Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) (13 page)

He has more to say. The drumming of his fingers on his thigh betrays that much. I wait through the heavy silence, until he lowers a boom I have half expected.

“I was also informed about the field trip he took you on. Up to Turret Two.” A fresh shrug follows. “The fallout wasn’t difficult to figure out.”

“Oh.” I cannot fight off my uneasy squirm—which leads to more displaced nerves. Am I upset he knows about “the field trip,” or that he knows the secret of Turret Two, period? And why do both feel like a weird, intimate invasion—access to a piece of Cassian that has felt like it was strictly mine? Which has to be the silliest line of reasoning I have ever known…

“So. What’s it like?”

My stare hones in on his. “What’s what like?”

Another pause. Something strange flashes across his face. A hint of…
emotion
? “The room.” His lips form into a tense line before I can determine that. “
That
room,” he clarifies. “Where Lily sent his heart to hell on a platter.”

My brow furrows. “You…you have never been up there?”

He flashes another odd expression. Okay…
not
full emotion. Something different. Deeper. “Nope. That’s invitation-only territory.”

I fold my arms. Smirk darkly. “And you have never figured out the Prim Smith password?”

Quick shrug. “It’s okay. Her jurisdiction is earned. Besides, she keeps the room completely pristine—her choice, not Cas’s—though I know he appreciates it.”

“So
he
is up there all the time too?”

“He’s never been before last night.” His steady gray gaze confirms it. “At least not in the three years since he brought me on. Still doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate it.”

“Three years.” I contemplate that while echoing the information. “So…you were not there when it happened?” At this point, there is no need to define “it.”

“No,” Doyle replies. “I was hired a little over a year after. He was about to take Court Enterprises public, and decided a valet might be a good idea at last.”

My eyes widen. “A
valet
?”

A wry shrug. “He actually told the agency he wanted a personal trainer.”

I bite my lip but a laughs spurts anyway. “Of course he did.”

“The man doesn’t like doing things the traditional way.” He turns the shrug into a snort. Slides both hands back into his pockets. “In case you can’t tell.”

“I have lived on a remote rock for the last twenty-two years, Doyle—not under it.”

“Touché.”

I refrain from preening. It is the closest thing to open approval I am likely to get from the man—and though I acknowledge it with a gracious incline of my head, there is no stopping the thoughts still whirling within. Nor the confusion about why we are here.

Why we are
really
here.

Frustration takes hold. Pushes out a breath from my pursed lips.

Finally, however secretly, I admit it.

Despite all of his confessions last night, I still do not have all the pieces of this.

Of him.

Nor should you want to…remember?

But I do.
I love him.
Whether fate will allow me to keep doing that for four months, four weeks or four
hours
, it is a thorn in my psyche not to have
all
of him. To have gone through all of last night, having discovered the awful secret of Turret Two, but know that part of him is still trapped in that damn tower. Is lashed down to the anger, fear, and dysfunction that drove Lily to take such a huge part of him—

But that she was not the first.

I suspected it when we were still in the turret. Had it confirmed during every moment of our passion, even after the walls tumbled from his composure and he finally exposed the complete truth of the pain Lily had dealt. Something else remained. A deeper pain, with a thicker scab to rip free. Cassian had hovered over it, longing to break it open for me—

Until he could not.

And that stiffness gripped him again. Pulled him from my body then out of the room, back into its darkness—

Until he fought back.

Railed against it by driving a fist through a giant pane of glass.

Why, Cassian?

What ghost tortures you worse than the woman who murdered herself
and
your child
?

*

Cassian

“Good gravy. You
are
one gigantic chunk of stubborn, aren’t you?”

I turn over my extended left hand, adding a growl to my glower. “Just give me the goddamn shirt.”

“Mr. Court—”

“I’ve been putting on my own clothes for a long damn time. Give. Me. The. Shirt.”

She huffs. Flings the fabric at me, deciding to add an eye roll—doubling it up as an excuse to once-over my bare torso. I’d chuckle, if I weren’t so perplexed. The nurses in this place must be required to take a secret online training course:
How to Give Court Shit And Get Away With It.
The drill sergeant who tended my ass two months ago must have aced it. This little blonde, reminding me of the lead “Bella” from that girl acapella movie Mishella made me watch last week, must have
written
it.

She indulges a sweetly sadistic smirk as I fumble into the shirt—fighting rockets of pain launched by my stitched and bandaged hand. “So how’s that feeling, Cool Hand Court?”

“Awww, come on.” I grit it while noticing the shirt is inside out. Too late. Already halfway done. “No fair buttering me up with the best of King Cool.”

“You call that butter?” She adds a sharp
psssh
. “
Cool Hand
was just Newman’s warmup for Butch Cassidy. You know that, right?”

I finally jab my head out the shirt’s neck hole. “Guess I just need a Sundance Kid.”

“He’s right outside.” She nods toward the door while swiping a finger across her smart pad. Enters some information with efficient taps. “Certainly likes to play the part, doesn’t he? Strong, silent, grouchy?”

My lips quirk. “Doyle enjoys accessing his inner outlaw.”

“Hmmph.” But the flags of color across her cheeks negate it. Oh, yeah. Another female munches dust because of my friend’s brooding sexuality. Seems the best explanation—aside from the sadistic angle—for why she makes me work for the follow-up information.

“Is there…anyone with him?”

The
hmmph
gets a repeat—accented by another smirk. “Well, listen to you, mister. Trying to keep it smooth with the hotshot businessman vibe while panting for your woman?”

“She’s not—”

But hell, how I savor the words.

My woman.

As if on cue, the door opens. Mishella’s worried, wonderful face appears.

My woman.

It hits me harder than before—sounding just as right. Feeling even better in my head.

Just as quickly, she retreats back by a step. “
Désonnum,
” she murmurs to acapella queen, before quickly translating. “I am so sorry. They told me everything was finished—”

“And it is.” I extend my left hand. “Come here,
armeau
.”

I need you
.

I pull her close, inhaling the rich vanilla in her hair. “I…missed you.”

But you know what that really means, right
?

She tilts her head up, her tiny smile confirming that she does. Smooths a hand over my chest, flattening it above my heart—which passes at least ten seconds in double time, drawn at once to the magic of her touch. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” I dip my head, rolling my forehead along hers. “Biggest dumb fuck on the planet, but all right—thanks to you.”

She draws a few inches away—and raised rebuking eyebrows. Since the “incident” happened while she stood a few feet outside the bathroom door, I didn’t even try to pass it off as an accident to her. The expectancy in her eyes—as well as my nurse friend’s cynical glance—convey that she’s not doubling down on my hand either.
Shit
. That means the gig is up with Doyle too.

“As long as you’re getting fun with the status report,” the nurse turns and declares, “You can add ‘lucky cool hand’ to the list.”

Ella frowns, confused. “Huh?”

I crack the hint of a smile. Might as well now, since it won’t be easy once the anesthetic, though just a local, has worn off. “I think she’s telling me to be grateful.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling him.” The woman nods at Mishella. “He doesn’t have a millimeter of nerve damage—a miracle given where that hand has been tonight.”

“She doesn’t know the half of it.” I lick the curve of Ella’s ear after whispering into it, savoring her body’s little tremors of reply. Her nipples pucker too. At last, a positive to the idiot move I made. There was no time for her to put on a bra—which means there
definitely
wasn’t a moment for underwear…

As soon as my hand dips between her delectable ass cheeks, she steps away. Clears her throat. “Do—errmm—do we need to know about any follow-up?”

Acapella turns back, offering an easy smile and a stack of papers still warm from the printer in the corner. “Dr. Yago will be in to get you set with all that. He did a great job. The stitches are tight and clean. The pharmacy has already filled the prescriptions for pain meds and antibiotics, and the instruction sheets will explain how to take everything, as well as possible side effects. Mr. Court doesn’t have any drug allergies, so it should all be pretty straightforward.”

“Mr. Court is also sitting right here.”

My grumble doesn’t daunt either of them. Ella catches my hand on its journey back to her ass, beaming a big smile of her own. “Thank you for everything, Kristine.” Of
course
she already knows the woman by first name. “I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I know he can be an…interesting…patient.”

Kristine’s head falls back as her laugh breaks free. “I’ve certainly had worse.”

“All right, all right,” I bark, mostly just irked that my attention has been torn from her ass by the starlight of her own laughter. “When the hell can I get out of here?”

Kristine rolls her eyes again. “Behave, Butch Cassidy.”

Unbelievably, I do. This isn’t the Hail Mary pass I want to pin the game on. As final paperwork is distributed, Yago himself comes in, already puffed-up about being
the
doctor attending me tonight. I focus on being friendly but formal—and letting Mishella shine instead.

And hell, how she does.

“
Merderim mahaleur
, Dr. Yago,” she murmurs. “In my language, it means thank you very much. You have given a true gift with your time tonight.”

Yago, who must be close to my age but looks like a hipster psych major who’s just strolled in from a night of beat poetry in the Village, parts his dark beard with a smug smile. “The gift is all mine. How fortuitous the timing. I wasn’t supposed to be here, but hopped on the chance for the extra shift after plans fell through for a night in the Village with some friends.”

Well, hell.

I don’t dare look the man’s way now, despite feeling the expectant weight of his scrutiny. More accurately, of Ella. Oh, he’s assessing, all right—watching the signs, silently determining what Ella is to me.
Go ahead, Hipster. Look your fill.
If he doesn’t get the clue by watching my gaze, glued solidly to her, I’ll be ecstatic to provide a more blatant demonstration.

“Well, Kristine says the stitches look wonderful.” Ella uses the voice that first hypnotized me, in the halls of Palais Arcadia, filled with such sweet sincerity. Stupidly, I’d first written off the allure to being in a story book castle and breathing Mediterranean air—but here, surrounded by plain green walls and antiseptic odor, Yago is clearly, dangerously, close to falling for the same count. “Truly, doctor, we are grateful for a professional so good at his work.”

“Work he is well compensated for,
armeau
.” Shockingly, I get it out without growling.

To his credit, Yago laughs softly. “Mr. Court is right.” Squares his shoulders toward me, though dips his head in deference. “It is an honor to have been of service, sir. I assure you, that hand will be back in fighting shape very soon.” He jabs a quick upper cut. “I guarantee you, John Cena’s already watching his six.”

Christ
.

“John who?”

Before Yago can decide whether to be charmed or confused by Ella’s question, I roll to my feet. “Thank you, doctor. I’m sure you have other people to examine now.” Five seconds after we step out into the hall, I add in a mutter, “
Other
than the woman on my arm.”

Mishella stops. Huffs. Veers toward an alcove containing a drinking fountain and a wall-mounted defibrillator, her princess swiftly turning to lioness. “This is not
his
fault, Mr. Court.”

Mr. Court.

Shit.

Clenched jaw. Deep breath in. Back out. In again. “Fine,” I mutter. “You’re right. I’m just—”

“In pain?”

No.

Yes.

But the ice picks in my hand and arm have nothing to do with it. Ella’s fist, clutching the front of my T-shirt, betrays how thoroughly she knows it too. Her whisper, pleading my name into the inches between us, drills it in even further.

She wants in.

A few hours ago, I even vowed that was where she’d be. The silos wouldn’t exist with her. And goddammit, I meant it.