenue run out of shiny virgins, that you have seized the chance to snap one up as a souvenir from Arcadia?”

  Her defiance marks each word but she ends with a ragged inhalation—already expecting my righteous fury. Silly, sad, heartbreaking woman. If she only knew that righteous and I have never claimed to remotely know each other—such an abiding truth, her question was one of my first considerations when drafting the new contract.

  Battling the urge to yank her close, I settle for locking her in by leveling our gazes. “Ella, if I’d met you here as a hooker in the Sancti marketplace, it wouldn’t have mattered.” I stop for a second, considering that. “Though I’d likely be on my knees in your pimp’s living room instead of here…”

  “Having an easier time of it.”

  We laugh at her finishing my thought. We sigh because that feels as natural—and as exhilarating, and as intense—as the rest of what has happened between us. We sober because the enormity of it hits again too. The mutual recognition that if this is what everything feels like after two days, I shouldn’t be pushing fate’s favor by forging a contract for six months.

  Six months.

  Not. Nearly.
Enough.

  I shove aside the sentimental bullshit. It’s enough, you mooning ass. Long enough to get my fill of her, but not so long that I tire of her. More importantly, not long enough for her to start tugging at the threads…asking all the wrong questions…

  The threads don’t get tugged.

  The secrets don’t get revealed.

  It’s for the best, no matter how hard she gets my cock or complete she makes my spirit. In the tapestry of her life, I’ll become just a thread as well. The way it should be. The lover who took her virginity, but gave her a bigger gift in return.

  Her freedom.

  And there’s the ultimate ace card in my deck.

  The one element she cannot obtain on her own…just six months within her grasp. I watch her start to understand it, her eyes eagerly glittering, even before I speak again.

  “Now tell me the third stipulation, Ella. I need to know you understand it.”

  She responds inside a beat. Imagine that.

  “After six months, I shall return to Arcadia. My job as Brooke’s secran will be returned to me…and I shall be free to wed a man of my choosing, for whatever reasons I deem acceptable.” An incredulous smile flows over her lips. “Even for love.”

  “Yeah. Even for love.”

  I fight to ignore how good it feels to hear her say it.

  And how fucked-up it feels to force my lips around the same words.

  And how confusing it is to watch shadows invade her gaze again.

  “Of course…I can also choose not to marry at all.” She pulls a corner of her lip under her teeth. Toys with the rivets in the chair’s arm. “Perhaps…simply…take a string of lovers.”

  I don’t miss how she finishes it. Her surreptitious glance, darted through her tawny lashes, is a cock-grabbing mixture of question and flirtation. Why deny her the show she’s looking for? The instant strain through my whole body. The leap of peeved color up my neck, into my face.

  She releases her lip—but instantly wets it. Blinks heavily, clearly perplexed again. Goddammit. My jealousy is actually turning her on, and she doesn’t even realize it. The little sorceress has bewitched herself.

  Maybe she needs a jolt of clarification. Maybe we both do.