“What the hell, Rafe?” Luc shouted in his ear, using his arms to push Rafe up and off him. He quickly jumped to his feet, his hand cupping the side of his face and his blue eyes blazing. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Possibly, yes. But it was worth it. And holding his own in a fight with his older brother was freaking amazing. It was, Rafe decided, worth the pain and a long time coming.
Luc slowly stood up and briefly closed his eyes. When he spoke, his words came out sad and solemn. “That award? It’s a recognition of the pro bono work I did for Médecins Sans Frontières, doing reconstructive surgery on kids with cleft palates, burns and other facial disfigurements. The T and A jobs? That money allows me to do that, so...screw you.”
Rafe stared at the ground and reluctantly admitted that while he got some good hits in, Luc’s last comment was the verbal punch that nearly dropped him to the floor.
The blindfold and spanking were a little kinky. Elana, lying on Jarrod’s chest, the TV droning on in the background, was trying to decide whether she liked it or not. She liked how excited it made Jarrod—and he’d used that excitement to maximum effect.
It had been fun...well, mostly fun. She hadn’t minded the blindfold, but the jury was still out on the spanking. His big hand against her skin didn’t do anything for her but sting her ass. His growls that she’d been a bad girl and that she needed to be punished were too similar to what she’d heard all her life for her to be turned on. Nobody had ever, as far as she could remember, actually spanked her, but the threat was always tossed out when she became a little too much to handle.
Which was practically all the time. When she thought she might have pushed the envelope too far, she’d hightail it out of Casa Cat and belt down the driveway and onto the road, running the short distance to her best friend Thom’s house. Thom would calm her down, make her laugh, and an hour or three or four later, she’d wander home, hoping that the storm had blown over. No one worried where she was; they all knew that Thom’s house was her bolt-hole, her place to run to. Elana always returned to Casa Cat, but on her own time, according to her schedule.
Thom...jeez, he was going to be pissed that she’d been out of contact for so long. Elana twisted a piece of Jarrod’s T-shirt around her finger, wincing as guilt flooded her system. A massive red diamond solitaire rested on her ring finger, a symbol that she was planning to marry Thom in a few weeks. Dammit, whatever had possessed her to say yes to his proposal? Thom was wonderful, but...
Okay, so she didn’t quite love him, but he was her best friend, the one person who’d never disappointed her, never let her down. He knew her inside out and loved every flawed inch of her. But Thom couldn’t give her this. A hot, raunchy, sweaty time in bed. Oh, she and Thom made love, infrequently, but it was polite and discreet and quick. There was no swearing or laughing or rough demands and light bruises from his fingers pressing too hard and long scratches from her nails on his back. There was no passion between them and, dammit, she needed passion.
But...he was the only person she fully trusted. And their relationship, engagement and upcoming marriage was a fairy tale of epic proportions—he was rich and gorgeous! With his mother’s warm cocoa skin and dark brown eyes, she knew her groom-to-be was stunning with a capital S. And, true, they’d been friends all their lives. Her family adored Thom and his parents, and on paper it was a match made in heaven. But she needed to be with Jarrod, and she needed this outlet to blow off some steam. Thom was a lovely man, perfect for her...but she craved Jarrod.
Rock, meet hard place.
“Elana!” Jarrod said, shifting underneath her, his fingers pinching the skin of her waist.
Elana jerked away from him and sent him a blistering glare. “What the hell? That hurt, Jarrod!”
“I think you need to see this.” Jarrod lifted the remote and pointed it to the flat-screen television across the room.
The man was insatiable. “God, Jarrod, enough with the porn, okay? I’m wiped!”
“Not porn, Elana.”
A strange note in Jarrod’s voice made her look across the room. Jarrod had the flat screen tuned to his favorite channel, TMZ, and Elana rolled her eyes at the sight of two dudes brawling outside what looked like St. Aloysius Hospital. If her brain wasn’t fried from too much sex, she’d assume that the two guys duking it out were her brothers. Nah, it couldn’t be—her brothers were Marshalls, America’s favorite sons, and Marshalls didn’t fight in public.
“And we interrupt our ongoing coverage on Harrison Marshall’s car accident to bring you this breaking news. It seems like tensions are running high in the Marshall family at the moment. Shortly after an impromptu press conference with Mariella Santiago-Marshall, a hospital employee filmed Luc and Rafe Marshall coming to blows. The hospital worker was on the walkway linking the two building when she heard shouting and, looking down, she immediately recognized the Marshall brothers. Thinking that she’d snap a picture of the brothers consoling each other, she was shocked when their argument turned physical.”
Elana stared at the images flickering on the set, trying to process what she was seeing and hearing. Hospital? An accident? What the hell was going on?
Launching herself away from Jarrod, she scrambled across him, ignoring his grunt as her knee came quite close to his balls. She reached for the handle of the drawer and pulled it open, looking for her cell phone. Pulling it out, her heart pumping at a mile a minute, she groaned when she saw seventeen missed calls and dozens of text messages.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Elana let out a whimper of despair and scrambled to her feet, looking around the bedroom for her clothes. Snatching her new Agent Provocateur bra off the floor, she pulled it on and quickly hooked it.
“Jeez, slow down, Elana,” Jarrod drawled, stretching like a lion basking in the sun.
Elana tossed him a scorching look. “My father has been in an accident, and my brothers are fighting! I’m not moving fast enough! Where the hell is my thong?”
“Go without,” Jarrod suggested. “That being said, that miniskirt I ripped off you was almost indecent, so you might give the press more of a show than you might want to.”
“You are such a jerk,” Elana snapped, thankful to see her tiny thong partly under the bed. She picked it up and pulled it up and over her legs.
“I’m the jerk that made you come four times last night alone.”
Five, but she wasn’t about to correct him. God, why was she thinking about sex when her father—Elana glanced at the rolling headlines at the bottom of the screen—was in the ICU with what were reported to be severe injuries? Elana felt tears slide down her cheeks as she tucked her fitted white shirt into the waistband of her asymmetrical denim Saint Laurent miniskirt. She slipped her feet into her cork Chloe platform sandals and picked up her Gucci bag. Were her keys in her bag? God, she hoped so. If not, she’d just get Jarrod’s doorman to call her a taxi.
“When will I see you again?” Jarrod asked as she headed to the door. Elana turned and looked at him, long and lean, his hand holding his sack, supremely confident and utterly selfish. God, she wished he didn’t turn her on.
“I don’t know, Jarrod,” she replied, her tone pointed. She gestured to the television and saw that they were running the footage of Luc