Made in Manhattan

Who could not only tie a tie, but look good in it?

Suddenly she wanted to try, rather desperately.

But Violet was also increasingly aware that Edith had made a rare error in judgment. She seemed to be under the impression that it was Violet who needed convincing. Perhaps because of her emotional attachment to the idea of family, Edith didn’t seem to realize that it was Cain himself who would be the biggest obstacle to her grand plan. It took only one look at the angry set of his jaw to know he was itching to take the first flight back to Louisiana.

If he stayed, it wouldn’t be because of family loyalty. Judging from the look on his face, even the promise of money and prestige might not be enough. He was ready to bolt.

But maybe, just maybe, if Violet could hit at his pride…

“It’d just be a wardrobe overhaul,” Edith was saying, having regained her composure. “A few lessons in decorum. Show him around town, introduce him to people his own age.”

Cain spread his hands to the side. “Hate to tell you, Granny, but I can run your precious company just fine in what I’m wearing.”

Violet let out a delighted, condescending laugh, deliberately crafted to goad him. “Are you certain? Because it looks to me like you could start chewing on hay any moment.”

“Bet hay would be right good to scoop up caviar,” he said, exaggerating his drawl.

Violet extended her hand, palm up, and gave Edith a telling look. You see?

“You’re asking the impossible,” Violet said with a sad shake of her head, as though regretful. “I’d be happy to show him around town, but as long as he’s scared to death of failing…”

Cain gave an incredulous laugh. “Scared? What the fuck?”

Violet looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s a monumental task she’s asking of you, and I understand completely if you’re not up to it.”

“Oh, you understand completely,” he repeated in a mocking, uppity tone. His eyebrow arched upward in derision. “Reverse psychology, Duchess? That was your big plan?”

Violet inspected her nails to avoid having to confirm that he was exactly right. It had been worth a shot.

Cain shook his head at Edith with a contemptuous smirk. “You brought in the wrong girl, Edith. Duchess here is in over her head and doesn’t have the backbone to deal with anything outside of her comfort zone. She’d quit before the first week of trying to turn me into your puppet.”

Violet moved toward Cain for the first time, stepping between him and Edith so he was forced to address her directly. “Prove it.”

“I already told you, those mind games won’t—”

“I think you’re right, this won’t last a week,” she spoke over him. “But it won’t be me who backs out—it’ll be you who realizes you’re out of your league. You won’t last a day in my world.”

His eyes seemed to spark, if only briefly, at the challenge, and his jaw worked in clenched tension as though warring with his own instincts.

Then he swore, a low, long string of curses, half of which Violet had never even heard.

“Fine,” he snapped at his grandmother. “If Duchess here wants to play dress-up, I’ll be her doll if it means I inherit a fucking fortune.”

“Wonderful,” Edith said, clapping her hands in delight and ignoring her grandson’s profanity and clear disdain for the situation. “I’ll just go tell Alvin to bring in some champagne.”

Edith swept out of the room, her typical younger-than-her-age vitality restored, and the moment she was gone, Violet allowed her sweetly demure smile to widen in smug triumph.

“You’re pleased with yourself,” Cain said in a bored voice as he ambled toward her. He was even taller than she realized, and broader too. Once again, the unfamiliar, untamed masculinity made her heartbeat a little too fast, her breath a bit ragged. “Think you’ve handled me, have you?”

Since she guessed his proximity was deliberately meant to make her ill at ease, Violet forced herself to lift her face all the way to his and meet his gaze dead-on.

It was a mistake.

Up close, she could see his lashes were thick and curled with surprising gold tips. Up close, he smelled like mint and soap, without any hint of cologne.

It was irritatingly appealing.

Cain’s gaze was doing some exploring of its own, his eyes taking their time, starting at her hairline and moving—slowly—all the way down to her feet, as though seeing her truly for the first time.

When his eyes snapped back to hers, she felt a pull low in her stomach. Uh-oh.

“Haven’t I?” Violet said, relieved her voice wasn’t as breathless as she felt. “Handled you?”

His smile was slow. Predatory. He moved even closer until she could feel his body heat. “Careful, Duchess. Look at me that way again, and you’ll be the one who’s handled, and not the least bit gently.”