Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1)

by Nancy Gideon

  Sleek dark wood and leather, emotionless abstract art and drawn drapes all screamed James Terriot. Rich, uncomfortable, and cold.

  “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “I’m sure he already knows.”

  He grinned again and knocked on one of the four interior doors, no key on this one, and slipped inside.

  No use pretending to be at ease. Sylvia remained standing until the two men emerged. Bart made a quick exit out of the suite.

  Rosie was right. James was a live wire, all dangerous tension and mercurial energy in his polished suit. His eyes shone like the marquee outside, bright, cool and inanimate. He smiled wide as he approached her.

  “Look who’s back. I wondered how long it would take for you to discover the only place you’ll find welcome is here with me.”

  “And am I welcome?”

  “Of course.” He leaned in, all smooth, nice-smelling male, to touch a kiss to one cheek. And when he straightened, the blow he dealt to the other knocked her to the floor. “But you are not yet forgiven.”

  Putting a hand to that pulse of pain, Sylvia sat up but didn’t try to stand. “I didn’t expect to be.”

  “Yet you’re here. Asking me to accept you back. Again. Tell me, why would I make that same mistake?” A brief flicker of animosity darted through his gaze then was gone, giving her hope that he was willing to hear her answer.

  She reached up a hand and he obligingly helped her to her feet, holding her steady with a solicitous hand on her elbow. Or perhaps that was to keep her within striking distance should the mood move him again.

  She gave a grimacing smile. “Because you’ve missed me. Because you knew what I’d find when I went back.”

  “Was it awful?” he asked. His eager lift of brows said he hoped so.

  “Yes.” Her curt answer didn’t seem to please him, but he accepted it.

  “So you’ve come back to where your talents are appreciated.”

  “If you’ll have me.” There was just enough humility in her tone to appease him. Because she grew uneasy with him so close, like a cobra hypnotizing with its enticing sway only to launch a deadly strike without warning, she asked, “Can we sit down?”

  He gestured to conversationally placed oversized chairs. Before she could sit, James settled a hand on her shoulder and purposefully pushed the edge of her shirt away from the scars it covered. She shoved him away and jerked the material back into place.

  “So, Rosalee tells me bonded bliss wasn’t all you’d expected.” His inflectionless words betrayed nothing.

  “It was everything I expected,” she snapped. “And nothing I wanted.”

  “Lover’s spat?”

  “You don’t need to look over your shoulder. He won’t be coming for me this time. He caught me and Colin in a rather indiscrete position.”

  James laughed. “How is Colin? Still a surly pain in the ass?”

  “That’s the position Turow caught us in, if you must know.”

  A louder, genuine laugh. Then he sighed. “Poor Turow. I’d feel sorry for him, but he should have known better.”

  “He does now. I don’t want to talk about Turow. Don’t bring him up to me again.”

  James raised an elegant brow. “All right. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Making money. Making so much money I don’t ever have to depend on anyone else or look behind me again.”

  “You’re in the right place. Welcome home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  James was nobody’s fool. He knew Sylvia Terriot. Beautiful. Liar. Schemer. Selfish and shallow. A mirror of himself. There wasn’t an honest bone in the lovely body he’d enjoyed. He couldn’t believe anything she told him. He couldn’t trust her any more than week-old milk left out on the counter. But she did have something he needed, and for that he was willing to forego his desire to snap her traitorous neck.

  Rosalee had told him Turow had broken her heart with his failure to put her above his devotion to Cale. How her inability to live up to his saintly standards and the clan’s vicious attacks slammed the door on her hopes of a future with the man of her dreams. He knew she loved his brother and that it was damned to failure even before it began. Their kind couldn’t find happiness in the arms of another. Their happiness rested on a material, not an emotional, plane. And now that she’d learned that bitter lesson, perhaps she could be forgiven. Trusted, no. Never.

  But she could be used.

  “You own this place?”

  There was just the right touch of respect in her voice to stroke his ego. “The former owner was convinced to sell at a very modest price.” After being tortured. Now, he was composting quite nicely. “It turns a tidy profit, allows me to channel funds, and is close to the borders in case a quick retreat is required. It lacks in the class department, but the Strip got a bit too hot for me after you left so abruptly.” He let her squirm for a moment then added, “But it has something else I think you’ll appreciate. I’ll show you, but first a glass of wine to toast your return.”

  He poured and she sampled, making an approving sound that relaxed him even further.

  “Tasty, isn’t it.” He took the glass from her and gripped her wrist, pulling her to her feet. “I can’t wait. I want you to see it now.”

  Excited to show off his accomplishments because Rosie had been so annoyingly clueless, James squired her across the room, tugging back the drapes and walking her out onto a small balcony. He felt her tension and was pleased to think she feared him enough to wonder if he was going to push her over the rail. Imaging the flutter of her fall made him smile as he hugged her in close to his side and gestured toward the hills where there was just enough moonlight to reveal a distinct pattern of lines.

  “A vineyard? Did they make this wine?”

  “We’ll make this wine,” he amended with smug glee. “The perfect climate, the perfect distribution, the perfect place to yield a hardy crop of whatever we wish to grow.”

  She was quick. He always liked that about her.

  “We’re going back into production here.”

  “Close to Las Vegas, close to Tahoe yet far enough away not to draw any attention. There’s only one other thing I need.” He waited a beat for her gaze to lift in question then scooped his hand below her chin to bestow a firm kiss she accepted without a flinch. “You.”

  “As what?”

  Such a mercenary mind. He smiled. “As my partner. The same as your mother was. As long as you can provide the knowledge your mother did.” When she didn’t respond, he nudged. “Can you?”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “Believe so or know so?”

  She stiffened at the quiet menace in his voice, but her eyes narrowed defiantly. “I’ll know so. But first, you have something that belonged to my mother, something I need if I’m to be sure.”

  He frowned, nothing coming to mind.

  “A book, I think.”

  “Oh! She gave me a copy of Macbeth. Something about pride before a fall or something like that. I never had a chance to read it. Plays aren’t my thing.” And he’d found the idea behind the gift more than a little insulting. Pot meet kettle, he’d wanted to drawl.

  “But you still have it?”

  Her anxious tone forced him to think more seriously. A book? What would he have done with it? Rosie had smuggled his belongings to him as soon as she’d been able. Would she have packed it? She’d have put more stock in it than he had.

  “I’ll have to look. I know where it would it be if I do.” The raw edge didn’t leave her expression, causing him to soften his approach. “Why don’t you get a shower and some sleep while I go through my boxes. I brought some of your things with me from Las Vegas. I’m afraid quite a few of them got in the way of my temper.” Oh, how he’d raged! Tearing through the things he’d bought for her as if the lengths of silk and satin had been her skin.

  “Thank you,” she replied, tone and attitude weary. “I was able to gather a few,
but most I preferred to leave behind.”

  “We’ll make this a fresh start for you then,” he declared with an unusual degree of warmth. “We don’t want you to be too recognizable. New haircut and color, maybe a softer look. You must admit, you make an impression no one forgets.”

  She smiled faintly, and he took that for agreement.

  Yes, that’s what they’d do. The voluptuous vixen would become a tepid mouse. That would hide her and amuse him at the same time. Then he alone could appreciate the diamond hidden within rough stone whenever the whim struck him.

  “I have a room ready for you below. It’s rather modest, but I think you’ll understand my reluctance to trust you near the keys to the kingdom.” When her expression didn’t betray the hoped-for disappointment, he continued more tersely. “You’ll have to earn that key. For now, you’ll be under tight surveillance. Rather like a diplomatic guest.”

  “Of course,” she agreed quietly. She glanced back into the room. “Is Rosie here? I’d like to thank her for all she’s done for me.”

  “She’ll be here by morning. You can have your girl talk then.”

  Answering a buzz from his phone app, Bart appeared on cue in the open doorway.

  “Show Ms. Terriot to her room and take good care of her. She’s very precious to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The moment the two of them had gone, James rushed back to his office, to the closet housing his belongings from the Terriot compound. He’d had no reason or desire to look into them . . . until now. He dragged them out and ripped the tape open, tearing through the contents like a raccoon in a garbage bin seeking an especially promising treat. Finally, he sat back on the floor, the old and probably valuable volume in hand. He opened the cover and read aloud what Martine had written in her bold hand.

  “False face must hide what false heart doth know . . . Let’s make us medicine of our great revenge.”

  He frowned. Crazy bitch. Why couldn’t she say things she knew he’d understand? Then he smiled.

  “Medicine of our great revenge,” he mouthed again, this time savoring the words. Yes, they would.

  He thumbed through the pages, looking for any notations or messages he’d not seen before, finding nothing. He tossed the book on his desk and lay back on the thick carpet to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling.

  False face.

  Yes, indeed. That’s exactly what would bring his cocky little brother to his knees. The face of a friend. He smiled, closing his eyes, imagining Cale’s surprise. Imagining a well-directed blade this time finishing what his had started, reveling in it until he was able to relax. And finally, after days of frantic action, sleep.

  Rest eluded Sylvia in her modest room below. She turned and tossed on the acre of empty bed. Just as slumber crept over her, she’d stretch out a hand to find cool sheets, and the pain of it shocked her back to wakefulness.

  Where was Turow? Was he, even now, somewhere out in the darkness, lying in wait for her plan to succeed? Or were he and Cale still in Las Vegas, having been misled by James’s clever decoy and at a loss as to how to find her?

  Wherever he was, she refused to wish him here beside her, not until she finished what she’d come to do.

  Play a deadly game with a madman.

  She must have drifted off. After a torment of restless, unremembered dreams, she opened her eyes to daylight, hugging tightly to her pillow as a poor substitute for her preferred bedfellow. Anxious, disappointed, she lingered a bit longer, holding to the imagined scent of him, to the rough purr of his voice.

  I love you, Syl.

  I love you, too. I wish you were here.

  Where are you? Tell me. Show me.

  Startled, she sat up, clutching the bedcovers against a shock of sudden tremors. The feel of his heat against her was so real! How could that be?

  “Row?”

  Of course there was no answer because he wasn’t there beside her. She was alone and afraid, and determined not to be either of those things as she swung out of bed.

  Sylvia found the closet modestly stocked with a conservative selection. No slinky cocktail gowns or shiny power suits, just slacks, blouses and lightweight sweaters. The Las Vegas glitter girl was MIA and, today, that was fine with her.

  After a brisk shower, she pulled on crisp black pants and a simple, steel-blue shirt with the low-heeled boots she’d arrived in. No jewelry and just a wisp of make-up, enough to cover her new bruise. A glance in the mirror told her she looked like someone’s wife about to spend the day touring the winery or playing golf after hitting the breakfast buffet. Simple pleasures not on her agenda. Today was an all work, no play day. And it was time to get things done.

  A tap on the door startled her. Bart, come to take her before her barbed-wire wrapped host? Was she ready for that so soon? Sylvia took a breath and answered the knock to find herself wrapped in perfumed arms.

  “We made it!” A very Rosie giggle of delight. “I just spoke to Jamie, and he’ll meet us down in the restaurant.”

  Sylvia struggled to pretend gladness. “What happened back in Vegas?”

  A sleek, smug smile showed a hint of the true Rosalee. “James’s idea. Just in case you were followed.”

  “Someone was following me?”

  Rosie soothed her pseudo-alarm. “If they were, they’re not anymore. It’s just us now. Like sisters.”

  Sisters, my ass.

  Until that moment, Syl hadn’t realized just how tightly she’d been hanging on to Cale’s assurances that they’d be close by. She sank into the truth that she was truly and terribly alone like deep, dark waters with no sight of welcoming shore.

  This was what she’d planned, this chance for a noble act to wipe the slate of her sins clean.

  And she could either sink or swim.

  She started paddling.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

  Turow took no reassurance from his king’s somber claim. It wasn’t about fault. It was about fact. Sylvia was gone, and by now, James probably had her.

  “Your brother isn’t known for having a gentle hand.”

  Had her and was going to hurt her.

  By the time Cale’s men had caught up to the decoy dressed in Sylvia’s clothing, the stolen cab in the alley, Sylvia and Rosalee were long gone. Turow and Cale had spent a long, anxious night awaiting word that never came.

  “I’d offer to let you hit me again, but I don’t think I’d survive it.”

  “It wasn’t your job to protect her. It was mine.” And he’d failed. Again.

  But if Row allowed panic and blame to paralyze him, he’d never have the chance to make amends for it. He took a deep breath and forced emotion to fall away until his thoughts were clear and filled with deadly focus.

  Where would James take her? Where would he hide? Why was he here in Las Vegas when it was so close to his family ties?

  Family ties . . .

  “We need to find out who among our brothers is working against you.”

  “Rosalee—”

  Turow cut him off. “Is a pawn. She doesn’t have the influence, the money or the clout.” He hated himself for saying it. “Colin? Your queen suspects him.”

  Cale thought a moment then shook his head. “I won’t believe that. He had the chance to take me out in New Orleans when I was . . . when I wasn’t myself.”

  “Or did he help you just to gain your trust?”

  “Wes. Sylvia thought it was her brother. Maybe she was right.” Cale put his head in his hands. “Dammit, Row. I don’t want it to be any of them! All I’ve ever wanted was for all our brothers to be united, to have a voice, to be strong. Maybe I’m not the one to hold them together. Maybe there’s too much of our father in me.”

  “You’re the one they need, Cale. You’re the one with the vision. Stop apologizing and make them see it. I believe in it. Kendra knows it. You try to wimp out on me now, I will hit you again, and you won’t wake up for a week.”

  Cale blinked. “Well
. . . hell. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I don’t feel. I know, brother. You’re the one who’ll make us strong again, proud again, whole again. Now get your shit together and get it done.”

  Cale smiled ruefully. “If only I had dozens more like you.”

  “You do, my king. Just waiting for you to show them the way instead of dividing them over things that aren’t important. That’s . . . that’s why Syl and I won’t be going back home with you.”

  “Won’t . . . what?”

  “We won’t become a wedge between you and the things you want to accomplish.”

  Cale laughed, loud and long, before patting a disgruntled Turow on the shoulder. “Brother, listen to your own words. You and Sylvia are the example they need. Your loyalty. Her courage. Our family’s strength shines in you both. Now suck it up and let’s find her. I’ve already got some things in motion. C’mon.”

  Leaving the studio apartment behind was like walking away from his ties to Sylvia. She was there in that room—her scent, the memory of her laugh, her sighs. He wanted to protest that she’d come back there first to find him, but the truth was she wasn’t coming back. It was up to them to go after her.

  He followed Cale from seedy street to soaring penthouse where another surprise waited. Their youngest brother, Kip, sat on one of the plush couches, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop. He didn’t glance up as Cale moved behind him to hook an arm about his neck for a squeeze, a knuckle rub across his longish hair and a fond, “Hey, baby. Thanks for rerouting your flight.”

  After a distracted slap in his king’s direction, Kip gestured to the screen. “Traffic cams caught up with them here and there.” He singled out two of the images on the screen. “Looks like they left the city on 160. That’s as far as I could track them.” He looked to his middle brother with a regretful, “Wish I had better news, Row.”

  Turow nodded. “It’s more than we had a minute ago.”

  While none of the princes’ had any formal education beyond the tutors they terrorized and hands-on in the family businesses, Kip had a thirst for knowledge and, despite his brothers’ ribbing, enrolled in countless online classes, mostly in tech fields. Turow was grateful for that now.