Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) Page 8

  “Yeah.” I arch both brows now. “Really.” Translation: deal with it and behave yourself.

  “Well.” The guy bounces on his toes before swooping up Ella’s hand, then bowing low over it. “In that case, welcome to Temptation, and consider me at your service.”

  Mishella laughs. Giggles, really, though she is not a typical giggler. Even that girlish indulgence gets her musical infusion…the kind of harmony that shoots straight to a man’s cock, as he wonders how to incite it even more. “Merderim. Bennim honeur,” she murmurs back before translating, “Thank you. It is my honor.”

  I give Scott two seconds to be charmed by the Arcadian poetry. One. Two. Then I step back around, grasping her hand with open possessiveness. “All right, all right. I’ve got it from here, whelp.” Instant gloat, as the melody of a giggle again sprinkles the air—for me.

  Scott accepts the trounce with a good-natured bow. “Of course, Mr. Court. I’ll take care of the car now.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  I say it while gathering Ella’s hand closer. Tucking it under my elbow, and resting her elegant fingers along my forearm. It feels so fucking good to have her there. So right. I guide her past the entrance door, set into the brick wall I had installed when renovating this place five years ago. The entrance disguises what lies beyond: a circular forecourt, also made of brick, leading to a marble staircase that swoops up to the mansion’s main entrance. Urns with modern lines counteract the gothic impact of it all—and the memories of the woman who loved this place because of that.

  Now, for the first time, I see the space through Mishella’s marveling gaze. It’s new again. Beautiful once more.

  My chest rips in conflict.

  In remembrance…

  I am glad when Mishella stops to peer around more. Use the chance to turn, fisting the center of my sternum. The cavity beneath has been so dark for so long, these new feelings are like a fucking heart attack.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my blossom…

  but maybe it’s time for new memories.

  “Cassian?”

  I spin back around, probably looking as if a ghost has shown up. And maybe she has. Lily always did like being the center of attention…

  “Hmmm?”

  Her eyes find mine—and just like that, my world is filled with nothing else again. The huge blue irises, evoking the sea and skies of her island, bathe me with more warmth and hope and completion than the first time we met. “This—is yours?”

  I smile. There’s nothing else to do in response to the pure amazement in her voice. “Yes. It is.”

  “The whole thing?”

  I can’t help a soft chuckle. “Well…yes.”

  “It’s like a palais!”

  “Not quite.”

  “It has,”—she pauses, her finger in the air, counting the floors—“six levels.” Her gaze returns to me, narrowing. “The palace in Sancti has only two more, including the beach and private residence.”

  I shrug. Instantly recognize the lame excuse of a move—but what other option do I have? “A lot it sits empty.” Fondness for the metaphors today, man? “I bought it to prove something, at a time in my life when I needed that. But the neighborhood is good, and the views of the Hudson are excellent from the turrets.” Not that I’d made the time for reflective moments lately.

  “There are turrets?” Her head rocks back as she searches the building once more. Watching her like that, hair tumbling down her back, creamy neck exposed, makes me instantly think of her inside one of those towers—hands fogging the windows as I pound into her from behind…

  “There are two.” I clear the croak from my throat. “They’re on the other side.”

  Her smile lights up her whole face. “Can we go in them?”

  “Of course.” I add hurriedly, “Well, one.” Force a casual shrug. “The other is used for storage. Probably a mess.”

  A mess. That’s a safe way of putting it.

  She pops her hands together, enough to serve as proxy for excited applause. “One is just as perfect.”

  “Then I am at your service.” I give Scott’s words a deliberately husky inflection. Her smile drops just enough that I know she’s heard…and comprehends.

  But first things first.

  Introducing her to everyone else.

  We cross the ornately tiled vestibule at the top of the stairs and are headed for the waiting elevator, when she stops again. Reads the Art Deco letters etched into the granite over the lift doors.

  “Temptation.” Her forehead purses. “The building is…actually called that?”

  I nod. “It was built in the early twentieth century, in honor of the original owner’s wife, whose name was actually Temperance.”

  “When did irony rear its funny head?”

  “Nineteen thirty-three, when the government repealed the Prohibition Act. As soon as that happened, the new owners had the first three floors turned into a multi-level supper club. They’d already been operating the basement as a speakeasy for years.”

  Her frown deepens. “Why would people go to a place just to speak easier?”

  “They do it all the time, favori. It’s called therapy.” When my joke doesn’t register, I simply go on, “It’s a slang phrase, once used to describe an illegal tavern.”

  “Illegal?” she retorts. “Why?”

  “They just were. As a whole, selling and consuming alcohol was—for many years. Many people thought the stuff was evil.”

  “But declaring something outside the law…does that not just make it more enticing?”

  Fucking great. She has to go and issue one of her little insights now, in that insanely sexy accent, as the lift doors close and we’re sealed in for half a minute.

  Half a minute is all I need.

  I sweep around, pinning her against the elevator’s cage, before dipping and taking her lips beneath mine. I’m not savage about the move, though I yearn to be. The contrast of her soft curves against the ornate steel…and thinking of taking her hard enough to embed the pattern into her flesh…

  Fuck. Fuck.

  What is this woman doing to me?

  I pull away enough to stare into her impossibly gorgeous eyes. In the dimness of the lift, they’ve turned the color of smoke. “For the record,” I rasp, “You’re forbidden to say ‘enticing’ again, unless we’re alone.”

  A slow smile teases at her lips. “And if I do not heed your…decree?”

  I dip my head in a mock threat. “Punishment. Merciless. For certain.”

  “I shall make a note of that.”

  “In what journal would that go in?”

  “Oh, I think a new one shall have to be created.” Her fingers toy at my sweater. Her smile flirts with my gaze. “‘Cassian’s Disciplines?’”

  “Goddamn.” I push closer, letting her crotch feel what that does to mine. “That has a very nice ring to it…”

  I’m inches away from smashing another kiss on her, devil take the consequences, when the lift thunks to a stop at level six—and surprise, surprise—Lucifer himself is waiting with a glare for us, right through the steel mesh. All right, so Hodge is a close enough comparison, and that’s before Prim arrives on the scene. She has to be near; obviously Scott called upstairs the second Ella and I left his sight.

  Sure enough, as soon as the door opens and I help Mishella onto the landing, Prim rounds the corner from the kitchen. Her blonde dreadlocks are twisted into a high bun, making it even easier to note the fiery shade of her gold eyes. Fury will do that to a woman—especially this one.

  Despite Prim’s ire spiking the air, Mishella slips her hand free from mine then reaches out, as amiable as she was with Scott. “Hello. It is good to meet you. My name is Mishella. And yours?”

  Prim glares as if Ella’s fingers are scorpions—until her eyes snatch up to meet mine, as I have known they would. I return the scrutiny with a sole, silent message. Play nice. We’ll talk later.

  Her pierced nose flares a little.
You bet your ass we will. She makes short work of accepting the handshake then stating, “Prim Smith. And before you ask, it’s not short for anything. And before you start laughing, I like my name fine.”

  “Why would I laugh?” Ella’s nose crinkles. “I like it too. It is unique. And pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  There’s civility in it. Just a toss. I still grab it for the win. My little sorceress has melted Prim after just thirty seconds. Alert the press.

  While the advent is significant, it confuses the hell out of Hodge. My burly curmudgeon of a houseman collects his paychecks from me but signed his heart away to Prim at least a year ago—not that she’ll ever notice. Still, Prim’s not jabbed the expected iceberg into Ella’s Titanic, clearly causing his internal debate. “So…uh…Boss, are there bags to handle? I think Scott said some are coming up on the service elevator?”

  Ah. Conflict handled with the man’s default to practical hospitality. I accept it for the win too. “He’s correct. Just put them in the master bedroom.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.”

  “The master bedroom?”

  I ignore Prim’s snip, turning Ella’s attention toward Hodge. “This is Conchobhar Hodgkins, houseman and engineer extraordinaire—but we call him Hodge for obvious reasons. He’ll be your call for anything from heavy lifting to rewiring the lights.”

  “And an occasional green smoothie.” Hodge jams hands into his back pockets and nervously toes the floor. He’s not used to bantering socially, but is clearly falling under Ella’s spell as quickly as Scott did—though has held out twice as long as I was able.

  “Oh.” Her smile widens. “That sounds delicious.”

  “If one enjoys drinking the lawn for lunch,” Prim mutters.

  Mishella laughs, but kills the sound off when struck by Prim’s cold fish of an attitude. I’m tempted to locate my own inner mackerel and show Prim what a real seafood smack-down is like, but am thawed once more by the hand curled beneath my elbow, and the eager smile beaming past my shoulder. In this moment, I’m certain the woman can probably talk me out of a kidney. Probably both. Suddenly, the wars fought over Helen of Troy and Ann Boleyn don’t seem so idiotic.

  “So do I get my tour now?”

  I tuck her hand in tighter. Return her grin like a goofy fool—and perhaps I am one. At least she’s not asking for a war—or a kidney. “You bet.”

  “Even the turret?”

  “The turret!”

  Prim’s outcry turns me back around—along with the look I’ve been rehearsing for her since the takeoff from Arcadia. Because I knew this moment would arrive. That there’d be one chance to communicate this message in the space of a stare.

  Mishella Santelle is staying for six months, whether you’re happy about it or not. Which means we’re cooling it about Turret Two, also whether you like it or not.

  Prim’s nostrils flare again. Her lips jam into a line of resignation. I nod and declare to Mishella, “We can start with the turret, if you like.”

  She really indulges a laugh now. “Let us begin with wherever you like. I want to see it all, so it does not matter.”

  As I guide her toward the main living room, it’s not without a parting stare from Prim—and the knowing truth attached in those deep amber irises. And the sadness layered beneath that.

  She wants to see it all, hmmm? Well, good luck with figuring that one out, Cas.

  But Prim knows the answer to that already too.

  There will be no “figuring that one out.”

  Because in the end, even Mishella Santelle doesn’t get to see it all. Not every corner of my home…not every room in my heart…and not the fucking ghost who lives in both.

  Not the parts of me that are best left in that grave with her.

  It makes sense now: the decision I made back on Arcadia, to call this thing at six months. It’s enough time to savor the heaven…without fearing the hell will rise up. Because, as I already know all too clearly, hell has a way of doing that. But for six months, I can bribe away the demons. After that, they can have my soul again. I’m sure the damn thing will never be the same after this, anyway.

  SEVEN

  *

  Mishella

  Curious.

  Even thousands of miles from home, midnight feels exactly the same.

  The sounds are different: a wilderness bustling with cars and trains and people instead of wind and waves and birds. The smells are different too: steam and steel and the foods of a thousand cultures, instead of the island aroma that has always brought reminders of only one thing: the water. This is not a complaint; I love the sea; it is the Creator’s perpetual gift to Arcadia—but it has always, simply, been there. Then again the next day. And the next. And the next.

  This island…is a new world every other minute, even at midnight. Beyond the turret’s windows, I watch it all: the people bustling, the horns honking, the trains whooshing, the sirens screaming. The chaos seems to mesh, becoming a peace of its own. A manmade ocean.

  It is the respite I need.

  The synergy giving me shelter from thoughts that will not stop taunting.

  From the memories…

  Of that conversation.

  The one I was not supposed to overhear. Cassian and Prim, hiding themselves in the pantry off the kitchen after dinner, clearly thinking I was still enraptured by all the technical doo-dads of the living room. Granted, the temptation was certainly there—so many wonderments to play with, hidden cleverly by the wood, glass, and leather décor—but manners are always more important than amusement, so I got up to help clear the table.

  Only to wish I had not.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Cassian?”

  “Prim—”

  “Wait. Wrong question. You’re always thinking. Just which head was it with this time?”

  “Goddammit. This is about more than that.”

  “And you don’t think I’m afraid of that too?”

  “Now what are you about?”

  “Oh God, Cas. Have you thrown up the blinders that high—or do you see it and just choose to ignore it?”

  “I’m not ‘ignoring’ a fucking thing!”

  “Of course not. Which is why you flew that girl home from the middle of the Mediterranean, then moved her right into the master with you. Let me guess. She was wasting away in the cinders somewhere, and Prince Charming had to ride in with the magic slipper. Wait; no. Perhaps she was a wilting flower, ready to bloom. Eliza Doolittle, filthy island style. Enter Professor fucking Higgins, ready to make that rain in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”

  “Yeah. Right. That’s it exactly.”

  “Are…are you laughing about this? Why the hell are you laughing?”

  “Because you’re not making any sense.”

  “I’m making perfect sense. Dear God, more sense than I want to make. She doesn’t just punch one button for you, does she? She punches both. That’s why you didn’t come home with just the T-shirt.”

  “The…what?”

  “You went to the island. Banged the local wahine. You should’ve come home with the damn T-shirt. Instead, you came home with the girl. God. You are such a moron.”

  “Dammit, Prim. Keep it down. And for the record, I didn’t bang her.”

  “You mean you haven’t yet. I’ll take that lovely silence as a yes. And after you do, what do you think will happen? That she’ll happily hop on a plane back home, without asking for a cent in ‘compensation for services rendered?’”

  “It’s not like that, either.”

  “So you are compensating her?”

  “All right. This conversation is over.”

  I did not linger to confirm if it really was or not. Had the damage not already been done? That answer vibrates throughout the clamp remaining on my chest—that has been there ever since making my excuses from staying for Prim’s “famous tiramisu” to retire early, feigning exhaustion from our traveling.

  At least it bought me time to
prepare for bed—in all the awkward senses of the word—for my first night in a man’s bed. It did not halt my mind from racing with every possible, horrible, incredible scenario that might come. Would he seduce me gently? Taunt me with another version of what he did to me on the plane? Or simply launch into bed and fuck me wildly?

  Oh. Yes. Option number three…please?

  A brutal breath sucks through my lips. A flush invades my neck and breasts. Heat surges between my thighs. Even my mouth aches, craving the dominance of his once more…as it has since the moment that he finally did come to bed…

  Then, after but a few minutes, fell into a drained slumber.

  After that, as Brooke would say, my choice of action was a no-brainer. The second his breaths evened into deep sleep, I was out of bed, into my slippers, and headed for this exact spot. The turret is my favorite part of his tour from earlier, perhaps because he’s restored it to its art deco grandeur rather than installing the high-gloss look prevailing over the rest of the building’s interior. Granted, the first three floors of the place are satellite offices for Court Corporation, modern by necessity—but the other areas feel “off” to me, as if the design is a deliberate attempt to shut out the past.

  More disturbingly, especially after my accidental eavesdrop on Cassian and Prim’s argument, I sense there is actually a past to shut out.

  The recognition brings a heavy sigh.

  “I’d offer a penny for those thoughts, but it sounds like they’re worth a dollar.”

  The commentary from a few feet back, roughened by recent sleep, is a surprise because it is not a surprise. The air I breathe in for the sigh is the same air that shifts, making room for his presence. Just like it did in the palais back on Arcadia…and has ever since.

  Only all those times, I was not trying to inhale around a vice in my chest.

  I do not turn, not wanting Cassian to see my grimace. Idiot. Why should he not see it…and know the conflict weighing on me? Prim made no secret of hers.

  “I…could not sleep. Time difference, I suppose.” Or the hundred ways I keep wondering why Prim’s input is such a priority to you.