Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1)

by Nancy Gideon

  A moment not meant to last.

  “Congratulations.”

  The stiffly rendered sentiment was followed by a disingenuous hug from Cale.

  “Thank you, my king.” His voice gave an embarrassing hitch. “I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. It’s everything I’d hoped it would be. And more.”

  Sylvia’s arm curled about his, the gesture small but meaningful as Cale turned to address her.

  “Welcome to the House, Sylvia,” came his uninviting greeting. “You’ve finally found your prince.”

  When she didn’t reply, Kendra took her other arm, exclaiming, “The right one, and we couldn’t be more delighted. Could we, my king?”

  Under that pointed stare, Cale managed a half-hearted smile, muttering under his breath, “The poor bastard.”

  The awkward pause was filled when an already tipsy Colin shoved past him to scoop Sylvia up in his arms, whirling her about until her skirts flared dangerously high, exposing the tops of her stockings. And a sexy hint of red garters that had Turow’s hopes and inseam rising.

  “Good for you, Sis,” Colin exclaimed. “’Bout time somebody loosened the stuffing in our very prim and boringly proper brother. You’re just the shakeup he needs. Welcome back to the family.” He set her back on her perilously high heels. “I’m starving. There’s a great-looking buffet just waiting for you to start the line.”

  Kendra’s hand found Turow’s elbow, hers nudging him into following, with Cale trailing sullenly behind. She bumped a hip against Turow’s. “Nice touch, the jewelry.”

  Turow turned his frown on her. “That wasn’t to trick her.”

  “It was to show her how much you love her. Like I said, nice touch, and easier for her to accept than the actual words, I’m sure. You haven’t said them, have you?”

  “The time never seemed right.” Or his mate very receptive.

  “Tonight, it will be.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to hear them?”

  “She will. We wait our whole lives to hear them from someone who means them, believe me.”

  Turow wasn’t so sure. He decided, a little too late, that what she’d wanted to hear from him was that he trusted her.

  An extravagant buffet of lobster and prime rib and an open bar guaranteed a turn-out of over two hundred, many shirttail relations coming up from Reno and even from Las Vegas to be seen by and schmooze with Terriot royalty. At the head table, drowning in the noise, Turow and his bonded mate were the center of attention and talk. With Kendra on his right chatting happily to compensate for the stony silence on his left, Turow fixed a smile and vowed to get through it with as little embarrassment as possible. Impossible, it proved when he felt Sylvia’s nails gouge into his thigh like talons.

  She sat still and lovely at his side, her plate scarcely touched while at her other elbow, Colin stuffed his face like a long haul driver at a truck stop. From a distance, she’d appear composed and content. All Turow saw was the flare of her nostrils as her breath hissed in between her teeth.

  “Syl, what is it?”

  “Look at them.”

  He glanced about, seeing family and friends. “At who?”

  Then his gaze caught and held on Fawn Terriot. A stunning collar of gold and emeralds circled her throat. Stomach dropping, he skipped to Lee’s mate, May who dazzled in flashy sapphires, and Adam’s mate Valerie in cool, dripping amethysts. And on and on through their cadre of attendants. All wearing jewelry made unforgettable by first adorning the woman at his side.

  Oh, hell. And he’d been worried about his brothers over-indulging and making a scene.

  Carefully he detached her grip from his leg and carried her fisted hand up for the brush of his lips. That soft caress brought her snapping glare from them to him. He smiled and assured her, “All they’re proving is that you wore them better. Think of it as a tribute, not an insult. That’ll piss them off.”

  A reluctant smile twitched about her lips.

  “Besides,” he whispered. “None of them are wearing Terriot diamonds in their ears. No one but you and our queen.”

  His kiss surprised but didn’t displease her. Knowing how loathe he was to make public gestures, the sign of adoration wouldn’t go unnoticed by his family. Her palm lay cool against his cheek just long enough to raise his hopes, but was gone before they’d know fruition.

  A slap to the back of his neck had him glancing around to see Cale rising up to head for the bar. He excused himself and followed, letting his king fill his hand with yet another drink. When he heard the question, he swallowed it down quickly.

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Do we have to discuss this here?”

  “Time’s running out, brother. No one’s taken me up on the offer of amnesty. Did she tell you anything?”

  Alcohol burning through his stomach the way his thoughts seared his conscience, Turow murmured, “Just what she’d already said.”

  Cale’s shrewd gaze searched his. “And you believe her?”

  “I believe everything she said to be true.” It was what she hadn’t said that gave him pause.

  “Dammit!” Cale ground his teeth then forced a smile. “Thank you. I know I put you in an awkward spot.”

  “I put myself there.”

  And he’d been squirming in it like bait on a hook.

  Cale patted his back and insisted, “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  Right. Like that was going to happen.

  When stomachs were full and moods elevated by champagne, the celebration moved from dining room to club floor. As Rico claimed, a Terriot male lived for drinking, dancing, fighting and fornicating, and all were eager to get to the first two with hopes that the others would follow.

  To make himself assessable to his clan, Cale and his queen had a separate table in the shadows where he could hear their complaints, concerns, and on this night, he hoped their confessions. His bodyguards Bull and Tony stood a discreet distance away, ever wary and ready.

  As guests of honor, Turow and his princess were seated front and center at the edge of the dance floor, in a spotlight of attention that made Row sweat, squirm and long for those anonymous dark corners. What held him in that awkward hot seat wasn’t duty. It was pride in the female at his side.

  For all his discomfort, hers had to be amplified to a tortuous degree as the object of scorn and malicious sport. She bore it with unbending class. Gorgeous, seemingly unaffected, her hand resting over his on the table top with a fondness he was far from feeling from her at the moment. He was willing to do just about anything to change that.

  Tradition demanded the unmated princes welcome a new princess in a manner uniquely Terriot, letting her know what she’d be missing and the other eligible females what was still on the market in a bawdy advertisement. Expectation simmered when house lights dropped and smoke poured out over the dance floor as Def Leppard’s opening vocals assaulted the eardrums.

  Three pairs of eyes lasered through the darkness, low to floor, glowing hot gold, green and blue, coming closer, rising up until they shone from three faceless silhouettes as they emerged to begin a sinuous salute to the stripper pole favorite, Pour Some Sugar on Me. Lights lifted, caressing up suit pants to evening jackets over amazingly detailed bare chests. A roar sounded as Rico stepped out, a swivel of his head continuing down in a sensuous ripple through neck, shoulders, torso, hips, knees and feet, increasing as Colin took a bold stance, his body powerfully undulating, becoming near deafening as Kip joined his older brothers, incorporating lethal moves into a rocking dance sequence. They turned away as one, letting jackets drop, wagging their sexy royal asses before facing their king to place fists over the matching tattoos on their chest–a snarling wolf’s head in a crescent moon-punching toward him in a forceful salute.

  Kendra grinned in appreciation until Rico shouted, “Show us yours, my queen!” Cale patted her hip and shook his head good naturedly, yelling back, “She’ll show me. Later!”

  Encourage
d to show off what their hard bodies could do, the trio of unattached princes took turns teasing and tempting to the blatant innuendo of the song and the delight of their clan. But Turow's focus was on the female beside him. She’d been with all three of them, even Kip, his youngest brother, and knew every inch of that now sweat glazed flesh. Everyone in the room knew it, too. Her expression never changed as she followed their movements, remembering, perhaps comparing, possibly regretting . . .

  Row shook off those thoughts stirred up by the alcohol he rarely consumed. There was nothing inappropriate in her behavior. In fact, if anything it was too restrained, setting her above and away from the rest of their group just as he often did, making them outsiders.

  He leaned over, whispering, “It’s okay to smile.”

  Sylvia glanced at him, the coolness in her gaze abruptly melting. “Then they’d all know I’m imagining you out there.”

  “You’d enjoy watching me do a striptease in front of our family?”

  Her first real smile of the evening came at the expense of his obvious shock. “Oh, you have no idea how much.”

  With that stunning revelation, her attention turned back to the floor just as Colin approached, still rocking to the beat as he crouched low to claim her stare while his hands parted her knees then gripped the front legs of her chair, hoisting her into air as he stood, his face disappearing under her skirt.

  Silence.

  Then, with a squeal of laughter, Sylvia gripped his hair, pulling him back and up for a long, wet kiss while he held her, chair and all, suspended.

  Turow’s goading whistle broke the room’s tension, waking a host of raucous shouts from his other brothers as Colin walked her out onto the dance floor to set her down, where the trio continued to seduce her with a hot and playful exuberance, Rico bending over the back of her seat to do a handstand pushup on the chair arms, lowering his face into her bosom, Kip grinding through an enthusiastic lap dance before Colin returned her, flushed and grinning like a virgin at a bachelorette party to the table, so they could finish their routine.

  While the lyrics crooned about being sticky sweet from head to feet, the three princes put their backs to the room, hands running down glistening torsos as they bent over to drop trou for a brief flash of gleaming bare butt for the shrieking females who were on their feet, shouting and whistling, Sylvia included.

  For a finale, the threesome grabbed up bottles of champagne, at the song’s encouraging words, shaking them vigorously, planting them against their crotches before pulling the corks, showering the room, not with spray but with fountains of glittery confetti as the house went wild.

  Shaking his head free of the tiny flakes, brushing off Sylvia’s hair and face, Turow shared her smile of freeing pleasure. But before he could act on it, his sweaty brothers were there, hauling him into crushing hugs of congratulations before kissing his mate, Rico with tongue to tonsils, Kip with a blush and Colin with gentle lips against her brow, each murmuring, “Welcome to our House, Princess,” before jogging out to dry off and change.

  With the lights back on, the crowd began to settle into a more relaxed mood. As the DJ started to spin, “Cry for Me,” a nostalgic ′60s tune from Dirty Dancing, Turow stood, leaning over to whisper, “You asked me what kind of music I like. I like this kind.”

  Her puzzled gaze following, Turow took to the dance floor.

  As he began to sway to the beat, Row opened his jacket, letting it drop to the floor, working his tie loose to pull it free as Sylvia’s eyes widened. When he undid the first few buttons of his shirt, a squeal arose from the ladies. Unaware of curious attention turning his way, he only saw Sylvia, the way her lips parted softly and her breasts rose and fell with quickening breaths as his body picked up the sultry rhythm of the song, as feet moved with remembered confidence, shoulders dipping, pelvis swiveling in a sexy cha-cha. When he added a torso roll and slide, her smile beckoned.

  Looping his tie about her waist, he coaxed her from the chair, tugging on its ends to encourage a twist of her hips to match his. When she caught the basic movement, he let it drop, squaring off her position, one hand on his shoulder, one held lightly in his own to begin a two-three-four and one rotation, adding more body English to compliment the pulsing instrumentals until they were hip to rocking hip, eyes locked, totally in sync. She dropped back, trusting his arm to hold her for a low, sweeping dip, lifting her to press flush against him as they continued, steps growing smaller, the space between them disappearing, his hands cupping her hips until she rode his every undulating move.

  His last drop had her hair loosening to sweep the floor, then lifting her, her eyes closing, to meet a slow kiss that continued to deepen until they became aware of the applause, tentative at first then nearly deafening.

  Instead of releasing her, Row held her tight, letting her ride his thigh as he swung her into Ray Charles’s bluesy Night Time is the Right Time. Cale and Kendra joined them out on the floor, and gradually other couples were pulled into their updated version of the “Stroll.”

  Secure in his arms, held warm and close to his body heat, Sylvia floated on an unexpected cloud of bliss. This was how it felt to truly belong, this surrounding sense of safety that had her protective instincts lowering then falling away altogether. Lulled by the strong beat of his heart and the tempo of the music, she let herself drift and dream, of this man, of this family, of this world where she might yet be accepted.

  Sylvia’s momentary objection to being pulled from his arms and into another’s ended at the sight of Wesley’s grin.

  “Are you finally happy?”

  “Yes,” she vowed, arms going about his neck.

  He and Rosie joined them at their table, ordering up more drinks as the music reverted to rock and the floor filled with couples eager to grind and grope. With Turow’s arm about the back of her chair and his knee touching hers, she smiled and nodded at whatever nonsensical thing Rosie was saying while wondering how quickly she could get her mate alone and horizontal. She didn’t dare look at him, afraid the desire in her eyes would set the room aflame. Because her male was hot. Not just hot, but HOT! Drooling, panting, panty-wetting hot. How had he managed to keep that a secret all these years behind his modest ways and mild expression? Well, the secret was out, and she was very aware of the other females’ speculative studies. A silent, possessive growl rumbled through her. Turow jerked, his attention swinging to her as if he’d heard it.

  Eyes wide in question, he stared at her as if she’d grabbed him explicitly in front of all his family. Slowly, his lids lowered over a smoky gaze, promising everything she could imagine or hope for in that ravishing look as, beneath the table, his fingertips caressed along her inner thigh.

  Could it really work? Could the lie they played to save their lives become their reality?

  Then Cale was there at Turow’s back, leaning over his shoulder to speak quietly in his ear. And with a squeeze of her leg, he and Wesley were up, following their king away from the table, toward the bar where the rest of the brothers gathered.

  Seeing her scowl, Rosie chuckled. “Better get used to it. He calls, they go. That’s the way it is.” Then the silly smile fell to more serious purpose as she leaned close to ask, “How’s Jamie, really?”

  Sylvia sighed. “Angry. Desperate. Out of control.” Those were the safest things she could say about the girl’s near-psychotic cousin. “He’s playing a dangerous game with very unsympathetic people.”

  “He’s the only family I have,” Rosie whispered. “I’ve been terrified to show any concern for him. The others would turn on me in a second.”

  “The way they did me,” Sylvia concluded smoothly.

  Rosie flushed and nodded. “I’m not strong like you. I couldn’t swim in those shark-filled waters.”

  “Kendra would protect you.”

  “There’s only so much she can do.” She eyed the other females with a carefully guarded dislike. “Fawn is a horrible creature. The rest slink at her heels like a pack of
vicious dogs. At least you had—” The girl broke off, realizing who she was talking to.

  Sylvia smiled, amused. “I had what?”

  “Class.”

  She chuckled. “Yes, I did. My one saving grace.”

  Rosie nodded toward the cadre of princes. “He would do anything for you, you know. Just like Wesley would for me. Anything but defy their king. He’s becoming more and more like his father.”

  “Who? Cale? I highly doubt Kendra would allow that.”

  “That’s what she’d like everyone to think. But she’s scared, Sylvia, after that business in New Orleans, scared he might not be the one to carry our clan.”

  “Kendra told you that?” she gasped, shock plain in her voice.

  “Of course not. She wouldn’t dare.” She edged closer. “She told me what happened there, how he changed into someone, something, she didn’t recognize.”

  Sylvia shivered, recalling the manic glaze in Cale’s eyes, the feel of his fingers crushing about her throat, the promise in his snarled words that he’d rip her apart, and her petrified certainty that he would. He’d been terrifying, deadly, all the things her mother’s drug awakened in the dark souls of their kind. Until Turow had interceded.

  “What does Wes think?” she asked quietly.

  Rosie hesitated, glancing about nervously. “It was better here while Cale was gone. Wesley kept things more stable, more focused on our clan and less obsessed with risking our males to save those strangers in New Orleans. He would have been such a good leader.”

  “I always thought so.” And she’d also thought her defection along with their mother's had destroyed the chance of that happening. When she spoke that truth aloud, Rosie again surprised her with her practical approach.

  “Your mother is dead. You’re the mate of the most respected of all the princes. I’d say your brother is held in higher regard than a hotheaded, petulant and unpredictable king who allows himself to indulge in dangerous drugs and throws aside the safety of our people to ally with our enemies.”