Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,38
something about this is different.
Most notably, her.
The steadiness in how she pivots toward me. The focus in her stare. The way she seems to reach some hidden decision, only to sip her coffee with a knitted brow, as if trying to talk herself out of it.
“Mallory?” I almost talk myself out of murmuring it. The woman takes pride in her surety of words and meanings, as well as her commitment to them once declared. I am familiar with the trait, since it got solidly passed down to Cassian. Perhaps she does not want her vacillation to be called out—
“Mishella.” Just as suddenly, she is the decisive queen again. Picks up my hand like a monarch going for her scepter, and nods back at my tea. “Grab your drink. Let’s go up to the terrace before it gets too hot.”
I have gotten attached to many aspects of living at Temptation. The terrace tops that list, reminding me of many like it back on Arcadia. The view is much different, of course. The coastal bluffs and island trees have been replaced by a vista of buildings old and new. But like the Arcadian landscape, their appearance changes as the day goes on. Right now, just past daybreak, the air is still calm, though vibrates with a low hum of anticipation of the day to come. The rumble of delivery trucks thrums in time with the shouts of a coxswain, driving her rowers faster on the river. A light breeze ruffles the potted ficus trees, bringing a riot of smells: sweat and steam, cinnamon pretzels and honey-roasted nuts, patchouli and incense, bagels and bacon, and about a hundred more.
Surprisingly, it is all as soothing as my tea, which refreshes my throat as I turn toward the padded seating area around a granite table with a bed of glass fire rocks in the center. I settle onto a couch, looking up as a hummingbird buzzes in for nectar from the tiny white flowers in the arbor overhead. Mallory lowers next to me, already drinking from her own cup with a reprise of that “decision that is not a decision” expression.
When she lifts her head, the look remains. Oh, her confidence is still there, firm in the set of her chin and the brace of her shoulders, but shadows still battle for control in the depths of her gaze. There is definitely something on her mind—and it is not about Monopoly strategy.
“So.” She works her lips together. Pulls in a deep breath. “We know the only ones buying the ‘stupid slip in the bathroom’ line are the dumber members of the press.”
I am not sure how to reply to that—or if she wants me to. Another sip of tea seems the best choice instead.
“So why don’t we talk about what really happened.”
A blush prickles my cheeks before I can leash the thoughts causing it. “I—I am not sure what you mean.”
Because talking about what really happened would mean discussing the orgasm your son gave me three minutes before stomping off in a mysterious rush, then removing his shower door with his fist. Not that anyone did not discern that exact fact for themselves, once I frantically contacted Scott on the mansion intercom. The recall is a strange combination of vividness and blur…
Throwing on clothes—Cassian’s T-shirt, my shorts—before letting Doyle into the room.
Struggling not to slip on the bathroom tiles, slick with blood and glass, as he rushed to help his friend.
Cassian rearing up, growling at the man to shut the hell up, because I had no idea what a “nine one-one” was, let alone how to dial it.
And every step of the way, fighting the nausea and terror and fear of watching too much blood leave Cassian’s body at once.
“Oh, dear.” Mallory’s mutter, despite its self-censure, is a welcome break to the memories. “I flashed the G-string again in public, didn’t I?”
“Errrmm…” I actually know about G-strings, thanks to Kathryn and the lunch trip for the waxings from hell, but have no idea if Mallory is being literal or symbolic. To be safe, I sneak in a fast peek—which comes up fruitless. Her stylish summer blouse has a trendy bow below her waist, preventing any conjecture about anything she wears beneath the cute white culottes. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry, cutie.” She sets down her coffee. Reaches for my hand with both of hers. “You’re so damn bright, I sometimes forget…”
“Forget what?”
Her smile transforms into a full but soft chuckle. “That you’re not as…worldly…as the other women my