The Proviso (17 page)

“Look,” Know finally said. “It’s done, gone, kaput.
Ding dong the bitch is dead. I’m just glad you’re talking to me
again. I wasn’t sure you’d show up at all.”

“And you’re not with Giselle.”

“No. So are we square now? I’m in love with a
twenty-three-year-old rising star conservative pundit-cum-kingmaker
and I’m pretty sure Giselle’s in love with you.”

Bryce’s gaze snapped up to Knox’s, feeling as if his
heart had stopped. “What did you say?”

“Dammit, I feel like I’m in junior high again. Do I
stutter? You want her. She wants you. Figure it out.”

* * * * *

15:
LITANIE DES SAINTS

It was early morning before Bryce got home and
stepped into a very hot shower. He leaned on the wall, took his
hard phallus in his hand, and thought about Giselle, that night in
front of the bodhisattva, what he’d wanted to do to her then, what
he still wanted to do to her.

This is Giselle’s brain child.

What he wanted to do to her mind.

His head back, hot water streamed down his face as
he thought about her, her brain, her body—

One gun in each hand. No hesitation. No remorse . .
. They had to dig the other one out of her hip.

His breath came harder, faster.

She just gave your IQ a blow job and she’s not even
here.

He wanted that woman, her mind, her expressive face,
her gestures and the humor that radiated from her body like her
sweet perfume—hell, the entire gamut of her mood swings—across a
dinner table from him, sitting beside him.

Talking to him.

Making him laugh.

Fucking his mind.

She put a gun to his head . . .

He wanted that woman, her warrior’s soul, her
fearlessness, her ferocity—in his bed and underneath him.

In front of him.

On her knees.

Sucking his cock.

The way he’d fantasized the first time he’d seen
her.

He sagged against the shower wall, his head low and
his chest heaving, his orgasm having left him drained.

This just wasn’t going to work for him anymore. It
wasn’t enough. It had never been enough and masturbation definitely
didn’t qualify as a component of a chaste lifestyle—

—not that he had any reason to care anymore.

In that entire conversation, Bryce had learned only
four things that actually meant anything to him: Giselle had very
little experience with men; she had a brilliant mind; she had a
dark soul like his, which she displayed like a trophy; and

I’m pretty sure she’s in love with you.

Bryce couldn’t think, could barely move, and only
did so enough to slide down the wall and sit on the floor of the
shower, knees bent, legs spread, arms crossed over them, head back
against the wall. He stayed in the shower until the hot water ran
out, then let the cool water sluice over him.

She owns stock in Duracell and has a shelf full of
erotica . . .

He took a deep, shuddering breath and released it on
a groan.

. . . her taste runs to kinky . . .

He didn’t care about Fen Hilliard. Didn’t care about
Knox’s predicament—tragic, but oh well. Didn’t care about Taight’s
war or that Bryce had nearly broken the man’s jaw. The only thing
about Taight’s political problems he cared about was that Giselle
had laid out an ingenious strategy for him. He didn’t care about
anything in that whole saga except Giselle—and he didn’t even know
why.

One overheard proposition and the glimpse of a
nine-millimeter strapped around Lilith’s thigh; one kiss in a
parking lot; one rendezvous on an ottoman at an art gallery: Why?
Why had those few moments been so profound and why did he keep
churning them over in his mind now eighteen months later?

She’s been . . . waiting for someone to sweep her
off her feet . . . Congratulations.

Bryce snorted.

Giselle had grown up in the church and, according to
Knox, still attended regularly. She also knew Bryce was a member of
the church, although since he’d undressed her and propositioned her
(
assaulted her, you mean—no wonder she ran
), she’d probably
deduced a few truths about his state of mind.

At least he wouldn’t have to explain anything to
her, nor she him. The goal of any dating relationship in the church
was marriage; one didn’t waste time dating for any other reason,
especially not at their ages. Chaste, thus
rapid
, courtship,
then marriage in the temple for eternity. They could both recite
the drill by rote, and in that context, her inexperience didn’t
surprise him in the least.

Too bad for her, then, if she’d held out for a
temple marriage all these years. It didn’t matter how badly Bryce
wanted her; if he pursued her and she made that a condition of any
kind of relationship, he’d walk away.

Bryce had mentally broken his covenants time and
time again since he’d come home from the hospital alone, without
his children, without his face. But without his face, he’d had no
chance of finding a woman fascinating enough to break them in deed.
He didn’t know how to charm, how to seduce, how to do what ordinary
looking men knew how to do. He’d never had to learn.

Shit, Bryce, have you ever
had to work to
get a girl you wanted to go out with you?

No. His face had done all the work for him; he
couldn’t remember ever having asked a girl or a woman out in his
life. After he’d come home from his mission and gone north to UCLA,
he’d had his pick of the most beautiful women in southern
California. There was no shortage of beautiful women in Kansas
City, either, so the invitations hadn’t stopped just because he
wore a wedding band.

Monster.

He could let his wallet do the work for him now, he
supposed, but that was no better than paying for sex and
that
he wouldn’t do.

Eventually, Bryce arose, turned off the water and
stepped out of the shower. He roamed naked through his bedroom,
nearly oblivious to the cold, and rummaged around for his wallet.
Then, with it in hand, he went downstairs to the kitchen. Over the
sink, he unfolded the leather and retrieved a small piece of paper
that proclaimed him a church member in good standing: His temple
recommend, his pass to the Holy of Holies, the House of the Lord,
the Temple of God. It had expired, but no matter.

He searched for and found an ancient box of matches.
He lit one corner of the paper and held it while he watched the
flame catch and flare.

* * * * *

16:
THE ISLAND OF THE DAY BEFORE

MAY 2006

Giselle walked out of the law building into the
gorgeous May Friday after she’d finished her last final, headed for
her car. Her arms wrapped around the books clutched to her chest,
she breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know how she’d survived
the semester, really. It was bad enough that she had to listen to
people wax poetic about
Professor Hilliard
’s brilliance and
marvel in scandalized whispers about his reputation up in Chouteau
County for murder and corruption. That only made her roll her eyes
and snort a lot, and amongst Giselle’s study buddies, the
inexplicable hostilities between her and Professor Hilliard had
turned into a running joke. But . . .

Like a new word that she’d learned and kept hearing
in conversation, Bryce Kenard’s name had haunted her all semester.
Snatches of overheard conversation here. Classroom examples of
exquisite courtroom strategy there. Her malpractice professor had
even made him the subject of an assignment, which had required an
unbelievable amount of research.

Before it had come out of Sebastian’s mouth in
November, Giselle didn’t remember hearing his name at all. Now she
knew almost every professional thing there was to know about the
man.

Bryce Kenard: A god at the UMKC School of Law—

—a god she’d experienced intimately, a god who
wanted her. With every mention of his name, with every telling of
the tales of his genius, his cunning, his ruthlessness—pain, sharp
and hot, sliced her deep in her soul.

Giselle . . . Come home with me. Now. Tonight.

She wished she had; at least she’d have something
more of him to keep in her heart than she had now.

Giselle wanted to lie on her bed curled up into a
ball and stay that way all weekend.

By the time she’d finished her Bryce Kenard
malpractice assignment in late March and had almost grown used to
hearing his name wherever she went, her mind started playing tricks
on her. She saw him everywhere, usually at the courthouse. Just
glimpses, nothing solid. One day she could swear he was trying to
catch up with her to speak with her, only to be waylaid by people
needing his attention. The next day she would chastise herself for
thinking such thirteen-year-old-girl things. Why did she think he
would come to her? Why did she hope? She had run away from him; no
man with an IQ point to call his own would pursue a woman after
that.

She swallowed the gob of ick that collected in her
throat.

It had occurred to her (mostly only every other day)
to go to his office and explain that she hadn’t wanted to run away
from him, to explain why she had shown up at the gallery,
apologize, then let him decide what to think. But a con was a con,
and she knew what she would think and do if someone had deceived
her that way, destroyed her trust, made a fool of her.

The bottom of her world had dropped out and she
didn’t even know why. What was it about him that made her do crazy,
risky things she’d never considered doing before? And with a
stranger
?

At church, she had learned not to put herself in
temptation’s way, so she hadn’t.

At karate, she had learned not to put herself in
danger’s way, so she hadn’t.

Then a man she didn’t know had hurt her feelings, so
she’d kissed him in retaliation and then she’d put herself at the
mercy of the same man, with little more information than she’d had
before—

—except that he knew the rules of engagement for
faithful members of the church as well as she did. Clearly he had
left the church behind, and she couldn’t say she didn’t want to
follow him right out the door and into bed.

That scared her to death.

“First rule of karate,” she whispered to herself.
“Don’t be stupid.”

She reached her car and sagged against it, her eyes
closed, to relive that night: his tongue in her mouth, his mouth on
her breasts, his lips surrounding the hole in her shoulder, his
voice in her ear—hot, insistent, demanding.

Not in control now, are you?

His sardonic challenges of her power. She could feel
her body’s arousal at the thought of how brazen it had been to take
him up the stairs and lie under him half naked in a public place:
how wonderfully, deliciously wicked.

“Giselle.”

She gasped and whirled, embarrassed that whoever had
said her name might read her mind, see her arousal. The wind
whipped her hair across her face so that she couldn’t see, and when
she pulled it aside, her eyes widened.

She gulped and backed up, closer to her car, even
though he kept a respectful distance between them and she didn’t
fear him.

Shame. The only emotion she knew at that moment was
shame for her deceit.

The true crime? She’d gone ahead with the plan even
though deceiving him would mean the end of any hope of a
relationship with him.

“Giselle, I—”

Giselle couldn’t read the expression on his face. A
hodgepodge of things flitted across his carved-and-scarred features
that she didn’t understand.

“I— I, um— Please go away,” she blurted. “It was a
mistake; I’m sorry.”

Don’t cry. Don’t cry don’tcry dontcrydontcry

He looked at her with that same unreadable
expression and spoke carefully. “Sorry for what?”

Frustrated, she let out a whoosh. “Just— Everything,
okay? I’m sorry I yelled at you, sorry I put a gun to your head,
sorry I led you up the stairs and gave you the wrong idea about
me.”

“What idea do I have?”

You think I’m a slut.

She gritted her teeth to keep the tears at bay and
snapped, “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it was rude to answer a
question with a question?” She turned and opened the door, threw
her books and her purse across to the passenger seat, and dropped
behind the steering wheel.

“Giselle, please wait.”

“I can’t,” she answered as she started her car and
put it in reverse, though she didn’t lift her foot off the clutch
enough to actually move. What was she waiting for?

“Please have lunch with me. Talk with me. That’s
all
. Please.”

And have him excoriate her for lying to him in the
middle of a restaurant? No thanks.

“I can’t,” she said again, too ashamed now to even
look at him. “I— I have plans.”

After that, he caught her when he saw her; not
often, usually at the courthouse and apparently only when he had a
free moment.

“Giselle, please,” he said every time. “One meal,
please. I just want to talk. That’s
all
.” He didn’t bother
to hide the pleading in his voice and it broke her heart, made her
breathless at what she had done to a god.

In late June, he found her at the library, standing
in the fiction stacks, perusing Christopher Moore. Incredibly
intimidated, achingly aroused, still ashamed and embarrassed,
frightened and hurting more than she thought possible, she snapped,
“Stalking me?”

His nostrils flared and his eyes blazed. Without
saying a word, he turned on a heel and left.

She stepped out into the aisle to watch him walk
away, anger in every long step, in his back, in the shake of his
head, in the violent punch of the elevator button. He looked back
at her then and stared at her until the elevator arrived, his mouth
tight, his jaw clenched, his gaze hard.