Made in Manhattan

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said mockingly. “Let’s not forget that those strings are actually the reins of a billion-dollar company, not to mention a house to live in, free of charge—”

“Yeah, a real dream come true,” he cut in caustically. “All I have to do is give up my home, my identity, my dignity…”

“Well, feel free to walk away,” Violet said sweetly.

He wouldn’t, of course. Nobody walked away from what Edith was trying to hand Cain Stone. The Rhodes fortune included access to a private jet, for God’s sake.

“Fuck,” he muttered, draining the rest of his coffee.

Violet sniffed. “The language is hardly necessary.”

“That’s unnecessary? Says the duchess in her old-lady pearls. How old are you, twenty-two going on ninety? Everything about you is unnecessary.” He reached out and flicked an insolent finger over the necklace, and Violet stepped quickly back.

“Don’t touch those,” she said, her voice coming out in a protective snarl she barely recognized.

Cain froze, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as though realizing his mockery had grated over a raw spot.

“Hey now,” he said, his voice different than she’d heard it thus far. Lower, almost soothing. “I’m—”

If he was going to apologize—and that was a very big if—he was interrupted by the sound of KC clomping back down the stairs. Gone was the T-shirt. Instead she was wearing ankle boots, baggy black pants, and a tight tank top.

“Don’t you have a jacket?” Violet asked before she could think better of it.

KC let out a mocking laugh. “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

Violet winced. She deserved that, though it stung on the heels of Cain’s old-lady cracks.

KC blew Cain a kiss and headed toward the front door. He made no move to go after her.

Violet turned to him as the door closed.

Cain was looking at her. “A jacket? Really?”

“What?” she asked defensively. “It’s cold outside.”

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Should I run after her and ask if she has a 401(k) and got the flu shot too?”

“He knows what a 401(k) is,” Violet murmured under her breath, plunging the coffee. “That’s a start.”

Cain reached out, closing a hand over her wrist just as she was about to pour the coffee. “I’m not a hick,” he snapped, close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

“No? Prove it,” she said smoothly, easing her hand away and refilling both of their cups. “Quit acting like a sulky child and button up your fucking pants already.”

Five

Cain’s only indication that he was surprised by her profanity was a single blink, but it was surprisingly gratifying to have caught him off guard, if only for a moment.

For that matter, Violet had caught herself off guard. Violet Victoria Townsend did not swear. Ever.

It felt illicit. It felt great.

Cain resumed his bored countenance, lifted a mocking eyebrow. “Stepping out of our comfort zone, are we?”

“Is getting dressed out of your comfort zone, or do you think you can manage?”

“You’re certainly fixated on my state of dress, Duchess.”

Violet wished she had a saucy rejoinder, but she’d used up all her moxie on the F-word, and he knew it, because he laughed softly as he moved away from her.

His laughter was replaced by a torrent of profanity that put hers to shame as he stumbled a little. “Jesus, I almost stepped on your rat.”

“She does tend to get underfoot,” Violet admitted. “It’s part of why I keep her in the purse.”

Violet started to go to her dog, but Cain surprised her by scooping Coco up first, the tiny brown-and-black dog looking even tinier in his big hand as he held the Yorkie in front of his face and scowled at her.

Dog and man stared at each other for a long moment, as though taking stock of each other. Coco apparently liked what she saw, because she rewarded him with a lick on the nose.

Violet winced, braced for Cain’s disgruntled response, but he surprised her by heading up the stairs, still carrying Coco.

“You’re not going to kill her, are you?” Violet called after him.

He didn’t respond.

When Cain came back down the stairs a few minutes later, he was wearing a faded gray T-shirt that was nearing threadbare, but at least his pants were buttoned. He was still holding Coco, the little dog resting comfortably on his forearm, cradled against his abdomen as though she belonged there.

When he came closer, she saw that his shirt wasn’t plain, as she’d thought, but instead had a very faded pattern. She tilted her head as she recognized it. “Fleur-de-lis.”

“What?” He sounded annoyed.

“That symbol on your shirt,” she explained, pointing when he didn’t reply. “It’s the fleur-de-lis.”

“I know what it is.”

She smiled a little. “Did you know that’s the same pattern I have on my powder room wallpaper?” Violet smiled. “You’re dressed like the bathroom decorated by my grandmother.”

Even beneath his beard, she could see his jaw grinding in irritation. “It’s the logo for the New Orleans Saints.”