Point of Submission (Point Series Book 1)

by Remy Rose

  My baby sister nods vigorously, her eyes wide, and there’s laughter.

  “I have no doubt that our madre cara and stepfather are looking down upon on us with great joy, and even though they’re not here with us, I feel them in spirit.” I look down at Gianna, whose eyes are shiny with tears, and I have a tough time getting the words out. “There are many people in this room who adore you, Gianna, but no one could love you more than I do.”

  Comic relief from Jordan, who raises his hand.

  “Except Jordan. I guess we're tied. For so many years, ever since you were born, you’ve been the light in my life, and from the way that Jordan looks at you, it's clear you are also the light in his. Possa la vostra luce continua a brillare. May your light continue to shine as you embark on your new life together. I love you, Gi.”

  Ah, Jesus...I can’t say anything more. I feel my eyes begin to burn as I raise my glass. Gianna pushes back her chair and comes to me, tears spilling down her cheeks, and I pull my baby sister to me in a hug, holding her tight.

  In that moment, I glance down to see Cassandra's eyes brimming. Her face is so pure, so achingly beautiful...stirring up something in me so fucking fierce, I have to look away.

  chapter twenty-nine ~ Cassandra

  When Ingrid asks me to go to one of the food vendors and bring back lunch for her and Judy, I jump at the chance. Anything to get the hell away from the two of them, since they’ve basically been tweaking out at me ever since we got to the Devon dressage show. I knew it would be like this...they’re wound tighter than an eight day clock, to coin an expression from my mother. Syrius, Judy's chestnut Trakehner from her own stable, came up lame two days before the show, so she'd had to scratch his events, which had amped up her stress level to new heights. Rafsi was being Rafsi, and the calming supplement we gave her hadn't helped. Brownie, though—he’s his usual sweet, unflappable self, munching on hay in his stall and looking around like he’s wondering why everybody’s so stressed.

  And oh, just think...I get to do this all over again tomorrow. The next day, too, since it’s a multi-day show. Now I’m wishing I could just browse...take in the sights and sounds as a spectator: the dazzling gleam of the horses' polished coats, the immaculate riders in their crisp show attire, the enthusiastic voice of the announcer over the loudspeaker with a sprinkling of applause from the crowd. There was a whole other show besides the horses: vendors of all kinds, selling things like framed horse prints, pottery, brow bands adorned with bling. And of course, the food—Goshen Donuts, chai, gourmet dark chocolate, ice cream...I have to smile as I imagine Carlo teasing me.

  But of course, Ingrid and Judy won’t want sweets. Which may be part of their problem, seriously—they practically live on carrot sticks and bottled water. I stop in front of Big Owen's Concessions and scan the menu. The two barn Nazis didn’t tell me what they wanted for lunch. I asked, nicely, but Judy had flicked her hand in the air in a clear I am far too busy to listen to you message, and Ingrid had just glared.

  Being dismissed and treated like I’m inferior is maddening, especially after last week's party, where I felt amazingly relaxed and comfortable in that setting. The people there made it easy—Estelle and Martin were so sweet, and Gianna an absolute doll. It was so touching to see how in love she and Jordan were. I liked everyone I met, really—except for Brockton Dall. I can’t really explain it, but there was definitely something about him that creeped me out. He was good-looking and charming, with that big smile and striking green eyes—but I kept getting this weird sort of chill whenever he came around. And it was majorly creepy, the way he raked his eyes over you. I could tell that Estelle didn't seem to care for him, either, and even Carlo acted like Brock was an intruder rather than a guest. And it wasn't like Brock interacted with Gianna or Jordan—or anyone at the party, actually. So why was he there? I watched him when he wasn’t looking at me...he had this detached expression. He was part of the scene, yet he didn't belong.

  But thankfully, I felt like I belonged there, and most of that was thanks to Carlo. He made me feel sexy and beautiful (flustered, too, but that’s a given)...the way he squeezed my hand under the table and stroked my leg...the way he introduced me to people, like he was proud of me. I always knew there was a level of tenderness in him, but that night I saw it. The toast he made to his sister...God, I had a crazy urge to jump up from the table along with Gianna and go to his side—lace my fingers in his and lay my head on his chest, listen to his heartbeat and whisper to him that it was all right, that everything would be all right...

  Which makes absolutely no sense. Carlo has it all; he shouldn’t need me to comfort him.

  So why do I feel like he does?

  “Miss...can I help you?”

  Shit, I need to get myself back where I belong at this moment—in a polo shirt and jeans, not an evening gown and heels.

  “I'm sorry...um, I'll have—” My eyes dart across the menu.

  “She'll have twelve Pop-Tarts and all the Devil Dogs you've got.” The voice behind me is deep and warm.

  I’m smiling before I turn around. “Hi! You're here. I wasn't sure you'd make it.”

  Carlo’s in casual yet classy mode wearing tan pants, a bright blue golf shirt and his Aviators. There’s more delicious stubble above his lip and along his jawline, making him look roguish and insanely hot. “I wanted to be here to celebrate my mother.” His face breaks into a slow, easy grin. “And for other reasons.”

  Oh. “How did you find me?”

  “Pure luck. Or maybe because it was lunchtime, and I figured you'd be near the food.”

  The man at the concession stand clears his throat. I quickly turn to him. “I'm sorry...umm...two veggie wraps and two bottled waters, please.” I find myself not really caring if Ingrid and Judy approve of this lunch selection—I’m not really caring about anything, actually, except the man standing behind me.

  Carlo reaches around me, a fifty dollar bill in his outstretched hand. “Here, sir. Keep the change.”

  The guy is suddenly not annoyed anymore. We step aside to wait for the order. Carlo takes off his sunglasses, using the bottom of his shirt to clean the lenses. I catch a glimpse of his firm abdomen and want to lick it.

  “You’re looking a little stressed, Ms. Larsen. I'm guessing that Ingrid's bitch switch has been flipped?”

  “Um, yes. I feel a little sorry for her, actually. Judy makes things even worse.”

  “What's that expression about horse people being stable people? I'm not buying it.”

  “Now that is definitely an insult.”

  “There are exceptions to every rule, of course. Like you.”

  “You're saying I'm stable?”

  “Most of the time.” He grins at me, his teeth white and dazzling. “I brought something for you.”

  “Besides insults?”

  “Yes.” He slides his hand into his pants pocket, taking out a small plastic bag with a familiar red bullseye pattern.

  Seriously? This man is so full of surprises. “Target?”

  “I wanted to broaden my horizons.”

  “You actually went in?”

  “I did. Nice place. I was pleasantly surprised. I didn't know if they'd have what I was looking for, but they did.”

  I reach into the bag. Horseshoe earrings—gold, with fake diamonds, of course, but they are adorable and delicate and sparkly. “I love them. They're perfect. And they are so me.”

  “I thought so, too, although they're artificial. And you're the real thing.”

  Did he seriously just say that? I lift my gaze to meet his, and God, his eyes. My heart is pounding hard. What did he meant by this? Carlo seems a little startled, too—maybe even wishing he could take back the words.

  Please, don’t regret that.

  The man behind the Big Owen's counter saves us by announcing that my order is ready. We walk back toward the stable with the sandwiches and waters in awkward silence until Carlo speaks.

  “I'm going to Texas next week, so
I won't be in much contact.”

  I try to hide my disappointment. “Business?”

  “Yes. Sales meeting.” He pauses to point out one of the show rings where a black Thoroughbred is warming up, its nostrils flaring and its neck speckled with flecks of foam. “Looks like the humans aren't the only ones keyed up at this thing.”

  “Some of them do get really nervous, like Rafsi.”

  “What about your favorite?”

  “Brownie? He's cool as a cucumber. One of the things I love about him.”

  “Has he been in an event yet?”

  “He has the Fourth Level test later this afternoon. I can't wait to watch him. This is probably awful to say, but honestly, I don't even care how he does...I just love watching him.”

  “Better not let Ingrid or Judy hear you say that.”

  “God, no...they'd kill me. They're all about the ribbons. I've always found this whole show thing a little silly. I've never understood the whole fascination with it. For me, it's enough just to be with the horses. When I was a teenager and my mom had paid for me to take lessons, my instructor had told me that she'd been in dozens of shows, but her favorite thing had always been riding on the trail with the horse 'on the buckle'...like a relaxed, easy ride with your reins loose enough so the buckle lays on the horse's neck.” I smile, remembering. “I like that.”

  “I guess we all could use more 'on the buckle' time.”

  Ingrid is sitting outside the barn in a folding chair, looking pristine in her white blouse and breeches. She stands up as we come near, giving me dagger eyes before smiling at Carlo, walking over to kiss him on the cheek. I feel a little jolt of jealousy. Can’t help it.

  “I'm so glad you could come, Carlo. And you found Cassandra?”

  “Yes. I happened to see her in the vendors' area as I walked in.”

  “How amazingly serendipitous. I'll be riding in the next event, so your timing is perfect.” Ingrid takes the sandwiches and waters from me. “Judy's making a phone call, but she'll be back. Cassandra, why don't you take the Show Sheen and give Rafsi one last polish?”

  Smooth, Ingrid. Trying to get rid of me, obviously. I give Carlo a quick smile, and he winks back while I try to clamp down on the tingles in my lower half.

  As expected, Rafsi’s dancing in her stall, nickering nervously. I go in with her, shaking up the bottle of coat polish and spray a fine mist over her, avoiding the saddle area which would make it too slippery—although then again, seeing Ingrid flip upside down would be a definite day-brightener.

  I go to Rafsi's tack box for a clean cloth, thinking about what Carlo said. You're the real thing. He was probably talking about how I’m genuine as a person.

  But the way he looked when he'd said it...

  Don't go there. Just don't. I need to just be glad that I gave myself permission to date him. That was a big enough step. And Carlo made it clear he wasn't looking for a serious relationship. So...we make a good match in that respect.

  I put away the cloth and spray bottle and suddenly remember the earrings in my pocket. I trade out my gold hoops for the horseshoes, give Rafsi a quick kiss on the nose and go out into the late September sunshine.

  Ingrid is finishing her sandwich and still chatting with Carlo. She looks annoyed when she sees me—like I’m interrupting something. She takes a sip from her water and points the bottle in the direction of the horse trailer. “I think I left my jacket in there. Please get it for me, and make sure there's no lint on it. Also, I need a couple of aspirin for my headache.”

  I’m betting I’ll need some aspirin, too, dealing with this. I can feel Carlo smiling at me—I don’t dare look at him in case I might burst out laughing and piss off Ingrid even more.

  “Okay,” I tell her. “Jacket and aspirin. Be right back.”

  “I'll come with you,” Carlo offers. “I'd like to check out the trailer.”

  Probably not what Ingrid had in mind. No doubt she wanted more alone time with Carlo and is probably seething.

  “You could now be considered Ingrid's errand boy, Carlo. Just saying.”

  “I suppose I could.”

  “I don't see you taking orders very well, though.”

  “No. I prefer giving them.”

  “I'm well aware of that.”

  We come to the horse trailer, a six-horse silver gooseneck with rubber mats on the walls and floors and a dressing room. Carlo nods, impressed, as he looks inside. “It's immaculate.”

  “Yes, that would be thanks to me. Ingrid made me clean it out the second we got here.”

  I open the door to the small dressing room...and gasp as Carlo's arms go around my waist. “What are you…?”

  He doesn’t let me finish—spins me around and pulls me against him, so close I have to arch my back to look up at him. One of his hands grasps my ponytail, holding it firmly. He bends down to kiss me, and I sigh against his mouth just before his tongue slides between my lips.

  “I've been wanting to do that ever since I got here,” he murmurs.

  “That's ironic, because I've been wanting you to. In fact, I want you to do it again.” For some reason, I’m feeling bold, empowered—daring enough to pull his face down for another kiss.

  He takes my hands from his neck, puts them behind my back. “I'm in charge, remember?”

  “I'm sorry. I've just...missed you.”

  Carlo’s eyes drift over my face. “What have you missed, Cassandra?” His voice and expression are serious.

  I’m not sure how he wants me to answer. But I’ll give him the truth. Tentatively, I pull my arms out of his grip and touch my fingers to his lips. “I've missed your mouth. And your face.” I slide my hands down to his biceps and squeeze. “And these arms.” Then—do I dare?

  Yes, I do.

  I move my hand to the front of his pants, gently grasping. “And I most definitely miss this.”

  He draws in his breath. I feel a thrill as he hardens. “You men can't hide what you feel physically, can you?”

  “No,” he says huskily, lips at my ear. “We can't.”

  The faint glimmer of vulnerability I sense in him fuels me to go further. Still groping his cock, I lift my other hand to the top of his head, stroking his rumpled hair. “But you can hide what you're thinking.” I hesitate and then speak again, softly. “What are you hiding in here, Carlo?”

  His eyes are closed as his breathing begins to quicken.

  I move my hand down to his chest, spreading my fingers over his heart. “And in here?”

  Roughly, he takes my hands away from his body, once again bending my arms behind my back. He starts to kiss me again, hungrily, and I realize that right now, he is giving me all that he can.

  chapter thirty ~ Carlo

  Whispering, rustling...those sounds come first, hushed and soothing. Then another sound, this one grating...a long, high-pitched wail. Relentless, scraping against the sides of his skull and drowning out the rustling. He blinks. Everything is blurred, like images in a soft watercolor painting. There are tall, spindly, stick-like figures swaying high overhead, and the rustling seems to coincide with their movement. He wants to look more closely and tries to lift his head, but the weight of it makes this too difficult. Suddenly, there is brilliant, flooding light, illuminating the spindly figures which are shades of green and pale gold, and he now recognizes what they are. Cornstalks. He is lying in a cornfield.

  But why? How? He contemplates these questions calmly as the wailing sound intensifies. Shifting on the ground, he feels the first stabs of searing pain, followed by mind-numbing fear. And then he begins to scream.

  I wake up with a start, pulling myself to a sitting position. Fucking Christ...I can’t catch my breath—my heart’s pounding against my chest like a jackhammer, the blankets bunched and twisted underneath me like I’ve been thrashing around in my sleep.

  Where the fuck am I? I don’t recognize this room. Blinking hard, I force myself to be fully awake, and then I remember: hotel room...sales meeting...San
Antonio.

  My chest is still heaving. I rake a hand through my hair, then balled my fingers into a fist and savagely punch the mattress. “Breathe. Just fucking breathe.”

  It’s been almost a year since I last had the dream. I thought—hoped—I was past this, but then again, it’s early fall—if there was going to be a recurrence, it would be this time of year. And the way things are with Cassandra is undoubtedly screwing with my psyche.

  Thank God I’m no longer in the throes of that nightmare. I adjust the pillows and lean back against them, flashing back to the scene in the horse trailer. Cassandra had never acted so forward with me before, and I’m not sure what prompted it. I let myself slip that day, let the balance of power shift. Should have corrected her boldness, but for whatever reason, I was feeling uncharacteristically weak.

  It won’t happen again.

  I can hear muffled sounds through the wall from the next room—Brock's room. And here we go—unmistakable groaning interspersed with a feminine voice. Earlier tonight, Brock was hitting on a blonde at the bar—apparently, successfully. Leave it to Dall to find a fuck buddy the first night in San Antonio. He’ll probably have a different one for each night he’s here.

  I rub my eyes, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. I’m calm now, and wide awake. Now, I can think.

  I’m going to end my relationship with Cassandra, but ending it without meeting the ultimate goal isn’t an option. I’ve got to tie up any loose ends—get everything back on my terms, especially after how things were left at Devon.

  And I’m going to start now. I can't sleep, anyway, not till I get some assurance that Cassandra is going to get back where I need her to be.

  I reach for my iPhone beside the water glass, scroll to Cassandra’s name and tap FaceTime. We’ve never communicated like this before, but I need to see her. Watch her.

  There’s a twinge of guilt, calling her in the middle of the night like this...I don’t want to scare her, but I’ve made my decision.