Page 161 of Captive Ruin

With swift insight, I understand. His word is that important, and he needs permission to break the promise he made. It’s a strange kind of power. What will he do if I refuse? I’m tempted to find out.

“Is this work?” I ask carefully.

“Yes.”

I glance over his shoulder, looking at her again. Her dress is a striking green, more conservative than those around her. She looks somehow vulnerable, despite the set of her features. It’s difficult to tell across the room, but I’d swear she was angry, though masking it well. I feel a strange kinship with this mystery woman.

“What will you do if I say no?” I ask quietly.

“Dance with you instead.”

I glance at him, at his perfectly steady steel-grey eyes, inches from mine. He’s serious.

“Fine, whatever,” I say, looking away. Of course his work comes first. How often does it involve dancing with beautiful women? What else does he do when he’s at work?

“Thank you,” Van Wyk says quietly. He pauses. “Will you engage her in conversation?”

His question snaps my eyes back to him. “You want me to talk to her?”

“I’m married,” he reminds me. “It will be a lot easier once you’ve broken the ice.”

I make a noise of resignation. “All right.” I did want to talk to her anyway, but that was before my husband showed his interest. Maybe this is just a marriage of convenience after all, and my new job is to help him pull girls. Start a harem. Break into more apartments.

With Van Wyk, it feels like one moment I know where I stand, and the next I’m on my back, wondering how I got there. Figuratively and literally.

What’s he going to do with her? I’m certain it won’t just be a dance. Is there a terrace around here?

I glance at the girl beside Anna that I wanted to talk to, wondering if I should start with her instead. Give Victoria time to get settled, put off the moment that I have to deliver her to my husband.

Anna sees where I’m looking. “Amelia, would you like to meet Natalie?”

“Yes, I would.” I disengage from Van Wyk who watches me go. I can feel his eyes burning into my back. Does he not want me to talk to anyone? Screw him.

“You don’t have a drink,” Anna says, passing me a glass of champagne.

“Thank you.” It’s easy to put on a smile, partly because I know it will annoy him. “Cheers to you both. So nice to talk without the pressure of all that testosterone.” I don’t keep my voice down; I want him to hear me.

“Congratulations on your recent nuptials, Mrs. Van Wyk,” Natalie says politely. There’s an intelligence in her eyes, and I feel appraised, but not in a bad way.

“Call me Amelia, please.”

She chinks my glass. “Call me Nat.”

We talk lightly, but it’s nice all the same. She’s Anna’s assistant, and Anna is smart too. I would expect nothing less from Bastien. Neither of them brought partners, and nor did Fournier. Two beautiful, intelligent women here just for him? I can imagine that’s very much his scene.

“One moment.” I interrupt Anna in mid-story as Victoria drifts in range. I wasn’t sure I was going to do this, but I can’t resist the opportunity. “Hi,” I say boldly. “Come and join us? This is the anti-men group.”

She looks taken aback for a brief moment, then laughs in delight. “I’ve found my people,” she says, coming over. “I’m Vicky.”

“Amelia.” I point. “Nat. Anna.”

For some reason, I find myself the focus. Anna is keen to know me, probably because I’m the wife of her employer’s number-one. Vicky asks me questions too, but not in an interrogative style, like I might expect from a PI. Even Nat listens with active interest, though I imagine she’s being polite.

It’s fun. It’s easy. It’s not Tony or Jorge or Van Wyk. It’s not Lucy, casting me worried glances from beneath her eyebrows, or Sierra, suggesting we slip into the crowd, get a cab, and escape to South America. We swap numbers early, agreeing to do lunch ‘sometime soon,’ which I’m grateful for even though I know it won’t happen, then pour more champagne and toast new friendships.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Vicky holds a hand up, smiling at the story I’m telling. “Are you saying you married him after five weeks?”

“That’s right,” I say, playing it up, and turn to direct my next words toward Van Wyk. “We’re so very much in love, aren’t we dear?”