Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,67

back toward us, rearranging the notecards in her lap, plastic smile on her lips. “All righty,” she croons. “You two ready for a little more fun?”

Ella settles a little deeper into the crook of my arm. Cuddles there for a second, her smile remaining curved in sugar-sweet sincerity. But in her eyes, something has changed. Blazed to life like a pair of crystals activated by a sorceress’s spell—and not one made of bird song and gum drops. Even Chantal recognizes the belladonna cast of it…the stabby things Tinkerbell’s been sharpening too.

The things now carving edges to Ella’s calm reply. “Something tells me your only idea of ‘fun’ is torturing puppies, Chantal—and neither Cassian nor I plan on fetching any balls for you. That being said…bring it on.”

ELEVEN

*

Mishella

Funny, that a very real thought has struck me in the middle of a fake living room, overlooking a fake city, sipping water that came from fake mountain springs.

Bitches are the same no matter where one journeys in life.

Given a better haircut, a more flattering dress, and a few court etiquette lessons, Chantal Dunne is like every social climbing bamboo of the Arcadian Court. The word is not even my innocent idiom mash now. In Arcadia, we have no problem likening idiots to hollow, invasive plants. It has certainly made it easier to handle her, watering her stems with vapid comments that have become easy jumping boards for her own witty banter, though I am certain she considers the roots firmly in place, the plant prepared to bloom.

Cassian squeezes my shoulder. Flashes me a subtle wink. In addition to melting every cell in my blood at once, the moment conveys another important thing. He knows about bamboo too. We are unified. Chantal Dunne and her garden are getting no more fertilizer from us.

“And we’re back!” chimes the woman herself, punctuating with a toss-toss of her hair that makes me cringe on behalf of all women with curls, especially me. “Along with more of my exclusive sit-down with Cassian Court and Mishella Santelle, surely the most alluring memento he’s ever brought back to New York from his world travels.” She beams a teasing look across the coffee table. “Better than a dorky T-shirt, eh, Cas?”

Cas.

I hook both hands around my knees, digging my grip in. I have only ever heard the nickname from Mallory and Kate: his mother and the woman who might as well be his sister. Chantal Dunne has no right even sniffing at that special category—but if she has no right, neither do I. It is Cassian’s transgression to correct—and I am glad to see he looks ready to. While pulling in a long sip of the fake mountain stream, he eyes the reporter with an equal pretense of affability.

“Oh, she’s far better than a T-shirt, Chantal.” He winks again at me. “All my other T-shirts agree, since she looks damn good in them.”

“Dear Creator.” Until now, I have managed not to blush despite the hot set lights. He certainly changes that.

“Oooo la la!” Chantal clips her index cards between two fingers in order to join the crew in approving applause. “Somebody has certainly bewitched the playboy!”

Cassian sobers his demeanor. Though setting down the water, he remains angled forward. Palming a knee with his good hand, he impales Chantal with the jade lance of his stare. “Playboy? That implies that I ‘play,’ Chantal. I’ve never ‘played’ with the women I see. Everyone knows where they stand, at all times.”

Chantal’s riposte worries me from the start. Not a second’s worth of awkwardness, like what happened after I called out the slithery tactics of her research team. Her composure remains sleek—nearly as if Cassian has played right into her script.

“So that position applied to Amelie Hampton, as well?”

Or walked into her trap.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

If the same refrain has slammed Cassian, I—and everyone else—are not privy to it. “Of course it applied to Amelie.” His brow simply furrows, as if Chantal has questioned whether his suit is custom-tailored or the sky is always blue. “And she was well aware of that.”

Chantal dips a bewildered look to her note cards. “That so? Then why did she appear on this very show to claim you ‘crushed her like a Mack truck’ two months ago, by showing up at the New York Literacy Ball with Mishella instead of her?”

“The event at which she was as drunk as a punk?” I ignore the perplexity on the woman’s face. I cannot simply sit back while the woman uses Amelie’s sloshed