Naughty Little Gift -- A Temptation Court Novella (Temptation Court, Book 1) (20 page)

“Concurred.” I change the screen back, to let them see my little shrug. “He is trying, I think…in his own weird way.”

Brooke laughs. “What man
doesn’t
have ‘his own weird way’?”

“Mine,” Vylet retorts. “What you see is what you get with Alak Navarre, thank the Creator. And for the record, I am keeping the hell out of him, so neither of you get any ideas.”

I move to the window seat. Gaze over the labyrinth of wet streets below, the streetlights and neon signs blended by the rain into a giant watercolor. I would have much the same view from Turret One, which is one floor directly above—but I have not returned to that space, perhaps in subliminal protest to the continued lockdown of the other tower. As long as it stays shackled, I cannot help but feel a similar weight, invisible but just as formidable, on my spirit.

“Can you just lend Alak out for a while?” I venture. “How long do you think it would take for him to rub off on Cassian, just a little?”

Brooke sighs. “I think that lesson has to come from you, girlfriend.”

Vylet smirks. “Which, coincidentally, might be best with a little…rubbing.”

Brooke peels off a giggle. I groan.
Like old times
.

Perhaps too much.

I bite my lip. Too late. The backs of my eyes burn. “Creator’s toes,” I whisper. “I miss you both so much.”

Stunningly, Vy is the first to sober on their end. Even more astonishing, her next words aren’t
then just come home.
She gives four even better.

“We are already there.”

As Brooke nods, her eyes are shiny too. “She’s right, shella-bean. We haven’t gone far…the same way you aren’t ever far from
us
.”

Now the rain falls inside too. I grip the smart pad as the flooding love of their friendship hits, a storm my heart has desperately needed. One awful sob overcomes another and another and another. They wait as only best friends can, their silence as perfect as a pair of hugs.

“I—I d-do not know wh-what—to do.” The confession finally stutters out. “I—I feel so much for him…”

So much.
The
new
understatement. But I am so afraid of saying more. Saying it will make it real. Too real.
And too much
…

“I told you, B,” Vy murmurs after a pause. “Did I not?”

“Sure did,” Brooke replies.

“T-told her wh-what?” Despite the stammer, I sound shockingly pragmatic. At least I hope.

Vylet folds her arms, leans toward her camera, and nods with confidence. “That Cassian Court was going to be the man who changed you.”

They both smile. I blush furiously. “Wh-when did you tell her that?”

“From the second he first took your hand, at that reception.”

Brooke nods. “That
is
what she said.”

Vy maintains her close-up angle. Studies me with the intensity only possible in her big movie star eyes. “Mishella—”

I get in my turn at hoisting a hand. “No. Do
not
ask it, Vylet Hester.”

“—are you in love with him?”

Yes.

No
!

“I—I do not know.” I let out a new moan, conking my head back against the wall. “By the Creator. I am a mess…”

“That’s all right.” Brooke’s interjection is as gentle as the rain against the glass. “Who said life is always neat and clean?”

“She did,” Vy snorts.

After joining my watery laugh to theirs, I mutter, “Point made…dammit.”

“Karma
is
a nasty bitch sometimes.”

“No,” Brooke interjects. “That little Prim what’s-her-name.
She’s
the bitch.”

I shake my head—more violently than I can believe. “It is…bizarre…but I do not believe that. She
does
have a connection to Cassian—”

“You mean hooks?” Vy charges.

“Perhaps even that.” My concession clearly spoils a little of her fun—the woman is always up for a rowdy debate—but I continue, “Though they are not romantic ones.” I shrug, trying to sort through my bafflement. It is no use. “
Aggghh
. There are simply things I do not know.” Rough breath in. Painful exhale. “Ghosts…he will not reveal.”

Silence. Contemplative but not uncomfortable. Though they are half a world away, sitting with my thoughts is so much easier with the sis-friend-hood around.

At last, Brooke penetrates the pause. “Well, I understand ghosts,” she offers quietly. “Samsyn carries a bunch. A real sucky hazard of the job.”

I meet her gaze, which has turned as somber as the thunderheads outside. “But he tells you about them, right?”

“
Now
he does. But we’re married, bean—and had six years of friendship before the rings went on our fingers. Things are very different for us.”

“Of course.” There is no use disguising my disappointment.

Brooke’s lips flatten. I know the look but have never dreaded it as much as this moment.
Tough love.
“Mishella…the plan right now is that you’re there for just six months. So now you have to ask yourself—is that a tolerable time to live with the ghosts?” Her shoulders rise then fall. “I can’t answer it for you, and neither can Vy.”

I swallow deeply. “I just want him to be happy.”

She sighs softly. “Perhaps that’s your problem, girlfriend.”

“Huh?”

“You
already
make him happy,” she contends. “But maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you want something more than just that.”

“
Just
that?” I openly glower. What is she talking about? Are there “levels” of happiness I do not know about, like they talk about on the cable service ads on the television?
Basic, deluxe, premium
?

“I’m just saying that maybe you crave…more.” Her own face twists, as if a small skirmish is taking place in her head, before a heavy breath rushes out. “A more he’s not capable of feeling, or giving. Not right now.”

Not to you.

I let the words—hers
and
mine—descend into taut silence. That is usually what people do when their heart is scooped out of their chest…yes?

“Mishella—”

“Fine.” I abhor the terse snap, but cannot help it from spilling. I cannot bear a moment of her getting apologetic about it—or worse yet, pitying. “I—I understand, all right? And I am fine.”

“All right,
stop
.” Vy points a finger at her camera. “Do not punish Brooke for this. She is trying to help you see this clearly.”

I force my lips into a girl Buddha smile. Do not let the serenity climb anywhere near my eyes. Continue to let them simmer while rejoining, “I see everything just fine, Vylet Hester. Now…I am certain both of you have a busy day ahead. I shall let you get to it.”

I click my end of the call short without giving them a chance for farewells. It is a childish move—
I am taking my sand toys and going home
—but I cannot control the reflex any more than the frustration and fury spawning it. Both take over now, annihilating and untamed, then dump out in an unhindered flood. A long, lonely, ugly cry in a room full of silk, satin, and brocade—finery I would trade in a moment for the true fullness of Cassian Court’s heart.

*

Cassian

Holy fuck.

I must be dreaming.

“No shit,” Scott mutters, confirming I’ve let the words slip aloud. Not surprising—nor would I be stunned if it happened again, as my Ella from the cinders seems to float down the steps, directing her soft smile toward where I wait by the car.

I’m not there for long—as in bolting to get the jump on Scott, who’s done the “courtly” thing by stepping up to “collect” her for me—but I’m screwed for watching
any
man get near her tonight. Delaying the torture a little longer delivers a solid for all.

Annnd, we can start with the solid
any
time now…

But fate is already having his fun with me tonight. The fucker takes his sweet time about the
kumbaya
with my nervous system, letting lightning raze me as she steps closer. The skirt of her gown, made of something that looks like a cloud spun into fabric, swirls and sparkles against the stairs with every step she takes. I pray for a breeze, which would likely flatten the filmy fabric around her thighs…

And just like that,
solid
arrives.

Between my legs.

Focusing on things above her waist is an only slightly better solution. The gown’s strapless bodice is encrusted with gold and silver beads, with a band of the same defining the curve of her waist. While the neckline doesn’t plunge that far down, thank God, the beads have been glued to lead one’s eye toward the center—and the bit of her breasts that
are
revealed.

Too damn much for my liking.

Yet I can’t stop staring.

Fuck.
Fuck.

I had to go and hire the city’s best hair and makeup to primp her too, didn’t I? Damn that Fabiola, rubbing something into Ella’s skin to turn it more enticing than it already is. The cream, or whatever the hell it is, gives her neck, shoulders, and arms some kind of iridescence…flooding me with visions of exploring all those planes with my tongue.

Not. Fucking. Helping
.

My mind growls it out—like my body needs help remembering how long it’s endured without hers. How many days we’ve wasted in this balance between the heaven of where we started and the hell we’re most afraid of, both of us frozen on the tightrope, unwilling to move past the stupidity of surface niceties anymore. I haven’t helped the situation by practically living at the office, but coming home to a place that really
is
temptation for me now, with her scent and her presence in every molecule of the air, has been a fiasco I made no plans for.

Plans.

You actually started thinking of them in conjunction with this woman…
when
?

Something will have to happen soon. I admit it now. She’s not happy, and the sole plug she’s given me back to her joy is not a circuit I can connect—not without frying every inch of my psyche. I know
that
now too, courtesy of the erotic memories that assault my mind’s idle hours. Reliving every moment I’ve spent touching her, kissing her, fucking her, only clarifies the understanding. If she’s capable of consuming that much of me sexually, how much more will she gouge from me emotionally?

There’s no halfway with her.

Goddammit, there never will be.

Meaning I have to think about letting her leave.

“
Bon aksum
, Mr. Court.”

Especially if she insists on issuing a lot more greetings like that. Professional cool backlit with sensual music, making me a new fan of the whole boss-and-secretary thing…

“And good evening to you, Miss Santelle.”

And
especially
if I’ll keep being required to bend over her hand like this—snapping a certain something beneath the tux like a goddamn ripe cucumber.

“Well.” She yanks in a breath, lifting a shaky smile. I’ll take it. After ten days of watching the dry cleaners’ delivery guy get more friendly words than me,
I’ll fucking take
it.
“Here…we are.”

Only by filling my lungs with air do I resist kissing away her nervousness. Instead, I go for a friendly smile and an overlay of charm. “It would appear so.”

“That tuxedo is on the cutting edge of…something.” She gestures with her free hand. “Fabiola told me.
Several
times.”

I press in my lips, working the dimples. No way have I missed what their deployment usually does to her libido—and friendly or not, I’m still not above a few dirty tactics. “I’m sure she did.”

She lowers her hand. Flits it at her skirt. “Well, you look very dashing.”

“And you look like something I’ve only ever dreamed.”

It wasn’t what I’d planned to say—though that isn’t astounding anymore; not when Ella’s involved. And dammit, I may be ready to
think
about letting her go, but sure as hell haven’t reached acceptance yet. Psychologically speaking, I’m in the “fight for it” phase.

I’ve fought for things a lot less important—

and won.

“Should we be off?” I murmur, tucking her hand beneath my elbow.

Her flits at the dress turn into full twists. “Sure. Um—I mean—certainly. Of course.”

I mold my hand over the back of hers. “It’s okay, Ella. I already know you’re going to be the most beautiful one at the ball.”

It’s also what I’m afraid of
.

She licks the seam of her lips, looking tempted to fully bite despite the contours of lip rouge representing at least thirty minutes of Fabiola’s time. “I suppose I shall do,” she finally mutters. “I mean…for the hired help.”

I halt where I’m at. Slide my grip to her wrist and twist in—though now, we’re close enough to the Jag that I have to let her go. She dives into the backseat like a pony let off its training harness—after a charming greeting and smile for Scott.

I remain rooted in place. Carefully reel back the ire that’s just tumbled in with her. Tug hard at my jacket—and with gritted teeth, order my cock to a stand-down too.

Fighting for this shit just got very serious.

Scott bounces on his toes, his normal puppy-bright self. “And good evening to you as well, Mr. Court. To the Public Library, right?”