Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York by Angel Payne

take a rocket scientist to see hers did, too.
    Mishella will never be put into that situation again. So help me God.
    If that means staying one step ahead of this pair for the rest of my life—including everything I’m about to lay on them—so be it.
    “Now that you’ve brought it up, Mistress Santelle…let’s.”
    I push back, brushing an imaginary piece of lint off the burgundy brocade of the settee. Lazing lion. Ella tickles herself calling me that, though we’re usually in much different circumstances when she does. Occasions involving both of us clad only in the bed sheets and each other…
    Don’t. Go. There. Not right now, at least.
    Ella’s mother rises. Rubs both hands down the skirt of her linen suit, a dark pink set with clean lines. She’s an arresting woman, though I’m secretly glad Saynt takes after her facial features. The DNA only got passed to Ella in the sun-kissed blonde hair and Grace Kelly figure type. “Well clearly, the initial contract has been…modified.”
    I keep lazily stroking a finger along the top of the settee. Keeps the digit occupied, so it’s not tempted to join the rest in forming a fist—then doing something with it. “Modified.” Reining back my underline of tension is a little harder, but probably wiser. “That’s one way of putting it.” And commoditizes your daughter that much more .
    Selyna pivots. Her head bobs on a sarcastic snort. “As I recall, Mr. Court, you were the one who presented us with the initial contract offer to be the first between our daughter’s legs.”
    Mental file already open: the list of my expectations for this conversation.
    Mental checkbox number one: clicked .
    “Well.” I continue stroking the upholstery. Better than a fist . If I keep repeating it, maybe it’ll sink in. “When one is in an unknown wilderness, always try to speak the language with which the savages are most comfortable.”
    Fortin grimaces. Sucks in air through his nose.
    Selyna stares for a relentless pause. Then bursts into a melodic laugh.
    Mental checkbox number two: clicked , with a pitching stomach.
    Selyna juts her chin. “I may just like you after all, Cassian Court.”
    I slide a mirthless smile. “Enjoy the party, Selyna. I’ll send over a few splits of champagne and cocktail weenies.”
    Her gaze narrows. “Sounds delicious.” She sidles toward the window overlooking one of the Palais’ interior gardens. The space is elegant and peaceful, and I calm myself by imagining myself out there right now, walking with Ella, our hands twined and our bodies close. Anything except the haughty carriage of the woman strolling before the plate glass now. “But delicious is temporary—and now you are asking for the privilege of having Mishella for much longer.”
    “Longer as in forever.” There’s no compunction in my statement—I mean every fucking word—but strangely, still feel like I have to prove that I do. Christ. This is ridiculous. It’s not like I’m meeting with a pair of people who actually care about this.
    Correction. About her . The woman who means fucking everything to me.
    Which is why you’re going to finish this out based on your original instinct, not what bullshit the Social Q’s have shoved down your throat about this garbage.
    “Yes, well,”—Selyna laughs as if a four-year-old has ridden through on a tricycle, amusing her with toddler babblings—“we all know what ‘forever’ can mean in a world like yours, hmmm?”
    “Of course.” I click off checkbox three while rising to my own feet, borrowing powerful languor from my lion den friends. “That’s why she’ll sign a pre-nuptial agreement, even if I have to rope her down to do it.”
    Fortin stands with a stiff grunt. “Mishella has been raised with a healthy understanding of good business practice.” His gaze gleams with tight affront. “But if you think , for one second, that she would be less than a fulfilling wife—”
    “She’ll get half of everything I