by Nancy Gideon
There was something different about Colin Terriot. Mia couldn’t pinpoint what as she leaned back against the door. He refused to acknowledge her, busy adjusting the bass on the tape deck and volume to near concert level. So he wouldn’t have to talk to her? Silence was fine. That still left the pleasure of looking at him. And looking at him was pure pleasure.
He had a model’s profile, all cheekbones and hollows, arched brows over smoldering, heavy-lidded eyes, refined, narrow nose and pouty mouth with its lusciously lower swell and the beautifully etched peaks of the upper. Add a dapple of scruff and slightly cleft chin, the floodlight of his Terriot diamond ear studs and short, reddish gold hair—glorious.
He mouthed the words to the bouncy rock song, eyes on the road as if she wasn’t there. For the moment, she let him pretend, watching his hands stroke the steering wheel, wishing they were moving over her with such tender attention.
Using this Terriot prince was part of her business plan. Wanting to lap him up like expensive champagne because of the way he tickled so wickedly all the way down wasn’t. He was dangerous, and she didn’t care. She should stay away, but she refused to take that warning as seriously as she should have.
He started moving to the music, a subtle bob of his head at first, then the pulse of his knee, a rock to his shoulders that finally put his whole body in motion as he started singing loudly to “Jet Airliner,” its lyrics filled with leaving friends and all the people he trusted at home to move on. When he sang “with tears in my eyes,” did his glisten suspiciously?
As if he’d left Tahoe for good.
Was that true? Was that what he was doing, what this strange mix of melancholy and anticipation was all about? Was he moving on? To New Orleans? How interesting that would be. A whisper of temptation made her look away because it scared the crap out of her.
When the tape ended, he didn’t put in another. The silence inside the car thickened liked the damp humidity blowing in through his partially opened window.
"So,” she began at last, “where did you get those love taps on your pretty face?"
“Is that what you wanted to discuss?” He glanced her way, expression carefully neutral. "One was a miscommunication regarding my new sister-in-law. The other was deserved."
"From Rico?"
"The deserved one." She thought he'd leave it there, but he didn't. "Not my finest hour." Then he looked straight ahead again without giving a clue as to his true thoughts as he said simply, “I apologize.”
"To me?" She chuckled, low and husky. "You should have done that to him."
"I couldn't. I was unconscious at the time." A small, reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “How did you get back here ahead of us?”
“Thought I’d better get while I could last night. I didn’t know you had such a twisted sense of humor. I was expecting to be deported in a body bag.”
“Do I need to apologize again?” He sounded testy this time.
Time for a little honesty to ease the tension. “No. I was where I didn’t belong. The danger could have been very real. It was a careless thing to do. I couldn’t afford to not believe you.”
She let her gaze appreciate his profile once again, finding it both tough and at the same time almost delicate. The same couldn't be said for the rest of him. His body was all snarling male virility wrapped in leather and taut denim. Irresistible.
"Do you know what I find the most appealing about you?"
He didn’t answer immediately, and she thought he might not, until he offered, "My winning personality?"
"That first night at Casper Lee’s party, I was supposed to pick one of you to get close to. I chose you.”She watched him mull that over. He couldn't resist slanting a look her way. "Why?"
"Your freckles."
"My what?" He scowled, totally blindsided.
"Oh, you're gorgeous and beefy and all that, just like the rest of your brothers. And you've got that rough-engine voice, but the first time you smiled, I saw those adorable freckles." She sighed. “There’s something about that sweet little sprinkle on top of all that hot, yummy goodness."
A big laugh burst out, trickling down to a genuine smile. She felt shivery all over again as she added, "I like looking at you, touching you. And I like watching you move. Will you dance for me sometime? Like you did last night?"
His gaze cut to her quickly then returned to the road as he puzzled over how she’d seen inside their private party and the partial strip tease he’d done with his brothers.
"Rico showed me a video someone took with their phone. Steamy. That bit with the chair. I'd like to see those moves."
"You've seen all my moves, Mia," he reminded tersely, "and were kind enough to tell me you weren't overwhelmed."
"Oh, you're wrong there, dreamboat. So,” she coaxed, “where are you ranked on the list?"
Another quick glance. "What list?"
"The one your clan females keep regarding performance."
A longer displeased glare, followed by a non-boastful, "Nine years, reigning champ."
"Do they give out plaques?"
"That's not what they give out." His tone lowered to a less amused rumble. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Just making conversation. I wanted to learn more about your family, but all anyone could talk about was how proficient you all were with your fists and your royal . . . accessories. Some men are actually proud of their accomplishments. But not the Terriots. What are those four things Rico brags about? Drinking, dancing, fighting and fucking? An impressive resume.”
“What the hell else do we have to do, trapped up there with our vanity and our pedigrees, princes in the House of Pride? It’s not like we were ever allowed to make a damned bit of difference!”
Well now, this was interesting. A prince frustrated within that gilded cage of plenty. Was Colin Terriot able to act with the head on his shoulders over the one behind his zipper? Mia wished she could see more than just the flex of his jaw. What would those gorgeous green eyes reveal? The path to a thinking man’s soul?
Finally, he offered his own rebuttal. “And what about you? So skilled in your job of seduction. Do the Guedrys give classes on that? Scholarships for pole dancing?”
This wasn’t a direction she’d wanted their conversation to take, looking for information, not revelations of her own motives. Part of her wanted to know if he was interested or capable of seeing beyond the surface she hid behind. But not now, not yet.
“I don’t think either of us can complain or be judgmental.”
He quirked a smile. “No, we can’t.”
So why was he?
"Reigning champion,” she pondered, steering the topic to less compromising ground, “I'm surprised you don't have dozens of mini-yous running around. No dishonorable ladies scheming to become a princess?"
An uncharitable snort. "Oh, I'm sure there are plenty."
"Yet you don’t suit up as preventative maintenance."
"None of us are shooting live rounds. All blanks until after we bond. Something about a change in our chemistry that releases those active little swimmers. Our father wanted to control where we planted his future forest. His mistress was into some heavy-duty witchy shit. Dosed all of us up before we started planting seedlings.” He shrugged, not quite as cavalier as he’d have her believe. “We're not susceptible to naughty diseases, so let the good times roll."
So why wasn’t he indulging in that good time in New Orleans? "Since when? You were five?"
A self-deprecating laugh. "Pretty close."
"Interesting way to guard the keys to the kingdom. Obviously, your father didn't practice what he preached. But you weren't casually scattered, were you?"
"No. I was the product of careful negotiations. Lucky me."
He didn't sound grateful. And he was obviously tired of the topic because he changed it abruptly. "So you couldn't find us."
Mia instantly grew wary. "Why would you think I looked?"
A harsh laug
h. "A Guedry pass up the chance to sniff around Terriot home turf? Rico may think you were interested in a romantic frolic, but I wasn't fooled."
"Probably why you weren't asked."
It took him a beat too long to answer. "A Guedry a stone’s throw from our home? Rico's lucky I didn't tell Cale. He’d have left with more than a bruise, if able to leave at all."
But moral outrage hadn’t stopped him from showing up at her door. Too drunk to know better? Or drunk enough to be hopeful?
"Why protect Rico? Because of what he did for you and your sisters?"
His attention snapped to her. Anger flamed in his eyes as he gritted out, "Don't you talk about my family."
Mia had never been intimidated by him until this tense moment, as threat pounded off him like clenched fists.
"I'm sorry," she began.
He cut her off fiercely.
"Talk’s over. Open your mouth again, I'll leave you on the side of the road."
She believed him, straightening to look ahead instead of enjoying a sideways glance at what might have been.
He took her to her hotel, came around with the engine idling to open her door for her. He stepped back to allow her plenty of room to pass and scowled when she hesitated.
“Thanks for the ride and the conversation.”
“Good-bye, Mia.”
“You say that like it’s a permanent thing.” Her light tone disguised the sudden hard twist of regret.
He didn’t respond, returning to the driver’s side without another glance, pulling away from the curb, not with a roar but a whisper.
Good-bye. Not if she had something to say about it.
“How was your trip? Find a back door into the Terriot kingdom via the bedroom?”
Mia was glad Thorne couldn’t see the contempt in her expression as she told him simply over the phone what she’d discovered. “No one’s going after them where they live. That’s not where we’ll destroy them.”
“You have a plan.”
A statement, not a question. So, he was finally taking her seriously.
“James Terriot gave it to me. Divide and conquer. That’s the way to defeat them.”
“Through that empty-headed pin-up boy you’re teasing?”
“No. He has no influence with Cale. But Colin does. He’s our leverage. And from what his brother’s told me, now’s the time to turn him. I need to get him to trust me. You said you had a plan. Time to use it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Was Mia the reason Colin’s homecoming had felt so flat? Or was it the personal baggage he’d brought back with him?
He found a great parking spot for his new baby, right out front where he could keep an eye on it. He sat inside it for a long moment, unable to step away from the rush of memories. His first lesson driving behind a similar wheel under his dad’s firm yet forgiving instruction. His step-brother yelling at the youngest girls not to let their ice cream drip on the seats where they giggled in the back, crammed in around him while their older sister sat upfront. A wash of sorrow swept away his smile, making him wonder if having this ever-present shrine to what he’d lost was such a good idea.
He was just tired. Nothing a solid eight in the sack couldn’t cure.
Toting his belongings inside, he waited for the sense of welcome to surrounded him, but it never came. Just empty rooms. Because he hadn’t made them his own yet. An easy fix. Dropping the bags on the couch, he began to unload them. He’d left his wardrobe behind in Tahoe to make room for his music, having plenty of clothes, but nothing except the albums and disks that meant anything to him. A wealth of mementos had been abandoned when he’d been driven from his true home in shame. Those crudely made gifts from his sisters, family pictures he’d taken, probably tossed out, burned. Like trash.
He’d make new memories here, starting with this intimate little rental. As soon as his transferred funds cleared, he’d buy this place and fill it with personal touches, of things he loved and . . .
He stood at a loss, wondering what those things might be. When had he gotten so shallow?
Shaking off his blues, he put some of the good kind on to play in soft, melancholy harmony to his mood. A quiet evening organizing his tunes and maybe a drink in front of the fire. Alone.
Suddenly, that aloneness filled up his small space, crowding him the way the noisy presence of his clan once had. Restless, he went to his fridge, finding only beer, took one, then grabbed the entire eight pack and carried it out onto the private terrace. Faint sounds from the Quarter seeped in through the iron gates that separated him from the merriment, teasing him where he sat somberly toasting his liberation.
He was dozing when he heard the throaty rumble of his bike followed by a loud, “Knock, knock,” at his gate.
“It’s open. Park it in here, not on the street.”
Rico wheeled the motorcycle inside, checking out the surroundings. “Nice place. Give me a tour?”
“Maybe later. Sit. Have a beer.”
Rico took the last one from the carrier, raising a brow at collection of empties. “Celebrating?”
“My new home sweet home.”
Features cautious now, Rico took a chair. “Whatdaya mean?”
“I’m staying here.”
An uncertain smile flickered. “Until the job’s done.”
“Permanently.”
Rico just stared, the idea unconscionable. “You can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because you can’t. You’re a prince in the House of Terriot!”
“So?”
“It’s too dangerous. Our family’s at home.”
“I don’t have family anymore. I have you to thank for pointing that out to me.” He picked up the beer in front of him and drank down the last inch then rose to head inside, bee-lining for the hard liquor on the counter. Rico followed more slowly.
“I’m sorry about that,” he was saying with true regret. “It was a stupid thing to do, and it backfired on me. You have family. You have us.”
“Us? The Twelve of the House?” He filled a glass with bourbon and took most of it down neat, letting it burn through the thickness in his throat. “Oh, make that nine now. Jamie’s just as good as dead to us.” He raised his glass to the obviously stunned Rico. “Here’s to family, to the brothers who’ve spent my entire life trying to climb to the top on a ladder made of my bones.”
“I think you’ve had enough.” Rico snatched the glass from his hand and drank it down himself.
“I have.” He grabbed up the bottle and carried it back into the living room. “I’ve had all I can stand of the lot of you. Of the backbiting, the nastiness, the dirty politics, the blind ignorance. I’m sick to death of what we are!”
“You don’t mean that, Col. You’re just tired. Things will look different after a night’s sleep.”
“I’m looking at things clearly for the first time in my life, and I hate what I see. Bullies, brutes, stupid beasts hiding from a world we don’t belong in, pretending that we’re better and stronger alone just because we’re scared of everything we can’t control. We’re mean and cruel and too ignorant to realize that our strength is built on hate and fear, and that our biggest enemy is our own pride.”
“Maybe before Cale, but he’s—”
“What? Better than our father? Not by very damned much! He’s just a better liar.”
Rico’s features firmed. “You don’t mean that. You’re just drunk and jealous and talking outta your ass.”
Colin shook off his hand and pushed away, hard. “I’m not drunk enough to swallow down Cale’s sanctimonious shit. Not after what he’s been doing to—” He caught himself before speaking of that ultimate fall from grace their brother had taken in his eyes. Sick at heart, he hoped what he’d learned from Sylvia wasn’t true.
“Be careful how you talk about our king,” Rico growled with a low, threatening ferocity.
“Why? Or you’ll get me in trouble? You’d like that wouldn’t you? To not
be the fuck-up of the family for once in your life? To be better than me? To get back at me for your crappy life that you’ve always for some damned reason blamed me for?” Even hearing the ugliness of his words as Rico paled couldn’t stop them from pouring out. “Get your own life, Frederick. Get your own family, your own female, your own respect, and stop trying to pretend what I have is yours!”
“I’m trying to be your friend.” Even as Rico said that, he found himself shoved against the wall with Colin’s forearm wedged beneath his chin.
“Why are you still here?”
When Rico started to speak, the pressure increased, making his answer impossible to voice.
“Don’t give me anymore of your crap,” Colin snarled. “Why am I tripping over you every time I turn around? We’re not Siamese fucking twins! We aren’t best bros. Up until Cale took the crown, I don’t think we ever said more than five civil words to each other. We aren’t friends. We aren’t pals. We haven’t got one damned thing in common . . . except Mia. Is this about her?”
Rico’s temper finally lit. “Is that why you’re so pissed? Because she chose me over you, and you can’t stand it? You can’t stand not to be the best, the Golden Boy who has everything? She chose me. Get over it!”
“Is that what you think? I know different. She’s just using you because you’re easy to fool. The Prince of Fools!”
“Well, I wasn’t the fool who came crawling to our door in the middle of the night like some pathetic beggar!”
The impact of Colin’s fist dropped Rico to hands and knees. Instead of scrambling up to defend himself or launch his own attack, he stayed down, nursing his jaw, not meeting his brother’s eyes.
An ugly panic started to brew in Colin’s belly, sensing something bigger, something deeper was going on.
“Get up!”
“I’m not going to fight you, Col.”
The subdued response was so not Rico Terriot. Colin struggled to find some logic in the situation by goading his fiery-tempered brother in hopes he’d give something away.
“Why not? Because you know I’m right? That I’d win? Or is it because you think I’ll fail? That if you whittle away at me long enough, you can get the best of me?”
