“I’m fine, Jonathan.” I refuse to look anywhere but at the dark red rose in your lapel. I hadn’t noticed that before. It matches the shade of my dress exactly.
“They’re seating us for dinner.” You escort me—guide me—through the crowd, though a set of guarded doors, to an enormous room filled with large round tables with six place settings each.
There is a stage at the front of the room. A lectern, a microphone.
Dinner is a long, quiet, formal affair. Outside fork, inside fork, outside spoon, inside spoon. Ice water. Sip at white wine. Nibble at salad greens, a sliver of bread, then a dinner of shredded quail and spicy brown rice and pea pods cooked in oil. As the dinner ends and a delicate dark chocolate mousse is brought out, a stout, middle-aged man takes the stage, adjusts the mic, taps it. Speaks in slow, precise, measured tones of the items to be auctioned this evening. A priceless original painting. A one-of-a-kind, two-hundred-year-old sapphire necklace. A chair that once belonged to King Louis XVI. An ancient Roman Gladius Hispaniensis.
You bid on the necklace. A hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Two hundred fifty thousand. You are reckless with your money, I think. You win the bid.
The sword captures my attention. The scabbard is bronze, the hilt of polished bone, the blade so ancient and pitted and rusted that its shape is nearly lost. This is the crown jewel of the auction, a museum-quality piece of history. Bidding starts amind-boggling number. Three men bid: an old man with four wisps of white hair draped across his bald pate, a ridiculously beautiful man whom I assume is a movie star, and—
Him.
The table holds two other couples, one a pair of celebrities, the other an elderly couple ignoring the auction completely. The chair beside Logan is empty, the place setting removed.
He lounges in his chair, a glass of red wine held by the stem in one hand. As the bidding continues, he lifts the glass as his signal, ruby liquid sloshing in the goblet.
The bidding reaches seven figures.
I need to look away, but I cannot.
He is a jaguar, all sleek and perfect features, compact, easy power held in repose, exuding threat simply by his mere existence. Blond hair like a fall of gold, swept back in kinked and wavy strands around his ears, the ends brushing his collar. Indigo eyes sweeping the room.
Finding me.
He does not look away. Even when he lifts his wine in a silent bid, he does not look away.
Neither do I.
You are beside me. Logan is across the room. Caleb Indigo is under my skin.
I have no pulse, no breath, no vital functions. All I am is sight, the war of nerves, the fire of need, the calcification of fear inside my throat.
“Friend of yours?” you ask, your voice low, pitched so only I can hear.
“No.” It is the only answer of which I am capable.
“You’re a better liar than that, X. I saw you two dancing.” You take a long swig of scotch. You have been drinking heavily. I worry. “Logan Ryder. I’ve heard of him.”
“Oh?” I endeavor to sound casual, and almost succeed.
But my eyes are still locked, pulled, hypnotized, drawn to the exotic gaze of the man across the room. I must look away or betray myself yet further. Only... I am incapable. Made weak.
My will is gutted by the memory of a near-kiss. I am shredded by the desire to finish it, to consummate the kiss.
“He’s kind of a mystery in the business world. Has his fingers in a dozen of the most lucrative pies in the city, but no one knows shit about him. Where he got his money, how much he’s worth, where he lives, nothing. Just showed up one day on the scene, investing here and there, in this and that. He’s got this uncanny knack for selling off right when the prices are best. He never comes to events like this, though. Total recluse.” You sound speculative. “He a client of yours?”
“No.”
“But you know him.”
“No, I really don’t.” I sound almost cool, almost even, almost believably casual.
You lean close. “I’ll give you your lie, Madame X. I owe you that much.”
“I’m not—”
“Just do me a favor, will you?”
