Tempting the Knight (The Fairy Tales of New York Book 2)

by Heidi Rice

  She forced a smile to her lips. The sultry, sexy, couldn’t-give-a-shit smile she had perfected over the years to hide the great big gaping wound in her heart. The smile that told everyone she was a bad girl, and that’s the way she liked it.

  “Now can we please stop talking about Seb? I thought you were going to take me to Coney Island? Not bore me to death with a conversation about my brother.”

  His frown arrowed down, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. She braced herself for a blast of temper at her failure to give this discussion the gravity he probably thought it deserved. But to her surprise, the blast of temper never came. Instead, he looked away, his face rigid, but when he turned back, he’d pasted an easy smile on those sensual lips. The muscle in his jaw was still twitching, though.

  “Fair point.” He opened the passenger door of the SUV. “Climb aboard, princess. We better get you to Coney Island before your chariot turns into a pumpkin.”

  She beamed her bad girl smile back at him, before placing a light, teasing kiss on his lips. “Let’s hurry, it’s not every day a girl gets to go on her first rollercoaster ride.”

  But as he climbed into the driver’s seat and backed out of the lot, it occurred to her even her first rollercoaster ride was unlikely to leave her feeling as giddy as Ty Sullivan had managed with one far too perceptive conversation.

  *

  “Hot dogs! Nathan’s Famous are hot dogs. And they’re delicious.” Zel’s eyes lit up, much as they had done most of the evening, the dark blue sparkling with enthusiasm as the light from the Ferris wheel a block away illuminated her flushed skin.

  Ty watched as she consumed another huge bite of her Nathan’s Famous, enjoying the way she devoured it, the way she’d devoured every new experience tonight—with an infectious enthusiasm at discovering new things, and without an ounce of the snobbery he would have expected from her three days ago. Before he’d come to know her.

  He didn’t think he’d ever forget the earsplitting shriek she’d let out when their car had arrived at the top of the Cyclone, the vintage wooden structure creaking ominously before they swooped down into the night. She’d held her arms above her head like a pro and screamed her lungs out right next to his ear.

  And he’d loved it.

  The woman was wild and untamed and all the more beautiful for it. There was a danger to Zelda, a sort of unstoppable joy about the way she consumed experiences, the same way she consumed sex. As if she were scared that it might be her last chance, so she was bound and determined to make the most of it.

  She was easily the hottest woman he’d ever dated. Not just in bed but also out of it. She made him feel alive in a way he never had before. He’d always been so damn cautious. Careful not to get sidetracked by the little things in life, because it was only the big stuff that mattered—working hard, achieving his goals, and making sure he didn’t step into the same trap as his parents, living a chaotic existence, with too many mouths to feed, in a tiny apartment running a business that sucked all the energy out of you.

  But right now, all his caution didn’t seem like such a great thing. Had he maybe been too cautious? Because how had his plan turned him into a workaholic who’d never made a real connection with any woman, who lived on a house barge that was little more than a pit stop and whose whole life had become a dull round of case files and plea bargains and trial dates?

  He avoided his family, rarely took time off and when he did, it was usually to crash into bed and think about the stuff he had to do next. Somehow or other his carefully planned out life had become no life at all. And he might never have figured that out, but for these last three days with Zelda.

  “Damn it, Zelda, that’s a capital offense.” He teased as she stuffed another huge bite into her mouth.

  “Wot iz?” she said, her eyes wide as she talked round a mouth full of bread and beef frank.

  “I don’t care how long you lived in London, you were born in Manhattan, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Which makes you a freaking New Yorker. And every New Yorker should know hot dogs were created in Coney Island by Nathan Handwerker.”

  She swallowed. “What are you, the pop culture police?”

  “Damn straight.” He grinned at the snotty tone, then brushed his thumb over her lip, catching the drop of ketchup that hung at the edge of her mouth.

  She watched him as he licked it off his thumb. The tart, sweet taste lingered in his mouth as she looked away, but he had spotted the flash of knowledge.

  Jesus, he wanted her again. The hunger hadn’t really gone away all night, even when they’d been playing the slots, or riding the Wonder Wheel, or joining in the karaoke dances on the beach. He had to be the only guy capable of getting aroused while busy shuffling his butt out of time to Cha-Cha Slide Part Two with a hundred other people. Or when she’d stood with her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her as they watched the fireworks explode over the bay signaling the last day of summer.

  The woman was like a drug, both potent and addictive. He dumped the last of his own dog in the trash as they headed back towards the parking lot, unsettled by the grinding weight in the pit of his stomach, at the thought that the weekend was nearly over.

  Neon lights glittered in the night sky, the piped music hyperactive and discordant as it filled the muggy air with fake merriment. The scent of popcorn and freshly cooked donuts smothered the sea air as they headed past the food vendors and hit the main thoroughfare.

  She finished her dog and he lobbed her napkin into a trash can, before taking her hand loosely in his. The soft skin felt cool in his, but she didn’t draw away.

  “I’ve had fun.” Her hand squeezed his. “Did you come here a lot when you were a child?”

  He could hear the wistfulness. And imagined her as a child. Lost and alone.

  “Not often, no. My folks couldn’t afford the time and money for vacations, and they were always stuck in the pub.” He kicked an empty cotton candy carton, then bent to pick it up—hearing the bitterness in his tone. But as he threw the carton in the trash, he felt a little ashamed of his resentment. His parents had always relied on him as a kid to watch over his younger siblings, and they’d never been able to give any of them much in the way of material goods, especially in the early days, when they were working all hours to change a failing business into a going concern. But those family trips to Coney Island had been a high point of his childhood.

  “But we used to come here once a year and it was a really big deal, because it was the only vacation we had,” he continued, allowing the old joy to take the bitterness away. “Pop would put a couple of big, old mason jars in the kitchen at the start of summer vacation which we’d have to fill with nickels and dimes and quarters as fast as we could. Finn and the twins would play for change on the sidewalk. I had a couple of paper rounds and did deliveries for Mr. Zunicki at the grocery store, and Faith, when she got to be a bit older, would sell lemonade after Mass. Mom and Pop would put into it, too, tips from the bar, or spare change from the grocery shopping. The deal was, once it was full, Pop would break the jar and we could go to Coney Island for a whole day. But he used to keep us in suspense for weeks, while my brothers would moan and carry on, insisting the jars were full. And then usually, when we’d all given up hope, Pop would come into the kitchen one morning with a hammer. We’d start cheering and whooping because we knew what it meant. Today was going to be Coney Island Day.”

  “Please, will you tell me about it? I used to adore hearing Faith’s stories about your family at school, but she never told me about Coney Island Day.” Zelda’s fingers squeezed his, her excitement an echo of the joy that had exploded in his chest when he was a kid and his Pop would arrive in the kitchen with the hammer. “And don’t stint on the details,” she added, her enthusiasm making her sound like a child on Christmas morning. Or even Coney Island Day.

  He laughed, feeling strangely proud and humble that he had the story to tell. “Sure, if you want.” He grip
ped her hand, set it swinging, realizing how long it had been since he’d thought of this—such a simple memory, but such a good one.

  Why had he always found it so easy to focus on the tough aspects of his childhood, instead of the good stuff?

  “Well, once Pop had smashed the jar, we’d run around laughing like loons while we scrambled into our clothes, and mom got Faith ready. Then Pop would send me off with my brothers, hefting the big bag of change ’round to Mr. Zunicki to get all the nickels and dimes changed into dollar bills. When we got back, there would be a ‘closed’ sign on the pub. And we’d all pile into the station wagon and Pop would tell me to count up the money and share it out between me and my brothers and, when she was old enough, Faith, too. But I always had to leave enough over to give myself an extra twenty dollars.’

  “Didn’t that piss off your siblings?” Zelda said, outraged as only a younger sister could be. “That you got more than them?”

  “Are you kidding me? They pissed and moaned about it every single year. All except Faith, who always stuck up for me, no matter what. But Pop would shut them up, saying I was the oldest and I did the most to help out, so I deserved the extra money.”

  How come he’d never remembered that either? That amongst all the responsibility he’d shouldered, and which he’d come to resent once he’d gotten older, there had also been all those small rewards and acknowledgements—which had made him feel ten feet tall when he was a kid.

  “I suppose that’s fair,” Zel said, still sounding aggrieved.

  “Hey, don’t get too upset. I always ended up sharing the extra money with my brothers and Faith anyway. Who wants to ride the Cyclone on their own?”

  “Not me.” She shuddered theatrically. “So what else did you do? Did you spend the whole day on the rides?”

  “No, eventually the money would run out, so we’d head for the Boardwalk. Mom would hound Finn and the twins into singing a couple of her favorite Neil Diamond tunes on the karaoke. Pop would stand in line to get us hot dogs for supper so we could eat them on the beach while we watched the fireworks. And Casey always threw up on the car journey home because he’d eaten too much candy.”

  Zelda laughed, the throaty purr rich and full. “It sounds like so much fun. What a wonderful family memory to have. I envy you.” He caught the wistfulness in her tone again. And suddenly felt unbearably sad for her.

  He’d been devastated when his mom died, the cancer diagnosis had been so unexpected, the swiftness of her death so shocking, and even though he’d been nineteen and just starting college, he’d felt the loss like a wound for years. And because of that, he’d been so mad with his pop, for not noticing how ill she was, for not doing enough to save her. And for falling to pieces when she’d gone.

  He’d needed to have someone to blame. But the truth was, it had been nobody’s fault. And while he’d missed his mother, he’d still had his brothers and his sister and even his old man—despite the fact the guy had been hollowed out by grief. What must it have been like for Zelda, who’d lost both her parents when she was so much younger and had nobody to take their place? Least of all her older brother?

  Did that explain all the dumb choices she’d made? The wild behavior and reckless misdemeanors? Had it all just been a plea for attention? For affection?

  He let go of her hand, and slung his arm round her waist, pulling her round to face him in the darkness. The urge to hold her, to kiss her and keep her safe, overwhelming. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty amazing,” he said.

  He looked back across the lot towards the pulsing neon in the distance, the raucous sound of piped disco music carrying towards them on the breeze, and recalled the aching sense of loss he’d felt as a kid when the fireworks had finished and Pop would declare it was time to go home for another year.

  Back then, the weeks and months it would take for the summer to come round again and the long days after that before they had managed to fill the jar with enough money to earn another trip had stretched ahead of him like an eternity.

  Because he was the oldest, and he knew his parents needed him to set a good example for his brothers, he had never kicked up a fuss the way they did when Pop said Coney Island Day was over. Even though for him the longing to stay had been painful, because he knew once they got back to the pub he wouldn’t be able to be just a kid again for another year.

  “You don’t seem too sure,” Zelda said beside him.

  He looked at her, the sharp sense of longing returning, but for something very different this time. Zelda had set her damn rules at the start of this weekend, but after everything they’d done together and how much they’d shared and how good she’d made him feel, he knew something now that he hadn’t known as a boy.

  Sometimes it was better to break the rules than stick to ones that made you miserable.

  “No, you’re right. It was amazing having my family with me back then.”

  Almost as amazing as it’s been having you with me for the last three days.

  He cradled Zelda’s cheeks, lifting her face to his, and saw the wariness in her eyes as her palms settled over his. “Ty, what is it? You look so serious?”

  He shook his head, smiling at the concern in her voice. “Not serious. Just happy.”

  This so wasn’t just a weekend booty call, for either one of them.

  “Happy I can handle,” she said, smiling as she relaxed.

  If she knew what he was thinking, she’d probably freak-out again, the way she had on Saturday when he’d given her a simple compliment. So he decided not to tell her. Not yet anyway. But even if he couldn’t tell her how he felt, surely there was no harm in showing her.

  So he sunk his fingers into the short curls of hair, angling her head and placed his lips over hers.

  She tensed for a moment, her hands covering his, but as he traced the seam of her lips, coaxing her mouth open with his tongue, she softened up again.

  The tempting tug of hunger weighed down the pit of his stomach like a hot brick, as he poured everything he felt into the kiss—the ardent strokes of his tongue firm and seeking. At last her tongue danced with his and he wondered if she could feel the solid thumps of his heart beating against her ribs.

  She dragged his hands down from her face, and drew back first, her eyes shadowed, her fingers trembling.

  “Let’s go home and fuck,” she said, sending him that confident come-on smile which was supposed to make him think sex was all she wanted. All she needed. But her bottom lip quivered a tiny bit and he could see the flicker of need in her eyes.

  She’d used the word fuck to shock him, to bring their relationship back to the level she was comfortable with. But Ty Sullivan had never shocked easy. And all he’d really heard anyway was the word home.

  “Your carriage awaits, princess.” He dipped into an exaggerated bow, opening the passenger door for her.

  She hopped into the car and he slammed the door. He said nothing as they raced home through the night. Or as he fucked her hard and fast, then slow and easy in the moonlit bedroom, bringing her ruthlessly to climax before he found his own release.

  He held her close afterwards, satisfied when she lay in his arms as docile and trusting as a child. Did she know she was breaking her own rules?

  “It wasn’t you, was it?” he murmured in the darkness, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

  “Hmmm?” she said, her voice heavy with sleep, as she snuggled against him.

  “Who stole the wine at that fancy boarding school.”

  It wasn’t a question, because he already knew the truth. Zelda would never have stayed silent, if she had been the guilty party. No way would she have let Faith get suspended over a crime she had committed. Or Dawn or… That other girl whose name he still couldn’t remember. Because under her bad girl exterior he’d discovered a woman who was smart-mouthed and strong enough to always own up to her mistakes, and far too aware of her own faults to ever judge others.

  She stilled beside him. “Why does it matter no
w?” she said, not contradicting him.

  He dropped his hand to her shoulder. Resisting the urge to hug her too tightly, he let his thumb drift backwards and forwards over her collarbone.

  He didn’t want to scare her. But he needed her to know this much at least. “It doesn’t, I guess, except…”

  She tilted her face up, those dark blue eyes wide with astonishment. And it crucified him. How could she not know how smart and strong and brave she was?

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, inhaled the pine-forest scent of his own shampoo on the blond curls.

  “I just wanted to say how sorry I am,” he continued. “For convicting you that day without a shred of evidence. For assuming you were the guilty one, because you were rich and privileged and I’d gotten it into my head that you were corrupting my kid sister, when you were just a kid yourself.” A kid who had lost so much and had no one to stand for her, or support her, except his sister and her friends. “You didn’t deserve that. I was being an asshole and I wanted to apologize.” He smiled, his Adam’s apple swelling to the size of a boulder in his throat. “Even if it is ten years too late.”

  She gave a half laugh and tucked her head back under his chin, her cheek resting against his chest. “That’s sweet, Ty, but entirely unnecessary.” She yawned, her cheek rubbing his sternum and making the hairs stand to attention. “Even if I didn’t do that, I was guilty of pretty much everything else. And it gave me a massive thrill when you noticed me, so we’re all square.”

  He chuckled but her confession only made him feel sadder. For that rebellious girl who had used her defiance to protect herself from being hurt. He held her, listening to the solid thunks of his heartbeat in his ears, the creaking of the boat as it settled into the tide, and the murmur of her breathing, as her body softened into sleep. He wanted to say so much more. But he forced himself to hold back.

  They’d moved on from a weekend booty call, surely she could see that? So what if their lives were worlds apart? They could make this work, if they were both willing to try. But he needed to put the case to her properly. And he would have more than enough time to do that before she left in the morning.