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

by Heidi Rice

  He jerked his shoulder, the shrug carefully nonchalant this time. But the flags of color hit his cheeks. She had embarrassed him. How intriguing.

  “She worked so hard for all of us and she was always so exhausted, especially after the…” He stopped, the smile on his face flatlining as he concentrated on dousing his own pancake.

  “After the what?” Zelda probed.

  He swallowed, before his gaze finally met hers. “She had a miscarriage the summer I was seven. I was the only one there. Faith was asleep in her basinet and my brothers were out in the yard playing baseball. I came in to grab some lemonade for us all and went to take a leak. And there she was in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, with tears on her cheeks, her teeth gritted against the pain.” His voice had become so low, Zelda almost couldn’t hear it. “I’d never seen her cry before. And then I noticed the blood, spreading over the linoleum. She was six months gone, already big with the baby, but I knew it was way too soon.”

  “That must have been hideous.” And terrifying, she realized, for a seven-year-old to see his mother in that much distress.

  “I thought she was dying. She gripped my hand so hard the bones ground together. After the contraction finished she told me to call Pop. But I knew there was nothing he could do, so I disobeyed her for the first time in my life and called the paramedics instead.”

  “Surely your father would have called an ambulance?” she asked, surprised by the edge in his voice. The same edge she’d heard two days ago on the beach when he was talking about the pub.

  “I guess so, but I didn’t want to leave it to him.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked up from his plate, his expression neutral. “Because I figured it was his fault she was so tired all the time. They had to work such long hours to keep that damn place going.”

  She heard the raw resentment in his tone. So that was where his dislike of the pub came from? Borne out of a little boy’s fear for his mother.

  “And I knew it was his fault that she kept having babies.” He added. “Because he wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  “Wait a minute; you knew about the facts of life when you were seven?” She asked, unable to hide her shock.

  She’d loved her parents both a great deal. But they had always been so unattainable, more like celebrity icons than parents—glamorous and ethereal and so perfect. She and Sebastian would get a few precious hours with them each evening, after high tea in the ambassador’s residence, before her parents would be whisked off to another charity gala or diplomatic soiree. Her father would look handsome and debonair in his tux, her mother stunningly beautiful in some gorgeous designer gown, while Zelda would be ushered to bed by the nanny and Sebastian would either go to his room to read or head out for the evening with his friends.

  What she’d always thought of as a fairytale childhood, though, suddenly seemed very sheltered, and carefully orchestrated, in comparison to Ty’s.

  His mouth hitched up on one side in a lopsided grin. “I had three little brothers and a baby sister, and we lived in a three-room apartment. What I didn’t know, I had pretty much figured out by the time I was seven. My parents were both demonstrative people and they loved sex. Hence the five kids. And there wasn’t a heck of a lot of privacy in that apartment.” He leaned back in his chair, smiling now. “Damn, don’t tell me that I’ve shocked the unshockable Zelda Madison.”

  “I’m not shocked, just…” She paused, suddenly realizing she sounded hopelessly prissy. Worse, she actually felt a little prissy. Which hadn’t happened since she was about seven herself. “Surprised. I don’t think I ever even saw my parents kiss.”

  They had been far too polite and well-bred for public displays of affection, especially in front of their own children. This was the first time though, it had occurred to her that polite might be a euphemism for passionless. She had always idolized her parents, probably because of the shockingly sudden way in which she’d lost them. But she could see now maybe they hadn’t been quite as perfect as she had always believed.

  “Count yourself lucky,” he said wryly. “My parents couldn’t keep their damn hands off each other. When you’re twelve years old and just starting to figure out how much you like girls, there’s nothing more horrifying than catching your father necking with your mom over a barrel of Guinness a half hour before opening time.”

  Zelda snorted out a laugh. “So if they both enjoyed sex so much, why did you blame him for all the pregnancies? It sounds like they were both to blame.”

  He shrugged, looking suddenly sheepish. “I guess you’re right. I was a kid. If you know anything about Irish boys and their mammies, you’ll know that my mom meant the world to me. I wanted to look after her and protect her, because as far as I was concerned, she was the next best thing to the Virgin Mother… So, of course, I blamed him.”

  “How very Oedipal of you.”

  “Oedipus had nothing to do with it. I was a good Catholic boy with a healthy terror of sex drummed into me by the nuns at St. Patrick’s. It’s a miracle I’ve turned out so well-adjusted.”

  It was her turn to laugh. She got up from her seat and pushed his shoulders until he moved his chair back. Hooking her leg over, she sat down in his lap. The denim of his jeans felt deliciously rough against the soft skin of her inner thighs as she met his sheepish grin with one of her own.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I suddenly have a devilish compulsion to corrupt you. And damn you to eternal damnation. It must be the militant anti-theist in me.”

  He slid hot hands under the T-shirt she wore, the thick ridge under his button fly becoming more pronounced as she squirmed.

  “Ah, well, I guess I can be a martyr to the cause,” he said, putting on a perfect Irish accent as he stood up, holding her in his arms.

  He hefted her into the bedroom as she locked her legs around his waist and thrust her fingers into his hair to slant her lips over his. The sweet taste of maple syrup mixed with the heady taste of lust as she sucked on his marauding tongue. Callused hands cupped her bare buttocks, her swollen clitoris already aching for his touch. She let the endorphin rush wash over her, hoping it would sweep away all the sentimental thoughts of that young boy who had thought the world of his mother, and been determined to do anything to protect her.

  What would it be like to have a man like this willing to protect you? Not as a son, but as a lover?

  Her pulse jumped and she released the thick erection from his jeans, suddenly desperate to feel him hot and hard inside her. Raw, sweaty sex would have the desired effect and keep those disturbing thoughts at bay.

  She didn’t need anyone to protect her.

  Especially not Tyrone Sullivan. It would feel cloying and claustrophobic and far too intimate.

  But as she chased another endorphin high, determined to prove to herself and him she didn’t need Ty for anything other than sex, the look in his eyes as he drove her to orgasm didn’t seem cheesy or sentimental or claustrophobic. It felt tender and affectionate and completely, bloody terrifying.

  Chapter Eight

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  “It’s time to haul ass, Madison. Let’s clean up and get off the barge.”

  Zelda stretched and yawned, her butt smarting from the light slap that had woken her up from a perfectly pleasant doze in Ty’s arms.

  “You haul ass.” She pouted. “I’m still recuperating from your pussy-eating skills.”

  Ty whisked back the sheet and, ignoring her shriek of protest, hauled her up and over his shoulder.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re—”

  Another slap landed on her naked backside. “Watch out or I’m going to wash out that potty mouth with soap.”

  “You watch out,” she grumbled as he dumped her naked in the barge’s tiny bathroom and flicked on the shower. The rest of her outraged protest was drowned out by a deluge of cold water from the showerhead.

  Dunking her under, he continued chuckling as he soaped her tired body and doused her hea
d with his piney shampoo. She released a low groan and stopped struggling as his clever fingers massaged her scalp, then drifted down to untie the knots in her shoulder muscles. Her nipples squeezed into tight peaks as rough palms slick with soap suds, skimmed down to cup her breasts. Throwing her arms round his neck, she dragged him under the spray.

  “I’ll forgive you for your outrageous treatment if you come back to bed,” she offered, feeling relaxed and playful.

  She’d had a moment while they made love. But only a moment. They were still good, still fine. Maybe she’d dozed off in his arms again, but that was only because she’d been too comfortable to move out of them.

  And that lovey-dovey look she thought she’d seen on his face while they pounded each other into oblivion must have been an apparition, too, brought on by the echo of sentiment after thinking of her own parents while he’d been talking about his. She hardly ever thought about her parents now. Having mourned their loss too deeply as a teenager, she’d learned to lock the grief away.

  His thumbs flicked her nipples, making the ache pound in her sex, before he wrapped his arms round her hips, the fierce arousal on his face a joyous vindication.

  Nope, this was still just a sex thing. They’d made love two times already today before she’d dozed off. But still she wanted him again, even though she felt tender from their last sex-capade.

  “Nothing doing,” he murmured, contradicting himself somewhat as he nuzzled the sensitive spot under her chin. “We need to get the hell off the barge for the rest of the day.”

  She glanced out the steamed glass of the bathroom window at the gathering twilight, and ignored the prickle of anxiety. They only had tonight left. “But it’s practically bedtime?”

  “Bullshit, the night is still young.” He pulled out of her embrace, shut off the water and grabbed a towel. Sending her breasts a regretful look, he looped the fluffy white cotton over her shoulders and held it closed. “And I need some damn recovery time. We’ve hardly been off the barge in three days, and there’s such a thing as too much hot sex. I’m not fifteen anymore.”

  “But I like hot sex.” And while they were preoccupied with it, it generally avoided conversations about stuff that might give her more insights into Ty Sullivan the man, instead of Ty Sullivan the sex machine. She cast a salacious glance at his already thickening cock. “And that looks surprisingly perky for a guy who isn’t fifteen anymore.”

  He lifted another towel off the pile she’d laundered for him on Friday, and hooked it round his waist. Covering up the growing erection. She reached for the towel to yank it off, but he snagged her wrist.

  “Nuh uh.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Her heart bounced into her throat. “That can wait till later. I want to take you out, on a date.”

  “A date? What for?” She grinned, determined to tease him and ignore her erratic pulse. “Please don’t tell me that Tyrone Sullivan, the big bad attorney and all around super stud is a romantic?”

  He chuckled, despite the strain on his face. “It’s not romance, it’s self-preservation.” Turning her ’round, he gave her bottom a light pat. “Now go get dressed. We’re getting out of here before you kill me.”

  She felt that odd bounce again as they got dressed together in the small bedroom. She didn’t need Ty Sullivan to take care of her. But it wouldn’t do any harm to let him do it for a few hours. He seemed to need it. Probably all part of his Catholic guilt/shining armor routine. Ty couldn’t help caring for women, for people. It was why he was so good at his job. It wasn’t significant that he seemed to need to care for her. It was simply part of his personality—after spending his formative years minding his younger siblings, and trying to protect his mother.

  As long as she didn’t need him to do it, it didn’t really matter what he needed. And a date seemed charming. And would be something new to explore.

  Because she was fairly sure she’d never actually had a date before. She’d been far too wayward and self-destructive after her parents’ death to ever do anything as quaint as let a boy take her out. What harm could it do letting Ty take her out now? It wouldn’t be a real date, because they already knew she was a sure thing. And that lots more hot sex would be involved when they got back to the barge. Also, she’d come perilously close to breaking her no-cuddling rule. Having an audience for the next couple of hours might not be a bad thing.

  Once they’d gone through the marina security gate, she strode off across the parking lot, having figured out where he was probably taking her.

  He grabbed her hand, tugging her to a halt. “Hold up, where are you headed”

  “Aren’t we going to see a movie?” The marina parking lot backed onto a multiplex, so she had assumed a movie would be the obvious place for their date. And she was in the mood for something violent and dark and edgy, preferably without any lovey-dovey bits.

  Drawing her towards the SUV, he clicked open the locks. “I’ve got a better idea. How about we go to Coney Island?”

  “The amusement park?” The buzz of excitement hit her unawares.

  “Yeah. We could grab a couple of Nathan’s Famous, ride the Cyclone, neck on the Wonder Wheel and then take a stroll along the Boardwalk, maybe take a turn on the karaoke. What d’you say?”

  The buzz peaked. “That sounds wonderful, as long as you promise not to sing.” A bit too wonderful really, but she would deal with that later. Right now she was itching to find out what Nathan’s Famous were exactly. “I’ve never been to an amusement park before.” Her heart kicked under her ribs, at the childish anticipation in her tone. “It’s been on my bucket list ever since I was six.”

  “You’re kidding? Not once? How come?” He sounded so astonished, she felt hideously gauche and a little embarrassed that she’d revealed so much. Here was the evidence she was the pampered little, rich girl everyone—including him—had accused her of being.

  “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not my fault I had a hopelessly posh upbringing. The nanny would take Seb and I to all the museums and galleries while we lived in London, but my parents wouldn’t have been seen dead in an amusement park. I remember Seb tried to persuade them once to let him take me to Disneyland when we were in Paris for the Easter holidays.” She hesitated, the long forgotten memory of Seb before the accident, when he had been her adored fun-loving, big brother instead of the cold, forbidding stranger he had become, bringing with it the sharp pang of grief. “But they said no, because they felt it wouldn’t be suitable, or particularly educational.”

  Her entertainments as a child had been so carefully vetted and always so cerebral and sophisticated—the few family outings her parents had time for invariably part of their official duties—a garden party in the grounds of Buckingham Palace; the opening night of a play at the National Theatre; a performance of Bizet’s Carmen at the Paris Opera House; even a pre-Christmas shopping trip with her mother to Harrods one year had been to open the newly refurbished Food Hall. How funny to think, she had once been so good at being on her best behavior.

  “It all sounds so ludicrously pompous now, doesn’t it,” she added. “Especially when you think of the sort of things I got up to after they’d died.”

  “It doesn’t sound pompous. It sounds sad. And kind of lonely. What about after they died? Why didn’t your brother take you to Disneyland then?”

  Zelda shielded her eyes against the dying light, trying to assess Ty’s reaction. Why did he sound so serious?

  “Seb packed me off to a succession of boarding schools not long after the funeral, where I proceeded to behave so badly I was never permitted to go on any outings. And once I was finally free of school, I was tempted towards the sort of amusements that you don’t find in parks. Does that answer your question?”

  “He sounds like a selfish bastard.”

  “Who?” she asked, puzzled by the spike of anger.

  “Your brother.”

  Zelda frowned, dropping her arm. She didn’t need to see Ty’s face anymore
. And she really didn’t want to see his anger on her behalf. Because it might bring back the pointless yearning that had dominated so much of her adolescence, to have someone like him, someone older and stronger, care about her. To shelter her and protect her, and protest her innocence when the Mother Superior and her evil minion Iggy accused her of stealing the wine when she hadn’t.

  And it was far too late for that.

  Maybe Seb had abandoned her emotionally, at a time when she had needed him. But she was all grown up now. And she’d had to force herself to stop using all the things she’d lost that fateful day thirteen years ago as excuses to explain the mess she’d made of her life since. Ultimately, you had to own your mistakes, or you couldn’t correct them. All Ty’s sympathy and anger would do now was make her feel like that lonely, isolated, defenseless child again. When she wasn’t.

  And anyway, Ty’s anger wasn’t really about her. This was just his white knight complex talking. It had to be.

  “Seb can be a beast. You won’t get any argument from me there. But he isn’t selfish, he’s damaged. The accident damaged him. He was driving the car, and I think he blamed himself. Maybe that’s what messed him up, because something certainly did. But frankly, I don’t really care anymore.” Because she couldn’t afford to care—because trying to hold on to her brother, trying to understand why he didn’t care about her anymore, had damaged her, too. “So I guess if anyone is selfish in this scenario it’s me,” she added defiantly.

  Ty took her arm, tugging her round to face him, his expression illuminated by the gathering dusk.

  “He abandoned you, Zel, when you were just a little kid and he was the only family you had left. You do know you’re not to blame for that, right?”

  “Of course, I do.” She jerked her arm free, suddenly afraid that he would be able to feel the jittering pulse under his thumb. And see through the lie to the fear beneath, that she was to blame for Seb’s abandonment, because she’d been so difficult and so unlovable in the years after their parents’ death.