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How fitting.
Briefly, I debate sleeping somewhere else, but the bed is vast and it will hardly be the first time we’ve shared one. Besides, I can’t quite dredge up the energy to make an issue of it when we have so many actual problems between us.
So, after snuffing out the candles that light up the room, I settle into the opposite side of the bed, keeping as much distance between us as possible. She says nothing, only watches me guardedly, bracing herself for me to make another biting remark.
I let out a long, slow sigh at how quickly our farce of a marriage has gone to a level of hell far greater than I would have envisioned, even under the circumstances.
For a moment, all I can see is the person I met over a year ago, sitting across the bar, warily watching the rest of the room the same way she watches me now.
But there had been interest there, too.
The girl flips the cards on the table, revealing yet another win for the night. But she’s not looking at the man she’s bested, not paying his blustering any heed.
No. She’s looking at me.
Obsidian eyes assess me from a slim face, framed by sleek black hair and punctuated by a singularly captivating smirk.
I’m here to find information on Louis’ killer, though there should be nothing fun about that, I can’t help but look back.
“No.” The word is an echo of the admonishment I’ve just given myself, but it doesn’t come from my lips. Lawrence is lounging on the stool next to me in a mediocre pretense of relaxation, one that gets even shoddier when his gaze follows mine.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie.
“That girl is dangerous,” he warns.
That much is obvious, from the wicked gleam in her dark eyes to the sure way she handles herself.
“You’re right,” I say, and he visibly relaxes.
Until I stand in one swift motion and make my way across the bar to her. His exasperated sigh follows me across the room, louder than the hum of conversation and the melody of the fiddler combined.
“Deal me in,” I say to the man shuffling the deck.
He grunts a question toward the girl, and she raises a single eyebrow.
“You looked like you were tired of winning,” I suggest.
“Does anyone ever get tired of winning?” she counters, grabbing a cherry out of my drink and pulling the fruit off the stem with her teeth.
I shrug. “Normally I would say no, but you look distinctly…dissatisfied.”
Something barely discernible shifts in her expression, and I decide to push my luck.
“So I thought I’d take it upon myself to help. You know, so you don’t have to pull that dagger you have so expertly hidden on your thigh.”
Now she grins outright. “Spend a lot of time looking at my thighs tonight?”
“Not as much time as I’d like to,” I reply.
She throws her head back and laughs, not the throaty chuckle she’s been letting out all evening, but a lighter sound, full of genuine amusement.
“All right, then.” She turns to the dealer. “Cut in…” she trails off, looking at me for a name.
“Remy.” It is one of my names, after all.
“Well, Remy. I’m Gemma. You can remember that for later.” She fixes her attention back on the cards, picking up her cup of sake. “If you win, that is.”
I shouldn’t be surprised at where we are now. We started on lies, so of course we’ve ended up there, too.
