Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,10

now with the sass that’s begging for another spanking?”

No eye roll—but a deliberate pout full of just as much cheek. Little minx. She can rout my bullshit as easily as I catch the drift on hers.

I’m so fucking tempted to cap it with another swat to her delectable ass, but remembering what happened after the last spank makes me overcome the lure. The next time I’m inside her, we’ll be more than simply skin-to-skin. We’ll be twined again, spirit inside spirit. Thoughts so meshed, they’ll feel like one. Hearts so bonded, they’ll hammer in the same perfect time. No more secrets—and dammit, no more ghosts.

Tonight, it all ends.

The only ending I ever want with her.

And I am a man used to getting what he wants.

Because I am a man willing to pay for it. No matter what the price.

No truth has been less of a shock, while clanging through me exactly like one. It makes everything more real. More…permanent. A future I now envision having with her, despite the “strictly business” deal I struck to get her here. The contract that officially frees her to return home in just four months.

Home. To an island nearly five thousand miles away.

Unacceptable.

But that’s an action item for another day.

Another price I’ll have to pay.

Worth it.

No matter what…she’s fucking worth it.

Is there some mental baggage in that one? Bet your ass. If I learned anything from the years with Lily—the knowledge I bring to every step I make now—it is that love doesn’t pay lip service to every goddamn cliché ever conceived for it, but a lot more that haven’t been.

Flowers and honey. Victor Hugo. Got it. Check.

Smoke and sighs. Shakespeare’s always good for this kind of shit.

Wonder of the wise. Amazement of the gods. Plato lends credibility.

But now for the Cassian Court entries in that journal.

Love…

is a gift.

This woman’s love…the most priceless of them all.

Which throws the onus on the asshole peering back at me from reflections in the museum’s glass cases, as I guide her through the now-empty museum.

Great gifts require great gratitude. And the great commitment toward caring for them. And the actions proving exactly that.

And the recognition that many times, fate doesn’t offer tomorrow for that proof.

There is only today.

And by this point, only the four hours we have left of it.

As if I need any further justification for rushing our steps out the front of the museum.

We emerge into the sticky summer night and make our way toward the Jag XJL limo, my driver Scott waiting with an open door and a lopsided smile. I climb inside after Ella—to find her already pivoted in the seat, waiting for me with an expectant frown. I settle in, letting her curve a hand into mine, but answer the questions in her eyes with steady silence.

For a few minutes, as we speed along the Henry Hudson, she seems content with that. But I know better.

The river begins to glow blue and silver instead of gold and red. The GW Bridge rises into view, its sweeping suspension cables lined in aqua lights.

Sure enough, as the bridge and the park disappear behind the bend in the road, Ella blurts, “Where are we going?”

I’m ready for it. I’m actually ready for a lot worse—not that she’ll receive a different answer from me either way. From now on, I hide nothing from this woman.

Famous last words?

I pray they won’t be.

With every goddamn bone in my body, I swear they won’t be.

I made it through private school and college by shining shoes and slinging newspapers. Began a global empire with my own sweat and smarts. I can sure as fuck figure out how to do an open, honest, healthy relationship with a woman willing to bring the same thing to the table.

Starting with this.

“We’re going where we can punch the restart button, armeau.” I squeeze her hand. Kiss her forehead. “With the truth.”

“All right.” Her answer is like music, filled with her sweet trust and soft affection. “Where is that?”

“Home.”

TWO

*

Mishella

“You’re back early.”

Mallory Court leans over the kitchen’s granite counter as she murmurs it like juicy tabloid gossip instead of a statement of the obvious. Her green eyes sparkle. They are a shade lighter than her son’s, like leaves in the sun compared to leaves in the shade, though her shoulder-length hair is the same shade and texture. Her bone structure is so similar to his, looking at her is like beholding Cassian with colored contacts. And—well—as a woman.

Unbelievably, that fact is secondary to another—for as much as