Bold Beautiful Love -- A Temptation Court Contemporary Romance: Temptation Court: Passion in New York Read Online Free PDF Page B

mutters it as if out of habit, not breaking stride on his way to the foot of the chaise. “How is she?”
    “Better.” I lift an appreciative glance—all but predicting exactly what Ella does next.
    “Your Majesty.” Like the good little court employee she’s been raised to be, she throws off the cloth and struggles to sit up. “I am fine,” she protests—while her head sways and her pallor turns the shade of preschool paste. “Truly. I just need—”
    “To lie the fuck back down.”
    I disregard Selyna’s scandalized gasp, catching Ella around her waist—making Evrests’s chuckle a welcome surprise.
    “This bonsun truly might be the best thing for you after all, Miss Santelle.” The king’s humor grows when Ella rolls her eyes.
    Weirdly, her mother saves the moment from complete discomfort. “Exactly what happened?” Even so, Selyna approaches on steps of hesitant caution—only to take over with confidence when I scoot aside, offering her the water glass. As thoroughly as the admission irks me, she may have more success getting Ella to rehydrate.
    “We were swarmed by press at the airport. They wouldn’t even let her breathe.” I issue the statements as evenly as I can, considering the skirmish taking place in my psyche. The fury from once more thinking of that mob, unchecked by any security to be seen, crowding on us with their cameras and questions and shouts. But then the shame for my arrogance, assuming we’d actually be given protection after barely being granted permission to land the plane.
    Toto, you’re not in America anymore .
    Worse yet, a lot of folks around here now think you’re the one with the green skin and the bridge-exploding spells.
    So much for receptions in the grand hall, state dinners in the ballroom and fencing matches on the front lawn.
    Nothing confirms that more clearly than the entrance of more Cimarron royals. Samsyn and Shiraz Cimarron, Evrest’s younger brothers, carry their tension in ways as divergent as their looks. Samsyn, more than embodying his Biblical namesake, is head-to-toe military grit, his black battle gear smudged in mud and cement dust. Shiraz is a different shade of daunting. To-the-millimeter Italian tailoring, shined wingtips, and boardroom arrogance that would daunt guys in some of the highest Manhattan penthouses. Both of them have the near-black hair and bright eyes that have turned the Cimarrons into one of the world’s most alluring royal families.
    But that’s not why they’re both intimidating as hell right now.
    That I owe completely to their glares at their brother—the fucking king —as if he’s let a UFO land on their airstrip and I’m the wrinkled alien who’s crawled out of it with their countrywoman.
    At least Shiraz takes a stab at changing things up. “Cassian.” His handshake is, on the outside, a crisp peer-to-peer acknowledgement. Since the day we first met, the same-language kinship has been apparent. But beneath the man’s twisted lips and averted gaze, I see the truth. He’s as mowed by this attack on his country as everyone else.
    I reengage his stare long enough to let him know I understand. “Shiraz.” I don’t opt for Raz, the nickname he insisted I use during my first visit. Certain instincts—such as every single one in my body—tell me the offer is retracted, at least for now. “How you doing, man?” I’m sincere. He looks as exhausted as Samsyn. Evrest doesn’t get folded into the mix. The king’s job is to look fresh as a fashion centerfold, even after losing a week of sleep.
    Shiraz shrugs. Attempts a smile. “You know what they say. Another day in the salt mines.”
    “Sure.”
    His gaze lingers longer. I keep my head hoisted, knowing exactly what he’s looking for. A flinch, a hitch, even a quirk of regret, confirming I really knew the dickwad responsible for blowing up his bridge and terrifying his country.
    Stare all you want, Cimarron. You’re not going to find it here.
    At the same