The Proviso

by Moriah Jovan

  “I hate it that you know me that well.”

  “And I hate it that you didn’t know me well enough when it counted.”

  That found its mark and Bryce’s mouth tightened with guilt. He looked at the tablecloth and fiddled with a fork. “I’m sorry,” he said for the umpteenth time tonight, not knowing how he could really make it right.

  “Look,” Know finally said. “It’s done, gone, kaput. Ding dong the bitch is dead. I’m just glad you’re talking to me again. I wasn’t sure you’d show up at all.”

  “And you’re not with Giselle.”

  “No. So are we square now? I’m in love with a twenty-three-year-old rising star conservative pundit-cum-kingmaker and I’m pretty sure Giselle’s in love with you.”

  Bryce’s gaze snapped up to Knox’s, feeling as if his heart had stopped. “What did you say?”

  “Dammit, I feel like I’m in junior high again. Do I stutter? You want her. She wants you. Figure it out.”

  * * * * *

  15: LITANIE DES SAINTS

  It was early morning before Bryce got home and stepped into a very hot shower. He leaned on the wall, took his hard phallus in his hand, and thought about Giselle, that night in front of the bodhisattva, what he’d wanted to do to her then, what he still wanted to do to her.

  This is Giselle’s brain child.

  What he wanted to do to her mind.

  His head back, hot water streamed down his face as he thought about her, her brain, her body—

  One gun in each hand. No hesitation. No remorse . . . They had to dig the other one out of her hip.

  His breath came harder, faster.

  She just gave your IQ a blow job and she’s not even here.

  He wanted that woman, her mind, her expressive face, her gestures and the humor that radiated from her body like her sweet perfume—hell, the entire gamut of her mood swings—across a dinner table from him, sitting beside him.

  Talking to him.

  Making him laugh.

  Fucking his mind.

  She put a gun to his head . . .

  He wanted that woman, her warrior’s soul, her fearlessness, her ferocity—in his bed and underneath him.

  In front of him.

  On her knees.

  Sucking his cock.

  The way he’d fantasized the first time he’d seen her.

  He sagged against the shower wall, his head low and his chest heaving, his orgasm having left him drained.

  This just wasn’t going to work for him anymore. It wasn’t enough. It had never been enough and masturbation definitely didn’t qualify as a component of a chaste lifestyle—

  —not that he had any reason to care anymore.

  In that entire conversation, Bryce had learned only four things that actually meant anything to him: Giselle had very little experience with men; she had a brilliant mind; she had a dark soul like his, which she displayed like a trophy; and

  I’m pretty sure she’s in love with you.

  Bryce couldn’t think, could barely move, and only did so enough to slide down the wall and sit on the floor of the shower, knees bent, legs spread, arms crossed over them, head back against the wall. He stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, then let the cool water sluice over him.

  She owns stock in Duracell and has a shelf full of erotica . . .

  He took a deep, shuddering breath and released it on a groan.

  . . . her taste runs to kinky . . .

  He didn’t care about Fen Hilliard. Didn’t care about Knox’s predicament—tragic, but oh well. Didn’t care about Taight’s war or that Bryce had nearly broken the man’s jaw. The only thing about Taight’s political problems he cared about was that Giselle had laid out an ingenious strategy for him. He didn’t care about anything in that whole saga except Giselle—and he didn’t even know why.

  One overheard proposition and the glimpse of a nine-millimeter strapped around Lilith’s thigh; one kiss in a parking lot; one rendezvous on an ottoman at an art gallery: Why? Why had those few moments been so profound and why did he keep churning them over in his mind now eighteen months later?

  She’s been . . . waiting for someone to sweep her off her feet . . . Congratulations.

  Bryce snorted.

  Giselle had grown up in the church and, according to Knox, still attended regularly. She also knew Bryce was a member of the church, although since he’d undressed her and propositioned her (assaulted her, you mean—no wonder she ran), she’d probably deduced a few truths about his state of mind.

  At least he wouldn’t have to explain anything to her, nor she him. The goal of any dating relationship in the church was marriage; one didn’t waste time dating for any other reason, especially not at their ages. Chaste, thus rapid, courtship, then marriage in the temple for eternity. They could both recite the drill by rote, and in that context, her inexperience didn’t surprise him in the least.

  Too bad for her, then, if she’d held out for a temple marriage all these years. It didn’t matter how badly Bryce wanted her; if he pursued her and she made that a condition of any kind of relationship, he’d walk away.

  Bryce had mentally broken his covenants time and time again since he’d come home from the hospital alone, without his children, without his face. But without his face, he’d had no chance of finding a woman fascinating enough to break them in deed. He didn’t know how to charm, how to seduce, how to do what ordinary looking men knew how to do. He’d never had to learn.

  Shit, Bryce, have you ever had to work to get a girl you wanted to go out with you?

  No. His face had done all the work for him; he couldn’t remember ever having asked a girl or a woman out in his life. After he’d come home from his mission and gone north to UCLA, he’d had his pick of the most beautiful women in southern California. There was no shortage of beautiful women in Kansas City, either, so the invitations hadn’t stopped just because he wore a wedding band.

  Monster.

  He could let his wallet do the work for him now, he supposed, but that was no better than paying for sex and that he wouldn’t do.

  Eventually, Bryce arose, turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He roamed naked through his bedroom, nearly oblivious to the cold, and rummaged around for his wallet. Then, with it in hand, he went downstairs to the kitchen. Over the sink, he unfolded the leather and retrieved a small piece of paper that proclaimed him a church member in good standing: His temple recommend, his pass to the Holy of Holies, the House of the Lord, the Temple of God. It had expired, but no matter.

  He searched for and found an ancient box of matches. He lit one corner of the paper and held it while he watched the flame catch and flare.

  * * * * *

  16: THE ISLAND OF THE DAY BEFORE

  MAY 2006

  Giselle walked out of the law building into the gorgeous May Friday after she’d finished her last final, headed for her car. Her arms wrapped around the books clutched to her chest, she breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know how she’d survived the semester, really. It was bad enough that she had to listen to people wax poetic about Professor Hilliard’s brilliance and marvel in scandalized whispers about his reputation up in Chouteau County for murder and corruption. That only made her roll her eyes and snort a lot, and amongst Giselle’s study buddies, the inexplicable hostilities between her and Professor Hilliard had turned into a running joke. But . . .

  Like a new word that she’d learned and kept hearing in conversation, Bryce Kenard’s name had haunted her all semester. Snatches of overheard conversation here. Classroom examples of exquisite courtroom strategy there. Her malpractice professor had even made him the subject of an assignment, which had required an unbelievable amount of research.

  Before it had come out of Sebastian’s mouth in November, Giselle didn’t remember hearing his name at all. Now she knew almost every professional thing there was to know about the man.

  Bryce Kenard: A god at the UMKC School of Law—

&n
bsp; —a god she’d experienced intimately, a god who wanted her. With every mention of his name, with every telling of the tales of his genius, his cunning, his ruthlessness—pain, sharp and hot, sliced her deep in her soul.

  Giselle . . . Come home with me. Now. Tonight.

  She wished she had; at least she’d have something more of him to keep in her heart than she had now.

  Giselle wanted to lie on her bed curled up into a ball and stay that way all weekend.

  By the time she’d finished her Bryce Kenard malpractice assignment in late March and had almost grown used to hearing his name wherever she went, her mind started playing tricks on her. She saw him everywhere, usually at the courthouse. Just glimpses, nothing solid. One day she could swear he was trying to catch up with her to speak with her, only to be waylaid by people needing his attention. The next day she would chastise herself for thinking such thirteen-year-old-girl things. Why did she think he would come to her? Why did she hope? She had run away from him; no man with an IQ point to call his own would pursue a woman after that.

  She swallowed the gob of ick that collected in her throat.

  It had occurred to her (mostly only every other day) to go to his office and explain that she hadn’t wanted to run away from him, to explain why she had shown up at the gallery, apologize, then let him decide what to think. But a con was a con, and she knew what she would think and do if someone had deceived her that way, destroyed her trust, made a fool of her.

  The bottom of her world had dropped out and she didn’t even know why. What was it about him that made her do crazy, risky things she’d never considered doing before? And with a stranger?

  At church, she had learned not to put herself in temptation’s way, so she hadn’t.

  At karate, she had learned not to put herself in danger’s way, so she hadn’t.

  Then a man she didn’t know had hurt her feelings, so she’d kissed him in retaliation and then she’d put herself at the mercy of the same man, with little more information than she’d had before—

  —except that he knew the rules of engagement for faithful members of the church as well as she did. Clearly he had left the church behind, and she couldn’t say she didn’t want to follow him right out the door and into bed.

  That scared her to death.

  “First rule of karate,” she whispered to herself. “Don’t be stupid.”

  She reached her car and sagged against it, her eyes closed, to relive that night: his tongue in her mouth, his mouth on her breasts, his lips surrounding the hole in her shoulder, his voice in her ear—hot, insistent, demanding.

  Not in control now, are you?

  His sardonic challenges of her power. She could feel her body’s arousal at the thought of how brazen it had been to take him up the stairs and lie under him half naked in a public place: how wonderfully, deliciously wicked.

  “Giselle.”

  She gasped and whirled, embarrassed that whoever had said her name might read her mind, see her arousal. The wind whipped her hair across her face so that she couldn’t see, and when she pulled it aside, her eyes widened.

  She gulped and backed up, closer to her car, even though he kept a respectful distance between them and she didn’t fear him.

  Shame. The only emotion she knew at that moment was shame for her deceit.

  The true crime? She’d gone ahead with the plan even though deceiving him would mean the end of any hope of a relationship with him.

  “Giselle, I—”

  Giselle couldn’t read the expression on his face. A hodgepodge of things flitted across his carved-and-scarred features that she didn’t understand.

  “I— I, um— Please go away,” she blurted. “It was a mistake; I’m sorry.”

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry don’tcry dontcrydontcry

  He looked at her with that same unreadable expression and spoke carefully. “Sorry for what?”

  Frustrated, she let out a whoosh. “Just— Everything, okay? I’m sorry I yelled at you, sorry I put a gun to your head, sorry I led you up the stairs and gave you the wrong idea about me.”

  “What idea do I have?”

  You think I’m a slut.

  She gritted her teeth to keep the tears at bay and snapped, “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it was rude to answer a question with a question?” She turned and opened the door, threw her books and her purse across to the passenger seat, and dropped behind the steering wheel.

  “Giselle, please wait.”

  “I can’t,” she answered as she started her car and put it in reverse, though she didn’t lift her foot off the clutch enough to actually move. What was she waiting for?

  “Please have lunch with me. Talk with me. That’s all. Please.”

  And have him excoriate her for lying to him in the middle of a restaurant? No thanks.

  “I can’t,” she said again, too ashamed now to even look at him. “I— I have plans.”

  After that, he caught her when he saw her; not often, usually at the courthouse and apparently only when he had a free moment.

  “Giselle, please,” he said every time. “One meal, please. I just want to talk. That’s all.” He didn’t bother to hide the pleading in his voice and it broke her heart, made her breathless at what she had done to a god.

  In late June, he found her at the library, standing in the fiction stacks, perusing Christopher Moore. Incredibly intimidated, achingly aroused, still ashamed and embarrassed, frightened and hurting more than she thought possible, she snapped, “Stalking me?”

  His nostrils flared and his eyes blazed. Without saying a word, he turned on a heel and left.

  She stepped out into the aisle to watch him walk away, anger in every long step, in his back, in the shake of his head, in the violent punch of the elevator button. He looked back at her then and stared at her until the elevator arrived, his mouth tight, his jaw clenched, his gaze hard.

  Ducking back into the stacks, she put her forehead down on the bookshelf to cry.

  * * * * *

  17: RECOVERING BITCH

  AUGUST 2006

  “Good luck,” said Miss Logan’s attorney as he squeezed her upper arm lightly, then disappeared through a set of courtroom doors to give her a moment to prepare.

  She glanced in a mirror that added to the décor of the quaint mid-nineteenth century American county courthouse, and sighed at her reflection. Taken as a whole, she was entirely underwhelming. Taken in parts, she was even less interesting than that.

  Her hair: Dirty-dishwater blonde, slicked back into a tight French twist at the back.

  Her eyes: Brown.

  Her face: Plain, though perhaps sporting a little too much makeup.

  Her body: Tall, big boned, nearly five feet eleven inches barefoot. She classified herself as less than svelte on days she felt generous. Though she had to admit that her breasts had a nice shape, the DD cup dismayed her. Her belly protruded enough to make her look about six weeks pregnant, but all her attempts at flattening it failed. Her hips—a particular point of David’s ridicule—matched her breasts.

  Her outfit: Ridiculous. No Audrey Hepburn or Jackie O., she didn’t carry the classic Chanel look well. The color, Pepto Pink, would have washed her out but for her makeup. Sensible low black pumps did nothing for her feet or calves.

  She had crafted every detail of what she saw in the mirror, so her sudden melancholy over it irked her. What she looked like at home, in private, shopping, attending the occasional society soiree—well. She did the best she could with what she had. She used to think herself passably pretty for an Amazon, but then she’d married a man who disagreed.

  As she intended, the world took her as she presented herself without question as to what lay underneath. She relied on her talent and her ladylike mien to carry her through her workday and to garner the respect she required to do business. Once she got into character each morning, she fooled the world and relied on her persona to lessen her insecurity and sharpen her advantage—

 
—and she had done this for twelve years. She had the act down cold.

  So now here she loitered in the foyer of the Chouteau County courthouse waiting to hear her fate. Her persona gave her no advantage today; she dreaded whatever the prosecutor had decided to do with her.

  She turned and gracefully sat on a bench by the courtroom doors, as ladylike as ever. She stared across the foyer to the grand walnut staircase, lost in her thoughts.

  “Miss Logan?”

  She turned, startled. The time had come; they would wait for her no longer. She cleared her throat, calmed her heart, and arose from the bench. Slow. Easy. As if she were the most gracious hostess of the most magnificent mansion on Ward Parkway.

  The almost ridiculously young underling sent to fetch her smiled.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, her tone perfectly modulated. She stepped through the door he held open for her. Thank God, no trembles and no squeaks, though her life’s work hung in the balance.

  She couldn’t help the pace of her heart, the dryness of her throat, the fear that ran through her as she took measured steps down the aisle of the courtroom toward the prosecutor and the judge who awaited her.

  She could help how she reacted to it all.

  Calm, poised, gracious as always, she stood at the defense table by the chair meant for her, but she did not sit. It finally occurred to her attorney to arise and pull it out for her. She nodded her thanks as she sat.

  It never failed to surprise men when she refused to pull out her own chair. Most had forgotten what a real lady was, if they ever knew in the first place, the etiquette lost to history. She used that to her advantage, without fail and without mercy.

  “Thank you for joining us, Miss Logan,” Judge Wilson began. “Let’s recap for the court reporter, shall we?”

  No, let’s not.

  He looked down at the papers in front of him.

  “You are the founder and CEO of HR Prerogatives, a human resources outsourcing company.

  “In May of 1999, you hired David Webster to be the chief financial officer. You and he never had any relationship other than work until you were in New York on a business trip on September 11, 2001. You witnessed the planes crashing into the World Trade Center, and under the stress of that, you married him. During your marriage, you were raped and beaten, but his behavior at home was so at odds with his behavior at work you became suspicious of him.”