So Tempting by Jean Brashear Page A

growl of the motorcycle engine suiting the melody of anger and grief battling for his heart.
    Papa was dead. Had been gone for days and no one had told him. Dante had forever missed his chance to say goodbye. To make things right.
    Deep inside his chest, the ache for revenge clawed. He knew who had made the decision to rob him of the opportunity to connect, one last time, with the man whose blood he bore.
    His brother. Who hated him.
    He only knew now because Papa's lawyer had called him to the reading of the will. It meant, he guessed, that Papa hadn't forgotten him after all.
    But the only thing he truly wanted, to be recognized as his father's son, he would never have. To be part of his father's daily life, to share the small moments with him, the normal ones.
    He'd never be tucked in bed at night and know his father and his mother were in the next room, guardians of his sleep. Or relish the simple pleasure of a father's visit to his school, of walking down the street, small hand in his father's larger one.
    Or, now that he was a man of nineteen, to take his place at his father's side. To join his father's company, Prince Laboratories, and make him proud.
    All those pleasures his brother had enjoyed all his life. Dante would never experience them, never have the slightest passing acquaintance with that joy, forever out of his reach.
    As he parked the bike outside his father's mansion, he stilled the urge to turn around and ride away, to seek comfort in the arms of his Caterina, so sweet and kind. To sit on the porch and comfort Mama, who'd been inconsolable at the news.
    A mere glance at the sturdy stone exterior pierced his heart with grief. His father would not be waiting inside. Their goodbye, when he'd been given the amulet, had been the last words they would ever exchange.
    Instead, his brother, his enemy, would be waiting.
    He climbed the stairs with reluctance. Inside he would find the proof of what he wanted so badly to deny. His father would not come to visit again, would not stroke his hair or laugh with pride. Never speak to him again of the secrets of their shared blood, the blood of the Light Walkers, healers and warriors who fought battles to save lives. He had these dreams he had expected Papa to explain.
    But Papa had never visited. Never spoken to him again. The child within rose up to cry out, to beg for another chance. He should have been able to find a way to change all this.
    The butler opened the study door, and he reluctantly strode past. That boy was long gone, as dead as the father.
    From a chair in front of the desk, Markos rose. Triumph and malice glowed from his eyes. His brother, too, had matured. He was a man now, his frame filled out. His victory complete.
    Dante tore his gaze away, taking in the sight of the stranger sitting behind his father's desk. He nodded a curt greeting and took his own seat at his brother's side.
    The older man cleared his throat, his eyes dark and assessing. "Shall we proceed?"
    Cut and dried, then. It would be better that way. He would grieve in his own manner. In his own time.
    With a sideways glance he saw the muscle jumping in his brother's jaw, the fingers of one hand gripping the arm of the chair until the knuckles stood out like bleached bones.
    All Dante could think of was the last time he'd been in this room, when his father had talked of rescuing this brother, of making him whole. Though he'd doubted such could be accomplished, Dante had allowed himself to hope Papa would succeed, would give them another chance to be true brothers as he had always craved.
    So intent was he on recapturing the beloved sound of his father's voice that he didn't register the lawyer's words until his brother had leapt to his feet, chair crashing to the floor.
    "He cannot do that! I am his son, his heir. He cannot let the bastard—"
    Fists clenched, Markos whirled, his face purple with rage. "If you think for a moment that you'll ever take the helm of Prince, you're a fool. I'll