A Tiara Under the Tree

Luc looked up and nailed him with another supercilious, distant look. “No, it was an email saying that the American Association for Plastic Surgeons has nominated me for an award.”

Of course they had, because he was the perfect, successful brother. “What... Best Boob Uplift? Bodacious Booty of the Year?”

“Fuck you, Rafe.” Luc’s words erupted like bullets. “You’re just jealous because the only award you’ve received is the yearly what-the hell-are you-doing-with-your-life paper cup.”

Luc’s words held enough truth to feel like he’d taken a punch to the heart. “You love that, don’t you? You get off on telling me how useless you think I am! You’re such a control freak, but you can’t control me, and it drives you crazy.”

Luc looked around and slapped a hand on his chest. “Will you calm the fuck down and shut up? Do you want the press to come back?”

Grabbing Rafe’s wrist like he was a toddler, Luc pulled him to the end of the main hospital building and into a small alley. Above them was an open walkway the hospital staff used to move from the pediatric wing to the main building.

Out of sight of the parking lot, Luc released Rafe’s wrist and lifted his shoulders, still confused. “How did my idle comment about an email I received piss you off so much?”

“You deliberately mentioned it, wanting to rub my face in the fact that you are so much more successful than I am!”

“Not everything I say and do is about you, Rafe! Honestly—” Luc’s lip curled into a derisive snarl “—I genuinely don’t think about you much at all.”

“Why can’t you accept me for who I am?”

Luc’s fist clenched, and Rafe welcomed the anger in his eyes, the tension on his face. “I don’t give a crap about who you sleep with. This is about your aimlessness, your capriciousness.”

“Oh, here we go again! I like what I do and how I do it! You and Dad never got that, never supported my need to do something creative. And it’s not like you are saving lives in your fancy LA practice, so get off your stupid high horse! You’re the king of Botox.”

Luc gripped the bridge of his nose, and Rafe could see the tension building in him. He welcomed it—he felt like a valve under immense pressure.

Luc threw up his hands. “Our father is fighting for his life in there, and you’re out here screaming at me like a petulant child. Grow the fuck up!”

It was a refrain he’d heard all his life: get it together, Rafe. Stop being childish, Rafe. Why can’t you be more like your brother, Rafe? Well, here, today, he could try. By its own volition, his arm lifted, and Rafe plowed his fist into Luc’s perfect face. Nothing gave him as much pleasure as hearing the smack of knuckles against his cheekbone, the sting that rocketed up his wrist, the sheer burst of adrenaline. Shit, this was almost as good as sex. Possibly better, because, hell, it had been so long since he’d had any he couldn’t actually remember how good sex was.

Right here, at this moment, he felt like Superman and Wonder Woman and Hercules and Gerard Butler. He could kick ass—specifically, his brother’s ass. Then Luc nailed him in the stomach, and all the air rushed from his lungs and his knees threatened to buckle. Pain spread like a red tide through his body, but his anger roared and clawed. This time, this one time, he wouldn’t let Luc walk all over him. Rafe dropped his head and charged his brother, wrapping his arms around his waist and twisting so that Luc toppled over, falling to the sidewalk. Rafe’s blow skimmed his eye socket, and he barely felt Luc’s fist connecting with his jaw. As his head flew back, he saw Luc’s confused expression, the my-toy-Pomeranian-just-nipped-me look on his face.

“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.

Chapter Four

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 b

ig 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.