Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (21 page)

Or feeling like complete hell when one’s zombiefied best friend keeps staring as if she has already sprinkled one’s brain with Tabasco.

Or finally understanding why, when our reunion party gains two new guests—pulling my breath up my throat in a dry, terrible choke.

“Holy fuck.” Brooke’s exclamation is strangled by rage and fear. Since I cannot phrase it any better, I let my mouth drop open, working to accommodate the screams of bewilderment and disappointment in my head.

Screams…

Colliding into one explicit message.

Run.

But I cannot.

The two figures behind Vylet, hands on her shoulders in a dual display of support, lock my feet down like titanium latches. I trapped. And paralyzed.

“Mother?” Agonizing gulp. “Father?”

As always,
Maimanne
is the one to speak first. “
Bon sabah,
Mishella.” She does not shift from Vy’s side. Not a single muscle lifted to greet or embrace me. Her gaze, however, takes in every inch of my form, outfitted in a summer blouse and palazzo pants, purchased during a shopping trip with Kate in New York. “You look well.” She dips a little nod toward
Paipanne.
“A little too…modern, I think.”

“Surface details.” For some reason, Father’s perfunctory tone chills me more than Mother’s. Though they are two peas in the same opportunistic pod, his bean has always peeked from the shell from time to time. Not today. Not at all. “A sow’s ear can appear a fine purse, Selyna. We will at least make her look like a virgin again.”

Instinct finally jolts again. Blasts the boots open. “You will not make me look like a damn thing.”

This time, both sides of Vy’s lips curl up. Some of the old spark dances across her face but her teeth are a blatant clench, betraying how hard she works for it. “Shella-bean.” Her attempt to soothe is just as forced and twice as frightening. “Come on. Everything is going to be fine. You are going to
thank
me—”

“Not if you are in league with them.”

Fortitude arrives at my side in the form of Brooke. “There’s nothing she wants from you anymore, Vy.” She hooks my elbow with hers. “Nothing either of us wants.” Her hold tightens. “Come on, M. We’re bugging this nut farm.”

“Mishella.”

Paipanne
calls it out, infused with just enough desperation to make me stop. But only for a moment.

“Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Mother.”

I am stunned yet empowered from the speaking of it. Like a rocket piercing the stratosphere, I am suddenly unbound from their gravity.
Weightless
. It is exhilarating—

And suddenly, extremely, over.

For a second, comprehension does not register. The pain in my neck is sharp, hot, excruciating. Have I been bitten by a mutant something? Has part of the building fallen on me? Have I been struck by lightning?

And then, I want to laugh.

Lightning. I actually thought of
that
as a possibility over the truth of this: a recognition burning my bloodstream deeper by the second. Filling my mind as my vision starts to blur, picking out the shape of Brooke’s prone form, on the floor next to where I crumple, suddenly not weightless at all. Suddenly not anything at all.

Needle.

Needle.

Needle.

No.

No.

No
!

I cling to the sound of my scream, if only in my mind, for as long as I can…

Before the darkness takes over.

*

Cassian

D
ear fuck
.

It’s never been so good to be home.

Even Scott’s goofy smile looks great. The guy races to greet the car, obviously tipped that I’d be arriving in Gabriel’s Lexus. Though my attorney’s black sedan is a work of art, it’s not as flashy as the Jag or the Bimmers—and these days, I am
not
doing flashy.

Right now, the only thing I yearn to do is my woman.

Right. Fine. It’s only been seven days. But I’m pretty damn certain that if Christ and Muhammad decided to physically roam the Earth again, they’d choose forty days and nights in the desert again over a week in federal prison. Being separated from the place’s general population after a day—the first of many signs proving my case was being eyeballed more closely, thanks to Gabriel’s pressure—was little help for the questions that have swarmed me like pissed-off hornets.

Did she listen to me this time?

Did she get her ass onto the plane then back here?

Has she been all right? Has she been sleeping? Eating? Thinking of me every two damn seconds, the way
I’ve
been thinking of
her
?

Common sense has tided me over with the most comforting answers. I didn’t let Reyes and McCree transport me from Arcadia without knowing she’d be looked after. Samsyn had been standing right there. I passed Doyle on the way out too. Brooke had probably personally gone with her, walked her all the way out onto the Sancti tarmac.

I still need to get out of this car—albeit with a new empathy for caged animals.

I itch for her like one of them, infested with a million fleas.

The second Gabe’s driver fully brakes, I’m out. At once, attempt to do three things at once. Rejoice in my first breath of complete freedom. Return Scott’s greeting with half a show of manners. Most importantly, bound for the stairs that will carry me to her.

A schism of disappointment hits when she doesn’t appear there, waiting for me with those big blue eyes and that serene, loving smile. On the other hand, maybe she’s waiting in our bed, wearing an even better smile and nothing else…

“Mr. Court.” Scott extends his hand. “It’s awesome to see you again, sir. Welcome home.”

“Thanks, man.” I accept the formality but start a frown. It’s not that the kid never shook my hand before, only it’s usually been without looking like we’re at some high society ball with two-by-fours up our asses. “Uh…everything okay?”

Scott averts his eyes—toward Gabriel. Something strange and silent passes between them. I follow the exchange, making sure the two of them know it.

“Cas.” Gabriel takes over. Hits me with his courtroom stare. This exact look has brought him from not-a-chance to take-that-fuckers in many cases. “Let’s talk.”

“Talk?” I roll my eyes. Spit out a laugh. “All right, save your breath, barrister. You think I forgot the speech in less than an hour?” When he opens his mouth, I snap up a hand. “You got me out for home confinement until the feds sift through the rest of their bullshit case. That means no leaving home, period.” A wicked grin curls to my lips. “Believe me, that
isn’t
going to be a problem.”

Gabe’s mouth forms a grim line. This is him, broadcasting my over-share. I smirk again.
This is me, not giving a fuck.

“Now that I think about it, if you want to tell them you ordered me to
bed
confinement—”

“
Cas
.”

“What?”

He kicks the ground. Jams hands into his pockets. “It’s about Mishella.”

A warm wind, brought by twilight, blasts over the courtyard. At the edge of Labor Day weekend in New York, such a breeze is usually welcome by this time of the day.

Unless one’s blood has already turned to ice.

“What about her?” I snarl it. I can’t help it. He’s just the designated messenger; I see that now. It was why Scott glanced to him in that mix of desperation and expectation. “And why the
hell
didn’t you bring this up before now?”

I stamp the last word with fury.
The bastard.
I’ve seen him every day, sometimes twice a day, for the last goddamned week. We’ve been over every detail of this case—and the fact that feds don’t have a goddamn leg to stand on,
because I’m innocent
.

None of that bullshit matters now.

The only reality that even counts is the one shredding my gut. The realization that she’s not standing at the top of the stairs—

Because she’s not here.

“Fuck.” It breaks loose from my lips, mangled by my tight throat. Somehow, in some God-unknown way, I manage to keep the tears stuffed down. “What—what the
fuck
happened?”

Gabe exhales. Swipes a hand down his model-perfect face. Swoops that same hand around my shoulders before growling, “Let’s go inside.”

I let him lead me, at a loss for anything else. There’s a deeper need to feed, too. Stepping off the elevator, into all the spaces that practically echo with her voice and her laughter and her light, brings a bizarre calmness. But like a hit of Ardbeg single malt, the buzz is temporary.

The only permanent high…is her.

I pull my head out of my morose ass long enough to smack a hug to Hodge, with gentler versions of the same for Prim and Mom. Their faces are pinched as tightly as Gabriel’s, supplying me with more vital details.

Details that kick me at once into crisis management mode.

That means getting my composure back on line. And
that
means jamming my heart into a steel lock box then swearing off on the key until Ella Santelle is back in my arms. It’s the best way. The
only
way. I’m not going to figure any of this shit out by pulling a fetal rocking chair in the corner.

“All right.” I lead the way into the living room. “Somebody’s going to have to give it to me straight.” I shoot a new stare straight for Gabe. Whether he likes it or not, group spokesperson seems to be his lot. “Well?” I demand. “What the fuck?”

“Cas.” He unbuttons his suit jacket and sits.

“Wonderful. We’ve established you know my name.” I give myself a silent clap on the back. Getting that out without openly inhaling one of the throw pillows, still imbued with her tropical vanilla scent, was no minor feat. “Now the rest, dammit.” I lean both elbows on my knees. Gets me away from the pillows by a few inches more. “None of you had me sit down right away, so she’s not dead.
Christ
,”—a bitter shake of my head—“I actually had to start there.”

The crack doesn’t incite even half an eye-roll from Gabe. Shit.

She’s not dead. Take your goddamn blessing and roll with it from here.

A torment of a moment. Another.

Finally, Gabe utters, “She’s still in Arcadia.”

I mesh my fingers. Work the union tighter, twisting the webs at their bases. “All right.” Look back up at him. “Did you assume she was elsewhere?”

“No.” It turns some key inside him. With insolent grace, he leans back and crosses a leg. His gaze doesn’t drop once. Neither does his brass. “There have been rumors, Cas. Fairly substantiated ones.”

I grimace. “What the hell does
that
mean? What kind of rumors?”

Prim glances to Hodge. Receives a small, encouraging nod from him. “Cassian. This isn’t easy—”

“What
kind
of rumors?” I lift the demand to a roar.

Gabriel doesn’t flinch. But the brass tarnishes by a shade before he murmurs, “How…close…was your relationship with this woman?”

My teeth knock hard enough to vibrate my whole head. “
Close,
goddammit.”

His regard grows lazy. A damn fine deception but I see past it. I fucking invented it. “You were also paying for her time. Six months of it.”

So much for the buzz.

I close my eyes. Push back the outrage threatening to take its place.
This isn’t personal.
Gabe never makes things personal. By necessity, he knows about the original agreement with Ella. I have no idea if he even approves of it—he’s paid well to keep such opinions to himself—and even now he brings it up as a fact, not an attack. But why?

“The contract was to take care of her, not me.”

He snorts. “Clearly.”

“Do you have a point?”

He re-crosses his legs. Re-levels his stare. “Think it would’ve developed into marriage?”

I push up until my knees buttress my palms. Never break eye contact with him, though my pulse slams pedal-to-metal from the images in my memory.

Ella kneeling with me, nude and tawny and breathtaking. Repeating promises back to me, and finishing with her island’s own sacred vow. The tiger eye oval dropping between her breasts…over the heart she has just pledged to me.

“Yeah,” I finally assert. “We would have—”

My voice clutches into silence.

My muscles freeze into paralysis.

As my senses seize in denial.

There have been rumors, Cas. Substantiated ones.

No.

Fuck, no.

“What. The. Hell?”

My shout shimmies the monitor mounted over the mantel. Now back on my feet, I whirl and stomp away before the urge to shatter it takes over.

Screw crisis management mode. For that matter, screw its steel lockbox. Mentally, I yank the thing open—and smack my heart back out on my sleeve. What I can piece together of it.

Wisely, Gabriel keeps his seat. Doesn’t stop his game face from dissolving, or his stare from drifting to the bar. “You need a drink.
Fuck,
”—he rises anyway—“
I
need a drink.”

“I don’t want a goddamn drink.”

“Take the drink, Cassian.”

Prim has a long list of no-bullshit tones, especially for me. The only time she ever used
this
one was over four years ago, after we buried her best friend…my wife. On that occasion, I’d been doing nothing
but
drinking. She’d handed me one more shot of Macallan and told me to enjoy the hell out of it—while tossing out every other drop of sauce in the house.