Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York (26 page)

Even before he takes the other hand—

And slides something onto my ring finger.

Chirp of surprise. Gasp of astonishment.

Bigger—much bigger—cry of shock.

There are diamonds—
lots
of them—brilliant baguettes and shimmering squares fitted into each other on a tapered band, all arranged to show off the unique cut of the stone at the ring’s very center.

A tiger eye.

I gape at it. At him. At the ring again. Back at him.

The
bonsun
is grinning like the king of the damn jungle. “So is
this
what you meant…about showing you…?”

As I smack his shoulder, he dissolves into chuckles. As I grab his chiseled, wonderful jaw, preparing to kiss him, that laughter is vanquished by the applause and whistles bursting across the terrace.

Together, we look to the doorway. The faces there, every one of them, open the faucet of my tears even more. If Cassian is my home now, they are indeed the family vital to it. Prim, Mallory, Hodge, Doyle—now even Damon—are the wildly approving audience to the kiss Cassian bestows to the golden gem on my finger…then to its match, hanging on the chain over my heart.

“Miss Santelle?”

“Yes, Mr. Court?”

“Are you free to discuss…an exclusive contract?”

“Hmmm.” Coy head tilt—the kind that drives him crazy in all the good ways. “I suppose it depends on the terms.”

“Ah. Yes. The terms. They’re very…complex. It’ll take us some time to get through them.”

“How much time?”

He flexes his jaw, bringing out the sexiest versions of his dimples—and the craziest flips in my belly. “What are you doing the rest of your life?”

“I think I can clear my schedule.”

No laugh this time. But he smiles, drenching me in the glory of his gaze, the magnificence of his presence, the strength of his love…pulling me so tight that our heartbeats mesh as the beams of the new day break over the city skyline. They are golden, brilliant ribbons of light, celebrating our survival, our connection, our future…

Our bold, beautiful love.

*

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for joining me for Cassian and Ella’s story.

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DOYLE KNIGHT

“O
nce again, ladies and gentleman
, I present Mr. and Mrs. Court!”

Cheers and applause echo over the little inlet off the Central Park Lake, which darkens to eddies of dark green and blue as night takes over the mild mid-October day. Reflected on the liquid are shifting shades of purple and gold, shining out from the restaurant at the Boathouse where Cas and Ella spoke their vows an hour ago. The pair are a living Hallmark card of wedded bliss as they mingle in the small crowd gathered on the terrace beneath party store paper flowers and streamers.

I watch the happiness unfold from the Boathouse’s Outside Bar, about fifteen feet across the water from the terrace. It’s close enough to rush back once they start yelling for me, but far enough to escape the mush. And breathe again.

I
don’t
do mush.

And I sure as hell don’t do hearts and happiness and Hallmark forever.

Not that I’d hold back anyone, especially a man of worth like Cassian, from grabbing as much of that shit for himself. Watching him now, practically glowing like an isotope from the stuff, I’m able to observe that joy, even admit to being happy
for
him—just not
with
him. Fate chopped those threads for me a long damn time ago. Thankfully, she succeeded in the important places: my heart and head. Everything south of my waistline? Still in perfect working order. Not a trite comment, all things considered.

But this isn’t the time or the place to be pondering my dick. Or the lovely shade of blue my balls have been favoring lately.

Tonight is all about the scene across the water. It’s all sort of quaint, even pastoral. If someone airbrushed out the checkerboard of lights from the Fifth Avenue skyscrapers beyond the trees, the little reception could be something out of Backwoods USA. The crowd around me at the bar near the boat launch, a mix of tired tourists and young professionals, raise only mild brows of interest about the whole thing. They’re clueless that the newly dubbed “Mr. and Mrs. Court” are the crown prince of Wall Street and his Arcadian courtier of a bride. I even wonder how many heads this will spin in the Atlantic City odds pools, which have been favoring the Plaza and Cipriani as “the golden couple”’s final venue choice.

The thought’s so damn amusing, I let it linger a few moments. Along with another go at my scotch, it helps pry loose the monkey—make that the gorilla—of tension that’s been riding my back since noon, when we started preparing for this costumed zoo of a day.

Could’ve been a lot worse.

Quiet grunt of agreement.
A lot
worse.

One: Cassian could’ve asked me instead of Damon to step up as Best Man. Brother or not, fourteen years and one huge lie have a tendency to separate people. But the two of them are working on it, coerced by Mallory, who’s been joyous about the miracle resurrection of her oldest. She’s got
my
vote of support. Damon brings out a side of Cassian that’s kind of cool. Translation: the stick isn’t rammed up his ass
all
the time anymore.

Two: Cas and Ella really could’ve made the bookies happy and done this thing at the Plaza after all—in which case, I’d be nursing this Laphroaig at some foo-foo marble bar, surrounded by fat-cat douches with sticks up their asses
and
attitude up their dicks.

On that note…
here’s to the small things.

I issue the salute to karma before tossing back the last dram in my glass.

As I motion to the waitress for another, pretty sure I can get the drink in before I’m noticed as MIA across the water, there’s a rustle at the table to my other side. Instinct kicks in, as natural as breathing—hurray for years of training then a few more in hell—identifying the bar’s new customer as a woman, by herself. And fuck, does she smell good. A little jasmine, a little vanilla, and some exotic spice, topped by the leather jacket I’m sure she’s wearing. She mixes it all up and isn’t afraid about it. Probably has the attitude to match.

I have a weakness for women with attitude.

You’re also here to be a good groomsman to your best friend—so don’t even go there right now.

“So how was it?”

Tiny little problem.

She
wants to go there.

The waitress—obviously down for flirting with the tuxedoed guy ordering top-shelf Scotch—is already back with my refill. I opt for trading meaningless one-liners with her, hoping Miss Danger-in-Leather gets the hint. Because said danger also has a sexy as fuck voice. Four words, and I’ve picked up the accent—Eastern European, give or take a few hundred miles—and the husk bringing on fantasies of hot fucking in a smoke-filled room, maybe both of us in masks, maybe some of that leather tying her down…

Take ice water. Toss on dick.
Now
, you asshole.

“Doyle?”

The fuck?

I jerk my head around. It’s not like I have a choice now.

“Well? How—how was it?”

For the first time in a hell of a lot of years, I’m actually dumbstruck. Mowed down by such a Mack truck of shock, I don’t know what to do—and sure as hell not what to say.

“Vylet Hester.” Nope. Saying her name like the title of a case file doesn’t restore any composure worth saving, either. I veer the other direction, letting out a bitter laugh.
Zero
humor. “This is a joke, right? You doing an episode of some crazy new Arcadian reality show?
That’s
it. What’s it called?
Prank the Imbezaks? American Gotcha
?”

Her cheeks go pink. She looks away while pulling in her top lip, purposely trying to hide the tiny nick of a cleft surgery scar. Why she feels that necessity is beyond me, though I won’t complain because it’s captivating. Her bottom lip is an equal aphrodisiac, full and red as ripe berries…

And now I’m officially going to burn in hell.

“I know…this must be awkward for you.”

Now she licks both of the damn things.

Because the woman really
does
want me to go to hell.

The thought funnels into my dark snort. “This isn’t awkward, missie. This is a world-class fugazi.” I let my glare finish it for me.
And you’ve put me into the middle of it. And I’m
not
happy, no matter how good you smell—or how good you look in that cute little top, those tight little jeans, and those incredible platform heels.

Good Christ. Get these Arcadian girls off that island, and they flip on the sex goddess switch. And yeah, I noticed it once Cas got Ella to New York the first time—I’m a guy, for fuck’s sake—but the recognition was only in passing, out of appreciation of my friend’s excellent taste in snagging an intelligent woman with a heart of gold.

Vylet Hester is…

different.

Okay, her intelligence isn’t the issue.

Her heart?

It was broken. Tragically. She can be excused for that. Marginally. But not a huge enough margin for writing off what she did to Mishella two months ago. Believing the worst about Cassian, to the point of conspiring with Ella’s parents get her away from Cas, wasn’t the act of a “heartbroken” woman. It was deliberate insanity—and not the move of a true friend at all.

Which is why you should
not
be standing here, fighting off a hard-on for the woman. Or even engaging with her in something that
approaches
conversation.

“Fugazi?”

Or thinking her snarky little echo on your accusation needs to be answered with a punishing kiss.

“It means—”

“I know what it means.” Her lips press in again. No pouty lower lip this time. Must have something to do with the clench of her whole jaw. “And it is a little harsh, do you not think?”

“
You’re
talking harsh with me?”

She has the grace to look uncomfortable. Maybe even contrite. Perhaps a little. “That is one of the reasons I came.”

“Here? To New York?”

She folds in her arms. Gazes over the water. “Yes.”

“To haggle over glossary terms with me?”

Her face crunches. Interesting—and adorable—substitution for an eye roll. “Oh, you
do
have my number, mister. That is precisely it.” But her sarcasm disappears before I can even think of a riposte, ditching my desire to even do so. She softens even more, her eyes darkening to purple velvet, as she stares back across the water. “I had to come. If only to watch from afar. To at least try…to make up for everything.”

Well…hell.

Don’t even think about it.

I pick up my drink. Slip into the empty seat on the other side of her table.

Don’t. Do. It.

In the eyes of your best friend and his wife, this is sleeping with the enemy.

“Make up?” I repeat. “As in, someone finally decided to turn the lights back on in there?”

She regards my finger, circling in the vicinity of her head, with sad, slow blinks. Her thick, dark lashes just exaggerate the motions. Damn, those lashes. Those
eyes…

“I behaved like such a fool.” Her rasp comes complete with a wince. Every inch of the look screams sincerity into the words. “I let Fortin and Selyna twist me into their plaything…”

I lower my hand. Right on top of her own. “You were in shock, Vy. You were grieving. That shit makes people do crazy things.”

“Crazy.” She sniffs. Drops her head. “I had a few other choice words in mind.”

“Well, delete them.”

My hand tightens around hers. Shit.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Then why does so much about it feel right, even necessary, at a gut-deep level?

My gut has never steered me wrong.

Hell. The fucker’s kept me alive.

“You were lost in grief about Alak—and felt like you needed to do something about it.”

She still doesn’t raise her head. But nods. “Y-yes.”

“Doing something meant you could concentrate on not having to feel anything. Or at the least, would ease the edge on the feelings.”

This time, her face snaps up. “Yes!”

“And the Santelles gave you a perfect place to focus all that feeling—into a revenge plan on the man who looked responsible for Alak’s death.”

It sinks into her in the space of a breath. As she exhales, everything falls apart into new tears. “But that meant doing awful things to my best friend. Be-betraying her in a horrible way…”

I maintain my grip—but don’t sugarcoat my reply. “Yeah. That
is
what that means.”

She drops her head again. Her shoulders quiver, betraying the onslaught of her fresh remorse. I am silent, letting her slog through the hell. Nobody can take the steps but her. I know this because I’ve been there. Too damn many times.