by Angel Payne
I am tempted to swear by the saints again. No. This calls for my inner Vy—with her sidekick, Miss Screw Priority.
“Dammit to hell.”
*
Cassian
“Dammit to hell.”
I stomp on the Ford’s brake after rounding the corner—and spotting the mob of reporters from half a block away. The feat isn’t hard, considering they’ve brought all the big equipment, including telephoto lenses and video cameras. I even spot a few on-camera reporters getting sound levels checked.
Fuck. That’ll be the only easy bite I’ll get out of this newly lobbed pie at my balls—for that’s exactly where the bastards have aimed. I’ve always appeared at enough high-profile events, and been generous with quotes from the lobby of Court Towers, that the press gives me Temptation as a haven. On one hand, I can count how many times they’ve violated the boundary. The first was after Lily’s funeral, when the entire world wanted a piece of my grief. The next two were responses to the media version of booty calls, answering leads from “unknown sources” inside Temptation itself. Both times, I was “seeing” models who had high-profile marketing deals pending. Prim had ridden me hard about the first, and become a full girl bear about the second. You know, asshole, we’d all be better off if you’d think with the big head instead of the small one.
I groan softly. What will she say this time? And how the hell will I debate the point? Technically, she’s right. I wasn’t thinking wholly with the gray matter upstairs when redrafting that contract back on Arcadia. How could I have, after knowing what Ella’s elegant curves felt like beneath my touch…what the first bloom of her passion tasted like beneath my lips?
Ella.
“Christ.”
I say it and choke on it at the same time.
Did she make the media booty call?
“She doesn’t even know how to call nine-one-one,” I counter in a growl.
Then who? And why?
I stab the Bluetooth at my ear. Bark the speed dial number for Prim but end the call two seconds later. Whatever the hell has gone down, I’m not sure what started it, why it’s ballooned, or what we’re facing because of it—including these shifty bastards tapping into cell signals, if not full calls.
Waking up the phone has fired up its screen—where an unread text from Kate waits. Does she know anything?
I flip on the truck’s hazards, duck my head, and quickly read.
:: I’ve got your package. Nice ribbon. Waiting in the usual place. Avoid the tunnel. It’s packed. ::
One side of my mouth hitches up. Devious, wonderful woman. It’s all code, betraying she is more ahead of this than I am, and here’s the tow rope to help me get caught up.
The first line is the simplest. Package and ribbon equate to gift, translated into the Arcadian armeau—what Mishella Santelle has sure as hell been to me since the start.
The usual place takes a second longer. It could mean a number of our favorite dive bars around Manhattan, though that’s weak—it’s barely ten in the morning. While Kate enjoys trying to drink me under the table, the only time we indulged this early was the day I buried Lily.
The last line lends the final insight. The tunnel is Scott’s nickname for the underground delivery entrance into Temptation, accessed by the alley on the north side of the building—and a secret from the press until six months ago, when I started dating Amelie Hampton. The diva was just mildly annoying about her agenda at first—until she started responding to social invitations on behalf of us both, as well as hinting about the tunnel to a few key members of the Manhattan paparazzi corps. Three months after that, when I broke things off with Amelie, the clickers backed off. I was no longer juicy prey.
Looks like I’m back on the menu.
Which means someone, somewhere, finally grabbed a clue that I came home from Arcadia with more than a new contract and a case of the island’s fruit wine.
“Mishella.” I let it stalk up my throat like the raging, possessive lion with which I suddenly sympathize. The agony of my hand fades beneath its ferocious fire.
Because if I’m back on the media menu…
She’s in the middle of their merciless fire.
Fuck.
EIGHT
*
Mishella
There have definitely been days in my life that fit the category of challenging. Perhaps a little crazy. And one—the day I began by signing six months of my life over to Cassian and ended by stepping onto the tarmac at Teterboro—even surreal.
But insane?
I never considered any of those days as true insanity. Not in its purest form. Not like now. Not with the thought that sometime between leaving the hospital with Doyle and sinking to the living room couch now, I have fallen into a reality so bizarre, it must be insanity.
I reach out. Desperately and gratefully, curl my hand into Kate’s. Since arriving an hour ago—and enduring the gauntlet of reporters to do so—she has not been just my life ring in this turbulent ocean. She has been the life boat. Proving good to her word, she left the apartment attached to her Upper East Side gynecology office and came right over, without makeup or formal clothes, to keep me breathing through this wild storm.
“Breathe, Mishella.”
Literally breathing.
Reluctantly, I comply with her order.
My next action is easier. I snap an order at Doyle, knowing he already forgives the tone in light of the insanity. “Turn it up, Doyle.”
It—being the huge television monitor over the sleek wood mantel. The reasoning for my command? The now-familiar face that consumes the screen, accompanied by a smaller window in the upper right corner—with my picture in it.
A muscle thuds in the man’s cheek. He may forgive me for the tone, but the action itself is clearly another issue. “You think that’s really—”
“Turn it up.”
The other side of his jaw clenches. “Mishella. Don’t do this to yourself—or Cas.”
“Cas is not here!” I push Kate’s hand away, leaving her to trade another anxious look with Doyle. Beneath my breath, seethe out, “Where the hell is he?”
Kate checks her phone. “Still no response to my text.”
Doyle checks his. “But the GPS on the truck still shows it a half-block away.”
“So what the hell?” Kate voices it for us all, which does not stop me from jiggling both knees, fighting the acid-dipped nettles in all my nerve endings. Kate finally leans over, attempting to calm me while raising expectant brows at Doyle. “Give a girl a hand here, Knight. Turn up the damn volume.”
With a resigned sigh, Doyle complies. We are just in time for the start of the woman’s broadcast. She beams teeth like stadium lights, highlighted even more by her candy apple lipstick. Her voice fills the room with equally sticky sweetness. “And good morning once again, everyone. I’m Chantal Dunne.”
Chantal Dunne. I do not know the woman, but in the last hour, she has become my gut punch of a nemesis. The well-known anchor of the Top Global News Network’s People and Places segment, with her doll-like eyes, freckle-sprayed nose, and trendy but prim dress, is the perfect package for delivering three minutes of half-truths and speculation every half-hour. After all, who would dare question the veracity of such a cute little ginger?
The question—and its obvious, sickening answer—have turned into the lead ball now lodged beneath my ribs.
The woman lifts a conspiratorial smile before beginning her segment. “I’ve got just one question for everyone. Are you ready to be taken to court again?”
“Fuck. Me.” Doyle slams his ankle to the opposite knee. “The woman can’t even come up with a different lead-in than last hour?”
“The interns were busy playing beer pong.” Mallory gives a delicate smirk. “At least she’s not running for office.”
“Not yet,” Doyle mumbles.
“Bite your tongue,” Kate adds.
On the screen, the window with my face changes to a montage of images,
no less shocking than they were during the first broadcast. In one, Cassian and I are holding hands by candlelight over a private table at Daniel, both of us in elegant black cocktail wear. In the next, from the same meal, he’s feeding me a handcrafted wafer slathered with caviar. In the third, we are both in denim and dark T-shirts, taking playful pictures of each other with the costumed characters beneath the iconic Times Square billboards.
The next one makes me grit my teeth harder. It is from this past weekend, when we escaped out on his friend’s yacht on the harbor. We had felt free and alone with the sun, the wind, and the water, and took full advantage of the situation—not to the point of impropriety, but certainly pushing decorum to the naughty edge. Those moments explode to life on the screen now: shots of us cuddling, kissing, and even groping beneath each other’s clothes in our hunger to have each other…
I want to throw up.
Private moments. Intimate memories.
The world sees them all now.
Narrated with gusto by a smirking Chantal Dunne.
“Could there be another salacious scandal rocking the halls of Temptation Manor this week?” she drawls. “As many in New York’s social elite are already aware, Cassian Court returned from a ‘business trip’ to the beautiful Island of Arcadia with more than just some new business deals and a few seashells. Rumor has it that the gorgeous god of a billionaire, fresh from separating from socialite bombshell Amelie Hampton, fell hard at first sight for an Arcadian local, Mishella Santelle.”
Doyle humphs. “At least they got part of it right.”
Next to me, Kate emits a wistful sigh. When a twinge in my belly compels me to glance over, she murmurs, “Was it like that? He really ‘fell hard at first sight’?”
Despite the sliceable stress in the air, a smile emerges. I hear the ache in her voice, but also know I owe her more than a lie. “No. It was not like that.” I squeeze her hand. “I fell first.”
And one day, a god of your own is going to fall in front of you, Kate Robbe.
She sees that message in my eyes—evidenced by the little pssshh that bursts off her lips. “I’m just happy you make him happy, lady.”
Chantal Dunne makes it impossible for us to indulge any more feel-good moments—especially after new photos flash to the screen beside her.
“Wall Street’s prince of passion flew the foreign beauty back to New York himself nearly two months ago, where they appeared in public together shortly thereafter, at the Manhattan Literary Guild’s annual formal gala.”
I cringe. There is no other word for it. Viewing the images of Cassian in his finery from that night only makes me remember how most of them ended up: as a blood-stained heap on the floor of the ambulance, before the paramedics slammed the doors and took him from me. Shivering, even in the summer humidity, as the sirens started to wail…threatening to drown the echoes in my head of the song that he had whispered…
Cause you’re a sky, you’re a sky full of stars…
I’m gonna give you my heart…
“Following the gala, Mishella remained by Cassian’s side, getting tight with Mama Court by nursing him through minor surgery to repair a high school sports injury…”
Doyle grunts again. Thumps the air with a triumphant fist. “Thank fuck those non-disclosure agreements held with the first responders and nurses.”
“But a sports injury?” Kate flings a grimace. “Really?
“Model United Nations is a sport.” Doyle spreads his fingers upward. “Right?”
“Cassian wasn’t benched for long,” Chantal continues, seeming to relish when the “sexy date” pictures are re-cued to the feed. “And couldn’t wait to start upping his batting average with Mishella by playing charming tour guide all over the Big Apple.”
“And again with the sports.” Kate groans. “You see the slippery slope, Mr. Knight?”
Doyle grunts. “Meh.”
I wish I could laugh at their repartee—but wonder if they haven’t thrown it out for the sake of distraction to begin with. We all know what TGN has in store for the world now.
“But now, it appears that Cassian has had enough of charming—and that Mishella may have had enough of him.” Chantal braces both hands on the edge of her glass and chrome desk. Colored lighting turns the glass cutouts pink, matching the nail polish adorning her almond-shaped fingernails. “Though the couple seemed to begin the evening right, coming home early from a date at the Met Cloisters in upper New York—”
“By the creator. How do they know all this?”
“—things took a more dramatic turn a few hours later, when there was a flurry of activity inside the Temptation manor complex, on the Upper West Side.”
“And how the hell did they know that?” Mallory exclaims. “And where’s their proof?”
Doyle’s gaze tightens. “They don’t know it. They’re bluffing. Filling.”
“In other words, lying,” Kate huffs.
Doyle nods. “If they had the footage or images, they’d use them.”
I want to feel better about that—at least the monsters really cannot get inside Temptation—except that I know exactly what is coming next.
The attacks worse than the photos from the yacht.
Sure enough, the feed cycles to a picture of me, being helped by Scott and Doyle into Cassian’s custom limo—or so that is the truth of the matter, as we know it. Without context, the image takes on a different meaning, especially because my exhaustion makes me look ready to stab someone. The photo is usurped by a shot of Cassian, appearing as if he has the blade in his belly. His eyes are rammed tight, his jaw clenched beneath his thick stubble. He holds his shredded hand in front of him—only with all the blood and the poor quality of the image, it is difficult to determine what his injury truly is. I am positive the picture was taken upon his arrival to the emergency room, when Doyle and I were flanking him, though both of us have been completely cropped from the shot.
Surprise, surprise.
Chantal leans toward the camera, once more giving her viewers that “just between us” expression. “Within minutes, Cassian was rushed to the hospital, covered in blood and clearly in pain. People and Places has learned he was treated for ‘numerous lacerations’, and was not a pleasant patient at all.”
“Because it was the middle of the night, and the doctor was an overcultured prig!” I push to my feet, wondering where a convenient shower door can be had to put my hand through. No. I shall put Chantal Dunne’s hand through it instead, then see how “pleasant” a patient the woman is.
To my dismay, she goes on, both hands intact. “Mishella did show up at the emergency room but left a few hours later, appearing tired and worn out. Onlookers wondered if trouble had indeed come knocking at Temptation, and whether it was she or Cassian who’d answered the door.”
I twist my hands against each other in my lap. “Tired and worn out is usually what happens when one has been up all night.”
“Breathe.” Kate wraps an arm around me. Rubs my shoulder. “She’s after ratings, and she’s getting there on your back. Don’t hand her the reins and the crop.”
A final photo appears, showing a different angle of my departure from the hospital. I duck my head, unable to look anymore. Could the angle and lighting have been more unflattering?
“Though Cassian was nowhere to be seen, his custom Jag XJL was on hand for enchanted carriage duties back to the manor. Mishella was escorted on the ride by Cas’s personal valet, who looked none too happy about being assigned to babysitting duty.”
Thankfully, the first reaction to that comes from Mallory—in the form of a nasal scoff. “None too happy? Imagine that.”
Kate gives the humor an acerbic snort. “Now we know the interns were beer ponging instead of researching.”
Before she finishes, Doyle is back on his feet and stabbing the remote, banishing Chantal to the land of mute once more. “Since when is this kind of crap considered ‘news?’”
“Since when are you suppo
sed to be watching it?”
The interjection, coming from the landing behind us, has me pushing from Kate, exploding to my feet, then scrambling over the back of the couch. On the other side, I stumble and nearly fall the final two steps—but at last I am back in his arms, inhaling the cotton of his shirt, the grit of the street, and the lingering iodine from the ER, along with his perfect, unmistakable musk. He accepts my weight with a discernible grunt, making me all too aware of the pain he must be in, but when I shift away he jerks me back, refusing to let go. His left hand tangles in my hair. His right strokes up my back, the bulk of the bandages lifting my shirt and abrading my skin.
It feels…wonderful.
And freeing.
The relief of his return means I can now get truly mad. The dive feels pretty good, erupting enough so I can push back a little—far enough to smack the center of his chest.
“Where the hell have you—” My voice strangles when watching dust slough off his shirt. I drop my gaze, stunned to see the dirt is caked over the rest of him. “Cassian…where the hell have you been?”
At first, his answer is only a harsh breath through his nose. His elegant mouth finally twists, erupting with another pained sound as he tugs out Doyle’s truck keys, mistakenly using his right hand.
“For the love of the Creator.” I hiss it when the dolt makes things worse by tossing the keys to Doyle. “He is less than ten feet away.”
“And this is just a bandage on some stitches, favori, not a full cast.”
“Yeah, well…” Kay spurts a little giggle. “Those Model United Nations injuries can have hidden complications.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.” Doyle gives him a ruthless once-over. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“Dare I ask what you did with Dora?”
“Who?” I shoot a sharp look between them.
“His truck,” Cassian explains. He keeps his hand in my hair, fingertips making small circles against my scalp. “She’s fine,” he assures Doyle. “Parked her about half a block up, in front of the renovated Victorian.”
Doyle scowls. So does Mallory. Kate and I—and even Prim, who has entered with a huge plate of her handiwork from the baking binge—add our probing stares. Vocalizing the question behind all those looks is another challenge. Doyle rises to our rescue. “Wait. So how did you get in?”