Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2)

by Angel Payne

  I nod, finally beginning to understand. “And the time got right.”

  “More right than Chantal ever hoped for.” He uncaps one of the bottled waters stored in the ice bay. Takes a quick chug before continuing, “She already had the explosion ready to detonate, Mishella.” He tips the neck of the bottle toward me. “It’s just a damn good thing you were at his side when that bat shit bunny decided to push the red button.”

  A note gets jotted in one of my mental journals. Cassian, Doyle and rabbits…just weird flukes? Outwardly, my nose crinkles. Then harder. “So…this would probably be happening, no matter what?”

  Doyle spreads his hands. “No matter what.”

  “So I am not a not a pot?”

  He grunts. “Nor a kettle.”

  It takes me more long minutes to process that—though have a viable excuse due to gaping at the throng of reporters at Temptation’s front gate. Did they conduct some strange mitosis while we were gone? There are four times as many of them now. It surely has something to do with Cassian’s dramatic conclusion to the interview with Chantal, and that “viral” phenomenon I am still not familiar with—nor am sure I wish to be. Some aspects of living in this modern world really are better as mysteries.

  As Scott slows the car in front of the frosted glass doors to the basement’s elevator lobby, I look out at the portals, which are embossed with lustrous art deco lions. Blatant but appropriate irony, anyone? My lazing lion has been poked, and is now awake.

  Very awake.

  “Doyle?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think Cassian expected this?”

  “Maybe.” His head cants to the other side. “Probably. But I suspect—I’m sure—there was a part of him that still hoped…” He snorts, meshing his hands back together. “Ah, hell. You know Cassian, yeah? Bad-ass billionaire on the outside”—his hands fold tighter—“mush-ball of chivalry and do-right-not-easy on the inside.”

  My lips lift readily. How can they not, after six weeks of seeing that code at work every day? Everything from insisting Prim source most of her grocery list from local suppliers, to standing up for safer labor conditions for workers on his overseas projects, to insisting I learn every superhero’s moral code during our movie nights…the man needs to believe that in his small and not-so-small ways, he is contributing to the cause of right in this world. Balancing the wrongs from Damon and Lily—and the child he will never know.

  The halves of Doyle’s jaw battle each other for a second, before he reaches some kind of inner resolve. “You know, he and Chantal actually used to be really fond of each other. Not like that,” he hurries out, as if forecasting my stiffened spine. “She was a new reporter on the ‘chatty news’ scene, and needed to make a mark. Cas has never forgotten what it was like to be the new kid, and constantly judged. He had empathy, and helped her out with some quality one-on-one sit-downs. When she landed at People and Places, Cas was even at the celebration party.”

  A breath whooshes from me. “Oh, my.”

  “Yeah.” He grunts. “Oh, my.”

  “No wonder he reacted this morning as if his best friend had smashed a grenade into his heart.”

  His turn to straighten a little. Press a weirdly dainty hand to his chest. “Uh, yeah. It does.”

  “And…?” I prompt, when his stare lifts in a bizarre spurts.

  “You Arcadian women have weird violent streaks.”

  “So do you American men.” In a mutter, I amend, “Especially Mr. Court.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Which mean he’s going to destroy Chantal in court.”

  “Probably.”

  Fitting or not, it is the thought I am left to ponder as we get out of the Jag and make our way inside—which suddenly feels like as much of a cage as the confines of my mind to these whirling thoughts. Before the elevator even rumbles to life, I have punched the button for Temptation’s ground floor, instead of the top.

  “I need a few minutes to myself,” I explain to Doyle. “Nobody can see the herb garden. I shall be all right there.”

  He nods, resigned. The little space, tucked against the complex’s back wall, is a secret Prim let me in on just a few weeks ago, when I complimented the fresh herbs in her lasagna. She beamed when showing me the garden, a haven not only for her organically-grown herbs and flavorful plants, but also containing a butterfly grotto and a reading hammock beneath a sprawling linden tree.

  Today, not a leaf on that tree budges in the stifling summer heat—though I am grateful for the shade and the respite of the garden after the chaos of the morning. A sigh escapes. Chaos. It was barely a word I knew until two months ago. It seems to be my middle name now. But given the choice, would I return to the pace and stability of Arcadia instead of this insanity?

  Because two months ago, I did not know several other words either.

  Like desire.

  Like longing.

  Like Cassian.

  Like love.

  With a wistful smile, I let my hand trail along a lavender bush. It is a warm weather lover, and tells me so with the bloom of soft fragrance against my fingers. “You just enjoy blooming where you are planted, hmmm?”

  Do I take a cue from the flowers? Obey the call of my heart and truly try to see what will bloom if I allow some deeper roots with Cassian? Or am I destined to be nothing but a pretty window decoration here, vibrant and lovely—but trapped in the confines of a pot, set for one purpose alone, while my roots constantly fight that pot?

  “Whatever it is, the fate of nations doesn’t rest on it. Not today, at least.”

  My head snaps up at the interruption—not because I am stunned someone has found me here, but because that someone is not Doyle. Nor Scott. Nor even Cassian.

  Though for a second, I did think it was Cassian.

  What. On. Earth?

  Those very words race up my throat but are frozen halfway, paralyzed as if caught by an ice ray from one of Cassian’s super heroes—making me wonder if the stranger standing here, tall and muscled and full of a little too much pride in his stance, might even be one of them in the flesh. He needs a better costume, though. Those faded jeans, cuffed work shirt, and sheen of sweat make me wonder if his out-of-nowhere appearance had its origin point on a mythical planet, or just in the sewer just outside the mansion.

  And why am I standing here, even debating these things?

  Move. Move, before he realizes that you plan to. Run. Run!

  “Please.” Too late. He slides in front of me, dangerously fast and graceful to the point of slick, again like a scene from one of Cassian’s movies—when the bad guy wants to block the hero’s girlfriend from escaping his clutches. “Just hold on, okay?”

  Clutches. Pegged it. He lifts a hand to my elbow, making me skitter back, swinging the only weapon in my possession: my purse. Since the Kate Spade Mini Candace only contains my phone and a lipstick, I make sure the hit counts—and am glad I paid attention when Saynt insisted on schooling me in self-defense basics.

  “Ow! Shit.”

  “Stand back, bonsun—or I shall scream.”

  “Christ.”

  A schism of shock rips through my belly once more. Radiates like bolts from a plasma ball, fractioning through my toes, my fingertips, even my hair follicles. His voice. Why does something in its baritone timber catch my breath and stop my senses—

  As if Cassian has just walked up instead?

  And with that thought, I take in the sight of him again. Really look at him.

  Thick, dark blonde hair that seems to be the Court family trademark—though tamed more by a nearly military cut. Eyes, arrestingly green—though lighter, like Mallory’s, instead of the deep forests of Cassian’s.

  Dear, sweet Creator…

  That is not all. He has dimples—prominent ones, even with that furrowed frown on his face. And his angular, formidable jaw…and that mouth, hinting at a hundred kinds of expression…

  “Wh-what—who are—”

  The s
tranger steps forward, making me counter by stepping back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you—or hurt you. I’m here because I need to talk you.” Another attempt at an advance—halted as soon as I arch the purse back once more. “Fuck. My intel was right. You are feisty.”

  Fume. Again. I like it when Cassian calls me feisty. From this stranger, it is…too personal. “What the hell do you want?”

  He rolls those bright green eyes. “I told you. To talk.”

  Another jolt hits my stomach. “Fine. Talk. From over there. You have two minutes.”

  His shoulders drop by an inch. He rolls them just once, while resetting his chin. No more eye rolling. He drives that bright green gaze straight into me, before stating, “This may take more than two minutes.”

  “Why?”

  He exhales. Folds his hands at the small of his back. “I’ll start at the beginning. My name…is Damon Court.”

  *

  My ears and my mind are mismatched fuses. The syllables have gone in but nothing about them latches to a single anchor of comprehension—except that somewhere deep inside, my instinct connects with his truth.

  “No!” My protest screams from my soul but only scrapes the air, a rasp disappearing against the air’s humid cushion. My body is a contrast of eerie composure, motionless even as Damon—no; not Damon; who the hell are you?—advances by another step. “That—this is impossible.” That must be it. This is impossible. Not happening.

  “I know it sounds strange—”

  “Not strange!” My voice finally comes back as a gratifying snarl. “Impossible. What the hell did not you not understand about impossible?”

  “Mishella—”

  “He is dead. You are dead.” Which explains how you already feel you know him? How his presence just—clicks—deep within, in that same way it does with Cassian and Mallory? How he is so much like both of them, peering at you with such familiar intensity, it makes you tremble? How he steps even closer, one side of his face lifting to produce a dimple so deep, it speaks of his genes louder than the hair and the eyes and the stance and the—

  The everything.

  Oh, my.

  Oh…

  my.

  “Well.” He settles his stance again, like a lion anticipating battle—just his little brother. Dammit. “Clearly, I’m not dead.”

  “Do not be flippant,” I retort. “You have not earned the right to be flippant.”

  The dimple vanishes—though that gleam in his eyes, a combination of assessment and enticement, pulses brighter. “Well. The boy wonder picked himself quite a spitfire, didn’t he?”

  “Who?”

  The gleam softens. Just a little. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Just a nickname from long ago.”

  From long, long ago, you selfish bonsun. The fury, overriding me like bloodlust on behalf of the family he has subjected to fourteen years of grief, makes me long to give the lion the fight he deserves. And the smell of his own blood. And the scars of my scratches across his serene face.

  Which would do what for you? Or for Cassian?

  The logic makes my stomach churn, my mind spin. I feel thrust onto a jetty in a storm, rooted on solid rock but buffeted by waves of mind-jarring force, threatening to blast me away.

  Remember your rock. What would Cassian do with the waves?

  Force them back. Part the damn sea. Strip everything away, until the damn sea obeyed…

  I bind the thoughts to me, drawing in more strength—until they reveal a surprising shore. Clarity. “Wait,” I murmur, gaze narrowing at Damon—or whoever the hell he is. “Have you just been lurking—and how long have—and exactly how did—” I stop my stammering to peer around, senses doused in feedback. The din of the media mini mob. The squawks of the radios from Doyle’s added security guards. The added electricity in the air because of it all, despite the ten-foot-high wall bordering the entirety of the complex. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  He jogs his head at the back wall. I cannot acknowledge it as an answer, despite the scuffs on his hands and clothes confirming his validity. “Just up and over.”

  I pull in a sharp breath. “You are a liar.”

  Well, not technically. Cassian pulled off the same move yesterday—but that was before Doyle’s new-hires started patrolling the back wall along with the automated security cameras. Cassian also owns the place—not a claim this lunatic can remotely make. The only thing he has proven accurate is his sneakiness.

  “A valid point,” he finally responds, all too coolly, to my allegation. “And true—about a variety of subjects. But not this one.”

  “So…you scrambled up and over?” I let anger cover for my incredulity. “Sweet-talked the cameras with your humility and good looks?”

  “Well, there were those,” Damon counters. “But mostly it was my training.”

  “Of course.” I spread my hands, shrugging. Sorry-not-sorry. “Your ‘training.’ As…part of the circus you ran away with? The rogue aliens who forced you to pilot their flying saucer for fourteen years? The mob cartel who kidnapped you?”

  That one makes him chuckle. “The mob. Good one. That comes the closest.”

  “To what?”

  “To the CIA.”

  My jaw wants to fall. Begs me to let it simply plummet to the ground—since once more, every shred of my intuition bellows about how ridiculously, incredibly, right he is. “The…”

  “CIA.” He repeats it as if just relaying he belongs to a book club or is allergic to chocolate. “It stands for the Central Intelligence Agency. We’re an organization dedicated to protecting our country’s security interests throughout the world—”

  “Creator’s toes.” I drop my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I know what the CIA is.”

  “Then you also know what I’m about to tell you could get me killed.”

  “Good. Then your mother and brother will not have wasted the last fourteen years grieving for your sorry backside…” Ass nozzle. How I yearn to borrow the “endearment” from Vy to finish off the slam, for nothing in Arcadian comes close to fitting. But I choose the higher road, dammit, falling into fuming silence.

  “All right. What I’m about to tell you could get you killed.”

  Long growl—before a prickled retort. “Then do not tell me.” I could not mean anything more. Prove it by spinning on my heel, with the full intention of calling security the moment I get back inside—then locking myself in a room to weigh out what in Creator’s name I plan on doing with this landslide of revelation. How I will be able to look Cassian in the eye, or ever hear another reference to Damon again, without telling him what I now know about the man…

  “Fine. Then it might get Cassian killed.”

  So much for that dilemma. Or for any of the tiny prickles in my nerves. All of my skin freezes—then bears witness to it in the lengths of my limbs, which stop me totally in place. The only warm thing in my body is the core of my heart—and the beats my spirit has reserved for Cassian there. Thankfully they funnel the heat inward, giving me fortitude to turn. To brace myself for that arrogance on his face once more—and the craving to wipe it away with my open palm.

  Thank the Creator, he has stowed it away himself. Now he looks sincerely grateful for my consideration—no matter how large the dose of anger with which it has come.

  “Fine,” I finally mutter. “Five minutes—which may or may not include the two you have already wasted.”

  Damon jerks out a nod. Repositions his stance again—which does not seem as strange, given his fresh revelation about training for an organization that specializes in secret, often non-conventional, tactics. Not that I have even approached an admission that his CIA fantasy is real. The man supposedly “died” at sixteen. Are there not laws in this country about recruiting a person that young?

  “All right.” He lets a long breath fill his chest—and a longer scrutiny of me take up his gaze. “Your rules. Ticking time clock. That means I’m going right to the ropes
.”

  I let my head tilt, while taking out the mental journal again. Right to the ropes. I have no bloody idea what it means, though the sound is rather pleasant. The ropes. Seems like some kind of medieval torture process. If he wants to subject himself to it, he has my full support.

  “Perfect,” I declare. “Proceed.”

  That earns me a double-take—though it is not a reaction I experience from most Americans. Most Americans—except, to this point, Cassian, and now Damon—treat the formal phrases I have learned since girlhood either as high insult or cute amusement. Cassian’s enchantment with them has been just another match beneath the flames that have melted my heart. But dammit, why does his brother have to share the same wiring?

  I am not going to be melted by Damon Court. Not by one damn degree.

  His wince, filled with equal parts discomfort and resolve, is much easier to accept. Yes. On the ropes with you, ass nozzle. That will do. Definitely.

  “Clearly, you know a little about me already,” he starts in.

  “Clearly.” I fold my arms, giving my watch a pointed glance along the way. I said five minutes and meant it. “And as long as we are being clear, more than a little.”

  He nods again. It is choppier than before, like a man accepting a lifetime jail sentence while knowing he is guilty of every crime on the indictment. “And as long as clarity is the theme, everything you’ve heard is probably true.”

  His humility makes my chest tighten. Then my arms. I will not soften. I will not soften. “All right. Enlighten me. What have I heard?”

  His arms plummet next to his sides—though the fists that punctuate the move remain. “I was…a screw-up. No other way of saying it, except that whatever Mom and Cas remember likely doesn’t touch the truth.”

  I cock both brows. “They remember a great deal.”

  His face twists again. I gloat inwardly. Yes. You hurt them. Now it is time for you to know it—and to feel it too.