Page 96 of The Tallest Tower (Underbelly Enchanted)

He stares at her through dark green eyes, his lips, firming beneath a beard he keeps trimmed but full. He watches her for a long fucking time, cataloguing her in a way that leaves her shaking.

And him making her shake pisses me off. “You better say something nice right now, Timothy, or I’m gonna jam my dinner plate down your throat.”

“You look familiar.” He extends his hand and takes hers, though she doesn’t offer it. “Why do you look familiar?”

“Um…” She swallows, her throat visibly bobbing with nerves. “Uh…”

“She’stheChristabelle Cannon,” I tell him proudly. Then I slap his forearm and grin when their hands part and his fiery gaze burns me where I stand. “She’s New York elite. Though, you wouldn’t know that, since you took off to Copeland forever ago and left me here to fend for myself.”

“Oh, cry me a river,” Minka drawls, taking her feet from Archer’s lap and lowering them to the floor instead. “How have your sugars been since I was last here, Ms. Cannon?”

“S-steady,” she stammers. “Blood pressure is good, too. And you can call me Christabelle.”

“I do,” the doctor grins. “Behind your back. Or I sometimes call youDebbie, because names escape me, and I forget the smaller details when I’m busy.”

“Debbie?” I question on a laugh. “How the fuck did you get Debbie from Christabelle?”

Her cheeks grow a little warmer. “Like… Diabetic Debbie. I’m not proud of it,” she insists when I laugh. “But it’s an alliteration thing Aubs told me about. It works, so whatever.”

“It doesn’t actually,” Cato chuckles, crossing to the fridge and opening it wide to peruse his options. “Her name is not Debbie. Carked-It Christabelle, would. Or Conscious Christabelle. But like, the opposite, since she was unconscious.” He selects a beer from the fridge and slams the door, bottles rattling inside. “Christabelle Cannon is its own alliteration, which is kinda fun. Cutie-Pie Christabelle… Classy Christabelle, since she’s a socialite. Captivating Christabelle?—”

“You can’t drink that.” The woman with all the names storms out from beneath my arm and crosses the kitchen in half a dozen long strides.

She’s among men who were bred to fight. To defend. To operate under pressure. But I’ll be damned if a single one of us moves as she charges the youngest Malone and takes the beer from his hand, challenging him with a stare. “You’re not old enough to drink.”

Stunned, he looks over her head, since he’s easily tall enough to do so, and meets my eyes. Then he chokes out a laugh and snatches his drink back. “I’m an adult, Ms. Cannon. I think I’m gonna be fine.”

“You are not an adult!” She takes it back, so they engage in an odd tug-of-war. “Twenty-one is the legal age for drinking. Eighteen is not.”

“At eighteen, I can go to war—or move to Australia, where the legal drinking age is eighteen.”

“So move to Australia.” She lifts the beer out of his reach when he attempts to grab it. “I’ll help you pack your bags.”

“Are you s—” He shoots his almond-shaped eyes in my direction. “Is she fuckin serious right now?”

“I mean…” I follow her across the room and take the beer for myself. “She’s not wrong. So when are you movingdown undah?” I try for an Aussie accent, though I think it comes out more Scottish Highlands. “I hear the surfer girls there are delicious.”

Enraged, Christabelle’s eyes come up and pin me. “Really?”

“Delicious for other men, of course.” I look desperately to a smiling Mary. The only sane one amongst a bunch of Malones, a doctor for the dead, and a socialite. “When’s dinner?”

Ipull out a chair at the formal dining table and take Christabelle’s hand to help her sit. She’s less green now, at least. Less trembling, as Tim takes a seat at the opposite end of the table.

“Wine?” I press a kiss to the top of her hair and earn a suspicious look fromDetectiveMalone, his gaze narrowing, though his manners remain intact enough to help Mayet into her seat. “Red or white?”

“Neither.” She places her palm over the top of her empty glass. “Thanks.”

“How’s your story coming along?” Minka asks, taking her glass of wine after Archer pours it, and reclining back in her seat. “We’re all aware you’re searching for the Malone mothers.”

“You are?” Christabelle’s eyes shoot to Cato as he takes a seat on Mayet’s other side, essentially directly across from where we sit. Then she looks back to Mayet and gulps. “Wh-what do you know?”

“That you’re a journalist very much interested in Timothy Malone.” Then she gifts my oldest brother a smile. “The other one. You seem intent on finding the women he murdered, which I personally think is a good thing.”

“You’re not mad?” She shakily takes her napkin as I sit and lays it flat over her lap. “You don’t have an issue with me prying into all your lives?”

“Theirlives,” she shrugs. “And no. I know Archer would like a name.” She casts a knowing look my way. “And Felix. None of these men had a choice in what happened to them, or to their mothers. And as someone who knows both of her parents, someone who was able to be with them her entire youth, I can’t imagine the distress of not knowing where half of you came from. So,” she swirls her wine and takes a small sip, “I doubt anyone here will mind the work you’re putting in.”

“Though, we’d like to learn of your findings in privacy,” Archer adds seriously, his tone deep andpolice-y. “Not from the front page of next week’sCannon Daily. So what do we have to do to ensure our privacy, Ms. Cannon? To keep from becoming gossip fodder, handed out to the masses.”

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