A sudden, deep inhalation, and then I am alone at the mirror, watching a broad back and wide set of shoulders recede.
When the door clicks shut, I can finally let the breath I’ve been holding rush out, can slump, shaking, hands on my knees. Step out of my bright red Jimmy Choo heels, leave them at the mirror, one upright, the other tipped onto its side.
I suck in a breath, let it out. Another. Shake my hand, curl fingers into a fist, a vain attempt to stop them from trembling. A sob rips out of me. I stifle it. Another, louder. I cannot, cannot. If I give in, that door will open again and I’ll succumb to the need for comfort. And I, at war with my disparate selves, need that physical comfort, that carnal reassurance... and I also loathe it. Hate it. Revile it. Feel a deep, secret need to shower and scrub the memory of it off my skin as soon as the door closes behind that broad and muscular back.
Yet I need it. Cannot fight my body’s reaction to such raw, masculine, sexual, sensual primacy.
I grab a throw pillow from the couch, cross my arms over it, bury my face in the scratchy fabric, and let myself cry. The camera is behind me; it will only see me sitting on the couch, finally processing the events of the morning. It will only see me engaging in a normal, natural reaction to trauma.
I shake all over, shaking so hard my joints hurt, sobbing into the pillow. Alone, I can strip off the armor.
It isn’t until I’ve nearly cried myself out that it hits me: That was the first time in recent memory that a visit came and went, and I remained fully clothed the entire time. An anomaly.
I let my tears dry, find my breath, find my equilibrium. Set aside the pillow. Stand up, shake my hands and toss my hair. No more weakness. Not even alone.
I glance at the clock; it is 7:48a.m.What am I going to do with the rest of the day? I’ve never had a whole day to myself. It should a luxury, a precious gift.
It isn’t.
A whole day, alone with my thoughts?
I am terrified.
Silence breathes truth; solitude breeds introspection.
Chapter 4
You are a woman. I was not expecting this. The dossier listed your name as George E. Tompkins. Twenty-one, five-seven, only child and heir to a Texas oil baron’s rather significant fortune. George Tompkins. No photograph. I was expecting a Texas kid, all twang and “y’all” and a big shiny belt buckle and scuffed Tony Lamas.
Ninea.m., because Caleb canceled my first few appointments of the day so I could sleep a bit later... and apply extra concealer over the angry black-green-yellow bruises on my throat.
Eight-fifty-eighta.m.:ding . . . knock-knock. “Madame X?”
A lady is never caught speechless. So I blinked, summoned my smile, and ushered the tall, lanky Texas kid into my condo. Speechlessly, but with the expected grace.
You are tall, lanky... with prominent breasts that can’t quite be hidden, even behind a baggy white button-down shirt. An actual bolo tie. Yes, scuffed Tony Lamas. And yes, a shiny belt buckle larger than both my fists together. Stunning green eyes, hair somewhere between dark blond and light brown, expensively cut and styled... short, swept off to one side, parted neatly. A male haircut, not a pixie cut, but a true male style. No earrings, no bracelets, no rings, no necklace. No hint offemininity whatsoever, except those breasts, which I imagine are simply too large to hide, so you don’t bother.
You stride past me, back ramrod straight and stiff, a swagger to your walk, a sway/sashay that’s a strange mix of masculine and feminine. You peer around at my home, the Van GoghStarry Nightprint on the wall, the Sargent portrait that is my namesake on another. The white leather couch, dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, exposed support beams crossing the ceilings made out of the same imported African teak as the floor. The built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf—more African teak—filled to bursting, stacked three deep in places, with books. Fiction of all kinds, biographies, translations of ancient classics, current literary novels, thrillers, horror, true crime, indie-published romances, nonfiction on subjects as far-ranging as biology, physics, psychology, history, anthropology... I read just about everything. It is my only pastime, my only form of entertainment. You spend several long moments in silence, perusing my collection of books.
“Must read a lot,” you say. Your voice could be masculine or feminine. High enough to be a woman’s, low enough to pass as a high-voiced male.
“I do.”
You eye me. Not just look, not just see, butexamine. Intelligence shines in your vivid green eyes. Curiosity, nerves, confidence, defiance. Complex eyes.
I know what you see when you look at me: five-eight in my bare feet; long, thick, black hair, straight, raven black, glossy, hanging to midbicep when it is loose, which is rarely; I am built with curves, bell-shaped hips and buxom, but I am fit, toned, athletic, lithe—my diet is rigorous, my exercise regimen strenuous and unforgiving; black eyes that I am told seem to see too much and give too little away; high cheekbones, full lips, delicate chin, classic heart-shaped face. I am exotic. I couldbe Spanish, or Middle Eastern. Even Islander, or Hawaiian, Filipino.
I am beautiful. Uncommonly beautiful, my features possessing the kind of symmetry and perfection that only comes along once in a generation. Exquisite. Breathtaking.
I know what I look like.
I endure your scrutiny without flinching, without looking away.
Another lesson learned early: to establish authority in any situation, wait out the silence, force the other person to speak first.
You concede. “I’m George.”
“Good morning, George. Welcome. Would you care for some tea?”
