Page 162 of Captive Ruin

He does a double-take, then comes over. Damn, I didn’t intend that, and I’ve given him the opportunity he wanted.

“I’ve never loved anyone more,” he says smoothly, lying for the first time since I’ve known him. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me to his side. “She captured me from the first night I saw her, and I never stood a chance.”

He’s describing my situation, not his. I’ve gone tense, and Vicky and Nat have both noticed. I force myself to relax, smiling up at him, playing the role.

“Who do we have here?” he asks me, and I’m forced to do the introductions. “And what do you do?” he asks Vicky, like he doesn’t know.

“I’m a private investigator,” she replies self-deprecatingly. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

“How interesting,” my husband replies. “I’m in security.” Like hell he is. “May I have the next dance with you? Perhaps we can compare notes.”

Bold, but the delivery is smooth. Vicky glances at me without enthusiasm, as if asking permission and not wanting a yes. Smart woman.

But I have to nod. That’s what he wants.

Van Wyk whisks her away, and I watch them dance.

Nat steps up at my side. “Interesting man.”

“Yes, he is,” I say, distracted.

“I can see why he’s captured you.”

I glance at her.

“Your heart,” she qualifies with a smile, and raises a bottle of champagne. “It’s clear you’re in love.”

Now everyone is lying to maintain our little charade.

“Yes,” I say, holding out my glass. I’ve drunk too much already, but why not? I think it’s helping, as it always does. I take another sip as I look back at my husband and my new friend. If indeed Vicky is a friend.

They’re not dancing close, not like he said he’d hold me. There’s a civilized gap between them, and it’s clear they’re talking. About what, I wonder? They’re barely moving, the flow around the floor sedate. I could do this dance; it’s not difficult.

“Do you know Bastien well?” Nat asks from beside me.

“A little. You?”

“Not yet. It’s a new job.” She takes a sip of her champagne, but I’m certain it’s only her second glass. The level hardly drops. I take a swig of mine, and the alcohol is having an effect.

Watching him dance with Vicky, I’m grateful for it. He’s just lied and said he loved me, and it hurt more than I’m willing to admit.

Why should I care? What did I expect? This isn’t love, and it was never going to be. How can I love my captor, a murderer? Why would he ever love me?

The worst of it isn’t that he lied. It’s that he delivered it so smoothly, so confidently, that for one second I believed him. The most beautiful lie I’ve ever heard, the first he’s ever uttered, and I hate him for it. I hate myself more for caring.

I drain my glass and turn away from them, my eyes perfectly dry. “Let’s get some more champagne.”

Nat won’t drink it, but I will, and with enthusiasm. It turns out I was wrong again: numb is better than feeling.

Maybe, if I get drunk enough, he’ll leave me alone tonight, and my beautiful dress won’t be ruined after all.

Thirty-Seven

Amelia

Iwake up with a hell of a hangover to the smell of coffee.

My stomach revolts and I swallow hard, throwing an arm over my eyes and groaning.