by Angel Payne
Stay out of it. Personal ties become business pigsties. Didn’t you learn that the hard way? And you haven’t dealt with thousands like him before? Even the man you once called father-in-law?
A huff escapes me, thick with relief. At least now I have an explanation. Displaced emotions, courtesy of the shit storm known as old baggage. It makes sense—meaning now I can compartmentalize and cope.
Until I look once again at her.
Mishella.
My little Ella.
The words embed into my psyche like diamonds stirred into concrete. She has changed the structure of my being. But how the hell? I’ve seen her exactly six times in the last three days, including what was supposed to be a “casual” welcome reception at the palais but turned into the cataclysm of my first sight of her—and I remember every moment of every encounter since. Even just passing hellos with her make it happen all over again—the world fading away, the senses captivated by her—and just like that, my interest is amplified in the island girl with hair like spun gold and eyes like a toy store collector doll.
Interest?
No. I’m not “interested” in her.
I’m fascinated by her. Entranced. Maybe a little obsessed. Maybe a lot more than that. Worse, I have no idea how to explain it—which should scare the living fuck out of me, but doesn’t.
She feels…right. Secure. Even safe. Yet she’s the most exhilarating adventure of my life, a high-wire walk with a view of the entire world.
Just don’t look down.
“Christ.” I grit it to myself while bending down, retying a perfectly secure shoelace. It’s a quick fix; I can keep eyes locked on Fortin and her, but hide the growing erection she has inspired.
Yeah. Inspired.
What was the word Samsyn used with me last night after dinner, when describing how he’d felt the moment he met his Brooke? It was an Arcadian phrase, unique in its blend of Turkish and French influences…
Soursedias.
Yeah. That. It’s goddamn perfect, coming close enough to even the English word for what that woman has done to me.
Sorcery.
Yeah. That has to be it. She’s an island enchantress, empowered by the Arcadian spirits to wrap my mind, soul, and body in a searing, clinging erotic spell. And fuck, is it working. I want to give in to the rest of it, just to know how high and hot she’d take me…
And how far I’d take her. Claim her.
How greatly would her gorgeous innocence change…transformed by lust? How much wider could I make those big blue eyes? What would her pretty bow lips look like, formed into an O of raw desire? What would her refined voice sound like, panting in the spasms of a mindless orgasm?
I break a shoelace.
Snap back to reality.
I have to get off this damn island.
It will happen—first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll wrap up the talks with Santelle tonight—not looking in his daughter’s direction while doing so—then tell Mark and his crew I want the plane ready by daybreak. That’ll allow time to check numbers in the foreign markets, call my key project managers in New York, then get out of here before Mishella Santelle can weave any more wonderful witchery into my willing soul.
Witchery.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
She’s not a witch. Fairy, maybe. Perhaps an angel, or a mermaid given legs. The certainty hits harder as I stare at her again. She holds herself as regally as any of those, even as her father continues quietly berating her—I cannot label it anything else, if the expression on his face is to be believed—and even in how she sways after he pivots, heading back inside.
But only one sway.
After that, she returns to the queenly stance, holding it despite the wounds Fortin has inflicted. Not physical cuts, but damage just as torturous to bear. Somehow she does, returning to the table with astounding composure. Keeping her shit together even while Brooke and Vylet peal with laughter at some joke from Jagger.
For a moment, I am incensed. How can her two closest friends not see her pain?
Realization. Massive. Maybe she doesn’t want to see it.
An answer I’ll likely never have—and shouldn’t want to. Rescuing knight, I sure as hell am not. Repulsive giant in the clouds? There’s the fit.
And it is well past time for me to climb back up the beanstalk. To remember that counting beans is the only magic left in my life now. No more turns at sorcery. I’ve had my turn at that shit already. Sucked up my life’s ration of magic. Neither of them exist for me anymore.
There’s only tonight’s dinner to get through first. With the sorceress and her family.
God fucking help me.
TWO
*
Mishella
“Hold. Still.”
Though Mother murmurs the words, the command in them is as clear as the directives Father growled at me this afternoon.
Know your place, girl—and stay in it.
Know your purpose, daughter—and stick to it.
I struggle not to wince as she stabs another pin into the bun atop my head. Three pins later, she grunts softly: an approving sound. “Better.”
Translation: I look as nondescript as a push-pin. Perfectly acceptable, as far as I am concerned. I have even assisted the effort, selecting a basic black sheath with a demure square neckline and a mid-calf hem. My low heels imbue the ensemble with a tiny stab of class—enough to honor my paipanne without disgracing him—which I apparently accomplished by “fawning” over Cassian Court this afternoon.
With effort, I control the color threatening to invade my cheeks again. I do not dare give Mother any more fuel for her irked fire, which has only increased in the months since I chose to stay on as Brooke’s secran. She and Paipanne barely understood my enthusiasm about the position when Brooke had been queen; now that she is a mere princess again, my decision is seen as close to walking the streets a whore.
At first, the dichotomy puzzled me. In the palais, I was happy, productive, and certainly protected. But one day, a conversation with Vy shifted my view.
This is not a matter of controlling your virtue, shella-bean. It is a matter of controlling you.
I’d scoffed, even gotten defensive with Vy, refusing to see my own parents in that light—but more and more evidence has surfaced to support the assertion. Incidents and attitudes I’ve ignored before, perhaps written off as their love expressed in the only way they knew how…but if that were the case, why does it manifest in that form only with me? How is Saynt so different—or has he received the same pressure since Father and Mother pushed for an early end to his school studies, followed by immediate entry into Arcadian military training? At this rate, he will surely be an officer within a few years—though even that timing does not seem swift enough for them.
But there is no chance to steal away for that intimate sibling chat tonight, in light of the events planned down to the second. In that regard, I have an easier assignment than Saynt—a truth Mother reminds me of now, meeting my gaze in the mirror.
“Just cocktails and dinner, hmm?” She arches brows in subtle expectation. “Neither of us needs the fat calories in dessert, anyway.”
“Of course, Maim—”
I am interrupted by my own astonishment, when she reaches into my jewelry box and withdraws the amethyst drops from my last birthday. My brows lower. The gemstones are not the plain pearls I would have predicted as her preference—and honestly, they make me squirm a little. They are beautiful but entirely too bright. They are—
“The perfect touch.” Like the direction on my hair, it is an order, not a suggestion. She finishes it by holding them against my ears. “Ahhh, yes. Definitely. Perhaps you can talk about how they were passed between each generation in our family…to celebrate our prosperity.”
I lower my gaze. It is a sweet story—if only a word of it were true. But Father and Mother are not above “sliding” on the small facts to justify larger gains. As far back as three years ago, before the crow
n of Arcadia shifted and Evrest Cimarron officially reopened the island to the outside world, they saw Arcadia’s future as a major player on the world economy’s stage—and did not miss a chance to seize the opportunities from it. A single chance. As a result, they have become nothing short of obsessed with the Santelle family holding major strings in the new Arcadian economy.
Now, Saynt and I are expected to shovel into that locomotive too—and long-gone are the days when we were given any preference about our contributions. Saynt is learning to face our enemies, even take a bullet, for the family name. And I’ll learn to spread my legs for the man they point me toward.
And oh, yes—to keep my mouth shut on everything but rehearsed lines until then.
Like the propaganda about my earrings.
“I—I shall try.” I add a game smile at Maimanne for effect. She does not have to know that just the idea of lying to Cassian sits on my stomach like rotting fish. It feels too close to lying to myself.
The flash of revelation bursts another into life.
Cassian. When he is near, I somehow feel closer to…
myself.
To parts of myself beyond “the physical obvis,” as Vy would call them. Things far past the racing blood, the lightning nerves, the throbbing womb…
Things that are even better.
Things of wonder.
Anticipation.
Feelings brand-new, tied to desires as old as the ancients.
Needs I have to lock away. Now.
Stuff into a place deep inside, as firmly as I seal my pearls back into my jewelry box. Bury deep beneath my gaze, glittering too brightly from the mirror as I secure the amethysts on my ears. Conceal behind my face, lashed into serenity, as Maimanne tilts a last look from the doorway. That will do, her eyes seem to say—the closest thing I shall receive in the way of praise.
“That will do.” I repeat it to my reflection, fighting for a shred of its reassurance. Press my clammy hands to my flushed face, praying for an infusion of composure. Beseech the Creator for the strength to get through the next three hours, pretending I feel nothing for the man—and his money—who is so important to our family’s future.
Because, despite everything, I love them. And know—pray?—in my deepest heart, that all of Father and Mother’s maneuvers are for ultimately for Saynt and me. I can support them without having to lie to Cassian about the earrings—or anything else, for that matter.
Except how I feel about him.
Except how two days and six encounters—not that I am keeping track—have transformed the man from a complete stranger into the very nucleus of my thoughts, center of my heartbeats—
And apparition on my balcony?
“Guuhhh!”
Stealing more slang from Vy is better than surrendering to my first option of a reaction: a throat-razing shriek. As I choke the sound all the way down, I thank the Creator his hair is slicked back from his face, tamed into waves catching the outside lights as he swings over the wrought iron rail from the bougainvillea trellis he has just scaled. Sweet Creator, his hair. As long as I live, I will not forget it. Thick as molten gold, streaked with honey straight from the hive—a dangerous thought for all the dangerous things he makes me feel, especially now…flinging open the balcony’s double doors, locking his gaze to mine once more—
And bringing pure fire back to my world.
*
Cassian
Will this woman ever not set me completely on fire?
The question is as mystifying as the one before it: the demand that hounded every inch I just clawed up the goddamn trellis. It went something along the lines of: you swore you wouldn’t look at her tonight, yet now you’re scaling a wall in the dark, hoping you’ve pegged the right bedroom as hers?
Even if there are answers, I care nothing for them. I don’t care about much of anything, other than the euphoria of knowing I was right. The pastel and cream décor I glimpsed from the ground is hers—and now she is standing in it, a stark contrast in her classic black dress and shoes. Not a hair on her head breaks free from its bun. The look should bring severity to her face but accomplishes the opposite. Every angle of her impeccable beauty is brought out in bold relief, turning her into something close to fine art. I half expect to look down and see a Do Not Touch sign attached to a rope around her waist.
Thank fuck there isn’t one.
Because I need to touch. Now.
One step. Another. Then a stop, wondering if she’ll shy back, like this afternoon…like the wiser one she is in this whole thing. She knows the truth, more than me. She understands that these threads between us can only ever be that. Threads, like cocoon floss. Gossamer. Temporary.
But she doesn’t move. Simply closes her eyes as my hand raises. Releases a shaky rasp as I curl fingers over her full, beautiful cheek. Finally whispers words like the faint furrows that crinkle the top of her elegant nose.
“How did you…”
I laugh softly. “Damn lucky guess.”
“Why…”
“Do you really have to ask that?”
Her eyes open. She swallows hard. “We cannot do this. Mr. Court, I—”
“And do you really have to call me that?”
“We are both supposed to be downstairs—where you will complete business with my father. This is not part of the plan.”
“The plan?” I slide closer to her. Goddamn, her scent. Her skin exudes something exotic, like island flowers. Her hair, while yanked back with some shiny styling product, betrays hints of jasmine and vanilla. “How do I know it’s not?”
As I anticipate, her stare snaps up, full of incensed fire.
“It’s a fair question.” I half-abhor myself for venturing down this path. But as long as we’re here… “I need your father’s influence on this island, but he needs my money. How do I know he hasn’t dangled his daughter to sweeten the deal for himself?”
Tears join her fury. Just a sheen—enough to show me the threads are about to break. Her hand swings up. Flies back. When it’s at full height, I snap a grip around her wrist. Use the hold to circle her around, pinning her to the wall behind her terrace door. The shadows of the corner envelop us, making her gritted teeth glow, setting even more fire in her huge sapphire eyes.
“Damn you.” Her syllables are more like sobs. They jab my gut, reaffirming that all my stress about doing business with a jackass is pretty stupid. Like attracts like.
It’s not a new revelation. But right now it sears like pure acid, and I have to halt the damage—no matter how desperate the measure.
“I’m sorry.” All right, maybe I am desperate. In the last five years, those words have only left my lips once before—on an occasion I’m determined not to dredge up. Not now. “Sshhh, Ella. I’m sorry.”
She huffs through her nose. Several more times. “Let me go.”
I concede, despite the harsh twist of my gut.
Unbelievably, she stays put. Lowers her arm into a protective wrap around her waist, but doesn’t move beyond that.
Like an idiot, I brush fingertips up to her face again.
Like a miracle, she lets me.
“I’m a moron. And I am sorry.” It’s the truth. I hope she can feel it in the pressure of my thumb, slowly tracing the strong line of her jaw. God, she’s so warm and smooth. “I’m also trying to make logical sense out of this. Out of…us.”
Her laugh is quick—and strangled. “There is no ‘us’.”
“Oh, there’s an us.” And in another bonehead move, I drag her hand away from her body…sliding it beneath my blue silk tie, against the dress shirt covering my sternum. “You know it as well as I do, Mishella. You feel it too. You feel it…right here…don’t you?”
Her lips work against each other. “What I feel does not matter. What either of us feels—” She lets her hand drop. Blinks slowly, her lashes shimmering with new salty drops. “I am not free to feel, Cassian. You must know that by now. You have spent two days exposed to my father’s
determination and will. He desires your money, but only because it will bring him something greater.”
“Power.” I could have supplied the answer from a coma. It was the Holy Grail of the elite, a high better than multiple zeroes in a man’s bank account. And in the hands of fools—worse, in the hands of arrogant fools—it could end the entire planet.
“And my brother and I…are additional tools in helping him gain that power.” She looks down, using her dress as a visual aid in her argument. She has no fucking idea that the staid color and the conservative cut, accented only by the gemstones on her ears, have only stoked my imagination more. It’s a battle not to visualize peeling the garment away from her sleek curves, her creamy skin contrasted by the dark fabric…and showcasing the marks of my grip. “I am to be the ultimate prize for the man at court who helps our family rise the highest. Any ‘dalliance’ before that time, especially with an American investor who was only here for three days, would wag enough tongues to lower his asking price for me.”
I don’t even try to contain a disgusted growl. “Like a fucking virgin offered to a dragon.” When her reply is nothing but extended tension, my head jerks up. “Wait. Shit. Because you really are still a…” Her eyes confirm it in a second. Goddamn…her eyes. Those wide blue depths, such a turn-on for me from the start, ignite me to shaking lust now. Openness and honesty, because she is open and honest.
And a virgin.
A thought—like so many others that have struck about her—that should horrify the hell out of me.
But doesn’t.
Holy hell…just the opposite.
The idea of being the first man to fill her…to bring her to the bliss that will convulse her walls around my cock, make her scream my name as I pump my hot release deep inside her body…
Crap. Shit. Fuck.
You’ve had enough, sailor. Time to close out the tab and wobble on home.