Page 36 of Cruelest Contract
“What do you think of the ranch so far?” Cass asks. He tends to speak a few decibels louder than necessary, daring anyone in earshot to ignore him. Today is no different.
“You really do have a beautiful home,” I tell him. “I’d love a tour.”
The flattery isn’t completely empty. While the decorative scheme could use a significant makeover, the house is amazing and the surrounding view is awe inspiring.
I’m struck by the thought that I haven’t been in this kind of family setting in years. The Tempestas are daunting and unconventional but they are still a family.
Cass Tempesta has a way of studying people that feels invasive, as if he’s capable of probing the contents of your mind using willpower alone. Julian has the same trait, although it’s not quite as menacing coming from him.
But where is Julian?
I was sure I’d find him here. His absence in the room is both a relief and a disappointment. I need to remain alert and that’s difficult while grappling with a growing infatuation that could be dangerous, given the circumstances.
“Of course you can have a tour, Cecilia,” says Cass. “This is your home now.”
If he’d slapped me across the face, I’d feel less affected than I am by the casual finality of those words.
I picture my orderly little one bedroom apartment and feel a wave of despair that I might never again hear some college kid vomiting from the upper balcony after one too many tequila shots.
And what will happen to my furniture?
The tufted sofa covered in blush-colored suede is my favorite place to spend a restful Sunday while planning the week ahead. The chunky knit blanket folded over the back of the sofa was made by Alice. And just a month ago I was so excited to find chiffon rose throw pillows.
I really need to get a grip. Throw pillows are not a priority right now.
A sudden tap on the back of my chair jolts me back to reality. A big hand skims my shoulder long enough to feel both reassuring and possessive.
Even before inhaling the combo of rich leather and woodsy aftershave that accompanies him everywhere, I know Julian is here. I need to swivel in order to watch him sink into a chair with the grace of a panther. The chair creaks under his weight and his face stays impassive as he arranges his long legs.
How did he manage to get hotter since yesterday?
Julian’s grey shirt has been exchanged for a similar style in midnight blue. I could spend a solid hour hungrily memorizing the planes of his broad shoulders and the shape of his big hands. His powerful forearms are dusted with dark hair and embellished with thick veins.
Desire pulses between my legs and I feel compelled to press my thighs together in an effort to crush it.
I’m not impulsive when it comes to men. There’s nothing even close to a one night stand in my romantic history. And I don’t want to feel this kind of consuming physical pull toward Julian. It’s thorny and perilous.
“My angel,” says Cass Tempesta. His voice has completely changed, becoming gentle and hushed.
A terrifying second passes when I believe he’s speaking to me. Then I realize his eyes are trained elsewhere, above my head.
He stands up, keeping his eyes glued to something behind me. I turn around and see a stacked stone fireplace, all black. Above the fireplace hangs a painting of a woman.
It’s a very large painting, stretching from the mantle nearly to the high ceiling. The painted woman wears a white wedding gown and a delicate veil has been pulled back from her face to reveal a cloud of dark brown hair and a happy smile that makes me believe in another time and place the two of us might have been friends.
I’ve never even seen a photo of Teresa Tempesta but I know I’m looking at her.
Her four sons have all risen from their chairs. Louisa decides the energy in the room is too intense and flees in a furry flash.
I copy the Tempesta men and stand, facing the painting and wondering what the hell is going on and what will happen next.
“Cecilia is here to pay her respects,” booms Cass. “She’s going to marry one of our boys.”
I lift my eyes to Teresa’s painting. The certainty in her husband’s words shreds all hope that I’ll find some creative solution to this predicament.
But the somber shift in here distracts from my own misery. I look around and see the four brothers have all removed their hats. They are looking up, each one intently focused on the portrait of their lost mother. There are no smiles, no laughter, not even a sarcastic smirk among them.
There is only grief. And I know grief very well. We are old companions.
