Page 127 of Lennox Lane

Lennox’s lips brushed her ear. “You okay?”

Lane blinked, realizing she hadn’t moved in several minutes. “I think she just changed my blood type.”

His chest shook behind her. “That good?”

“That woman is a Goddess.”

He smiled like he’d known exactly what would happen, and because Lane was too stunned to punish him for being right, she only shook her head and looked back toward the stage where Calla had disappeared behind a velvet curtain. A staff member approached their booth a few minutes later, dressed in black with a gold Provocateur pin gleaming near their collarbone.

“Mr. Jackson, Ms. Sanders,” they said with a polished smile. “You can come backstage now.”

Lane’s stomach flipped.

Lennox’s hand moved over her hip, grounding her without trapping her. “Ready?”

“No.”

He smiled.

“But yes,” she added.

“That’s my girl.”

The words slipped under her skin lovingly as a staff member returned their robes before leading them through a side corridor. The hallway behind the main room felt quieter, more intimate. The walls were painted a deep plum and lined with framed black-and-white photos of performers, poets, dancers, musicians, and artists who looked as if they had all left a piece of themselves in the building. Low lights glowed along the floor. Somewhere behind another door, laughter spilled out.

Lane pulled her emerald robe tighter around herself, suddenly aware of the lingerie beneath it and the woman she was about to meet.

Lennox could feel her nerves kick in and reassured her.

He leaned down. “You look beautiful.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Good.”

His smile touched her temple before his mouth did. “Noted.”

The staff member stopped in front of a door with a small gold plaque that read THE BLACK DAHLIA and knocked twice.

A voice from inside said, “Come in.”

The private suite was nothing like Lane expected and somehow exactly right.

It was lush but not loud. Velvet furniture and fresh flowers arranged in black ceramic vases. A vanity lit with soft bulbs. A table holding fruit, sparkling water, champagne, and small bites that looked too pretty to eat casually. A changing screen stood near one corner, draped with silk.

Calla stood near the vanity in a black silk robe with her hair swept back from her face. Her makeup was still flawless from the stage. Up close, she was even more striking. Not just beautiful, though she absolutely was. She had the kind of presence that made beauty feel like the least interesting thing about her.

Lane had to remind herself to breathe normally.

Lennox smiled. “Calla. It’s good to see you. It’s been a while, so that’s always good news.”

Calla’s mouth curved. “Lennox Jackson. Still alive, still dangerous, and still pretending distance counts as emotional regulation.”

Lane’s brows lifted.

Oh, she liked her.