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She follows my cue—ignoring the past hour. “For what?” She shifts sideways and places her bare feet against the floor. She doesn’t bother to smooth the skirt of her dress, however. It’s wrinkled. Bunched. Clinging to her sweat-dampened thighs.
“Your second assignment,” I tell her after a hard swallow. I wrench on the tie and tuck in the tail. When I face her again, she’s watching me warily, her head cocked to the side. The motion only displays the ravaged flesh of her throat. I may have bitten her harder than I meant to. Either that, or she bruises easily. Bloody hell. “You are to accompany me. Tonight.” I don’t say to what, and surprisingly she doesn’t ask.
Instead, she rises to her feet, though I notice that her thighs seem closer together than they normally would be—clenched. “Do I have to wear a dress?” There’s only the slightest tremor in her voice. She runs a hand through her hair, smoothing the wild strands as she resumes her prissy posture.
“Yes,” I say. Only when she’s already halfway up the staircase do I add, “Not one of yours. Look in the bedroom closet and pick something from there.”
Her footsteps slow for a second before resuming their regular pace. I’m left to merely imagine her reaction. What is that saying about foresight? I can’t remember the exact wording. Something about being always prepared.
Truthfully, when I’d had James bring over the order from Atelier Noir, I didn’t expect her to accept my offer. I certainly didn’t expect her to stay. Maybe the move was my own callous way of imitating Adrian Riley’s method—stack the cards against your victim. Maneuver them like a piece across a chessboard. Watch them willingly step into your trap.
Only, Evelyn King wasn’t some unwitting pawn. She was the strongest piece on the board—the bloody fucking queen. One moment it might seem like I had her pinned, but the next, she was hopping to the other side of the goddamn grid.
I sense her creep toward the guest bedroom, and I don’t hear another sound for what feels like an eternity. However, it can only be roughly fifteen minutes later before she appears at the head of the stairs. Her cold, icy expression ironically complements the floor-length black gown, the most modest of the selection I’d picked out. Somehow I’d known she’d settle for it.
I couldn’t have anticipated how bloody well she fit it.
“I would assume you do more in your spare time than run Atelier Noir. However, nothing seems to be inyoursize,” she says, promptly insinuating that I may be a crossdresser.
She stops before descending the final step, and I take her in. The dress hugs her from her breasts to her waist before flaring out at her hips. It’s a simple cut—no doubt Adrian Riley will have women hanging off his arm clothed in a more eye-catching style. But none of them will have her class. Even with her hair pulled back to reveal the angry red, bitten flesh of her neck.
I step forward and beckon her closer with a wave of my hand. “Come here.”
Her eyes flash with a challenge. That infamous bloody chin jerks just a fraction of an inch higher into the air, but she descends the remainder of the staircase and approaches me, stopping just outside my reach. I can smell that damn perfume wafting from her skin.
“What do you want?”
Her breath hitches when I step closer, invading her personal space. She’s showered. Her skin is damp, smelling faintly of soap. Just how hard did she have to scrub to wash me away?
“Hold still.” I raise my hand and curl a fist around the neat bun she somehow managed to form out of the tangled state I left her hair in. She flinches when my fingertips graze her scalp and find the bobbin holding the waves together. I tug it loose, letting her damp hair fall, covering the marks I left behind.
Something tells me that making sure I saw them was her only damn motive in the first place.
“Is this another condition,” she demands while reaching to bat my hand away. Her fingers methodically comb through the displaced strands, smoothing them into place. “Dressing me. Styling me—”
“Until you develop your own style, then yes,” I tell her before heading toward the foyer. “Come on.”
To my utter shock, she does—without one snide remark or comment. In fact, she’s silent during the entire descent to the lobby and even through the main doors. I see her frown when she spots James, already waiting beside the car. The accusatory glance she shoots me conveys what she doesn’t say out loud—You planned this.
Maybe I had, but I don’t feel like examining my motives as I follow her into the car. It feels like barely a few minutes have passed before James pulls up before the club, and Evelyn promptly stiffens.
“You were serious,” I hear her croak. One of her hands runs over the skirt of her dress. She starts to reach for her hair.
“Deadly serious.” My excitement mirrors hers. I just want this night over with. I want this whole damn debacle over with. I want Adrian Riley to eat his words and thoroughly regret ever raising the stakes of this challenge. “Come on.”
She follows when I exit the car, remaining in my shadow when I enter the lobby. Riley hasn’t sent one of his “associates” to greet us tonight, it seems. Instead, the man himself is there, surprisingly without a woman on his arm or an entourage.
“Bellamy,” he greets before turning his attention to Evelyn. He doesn’t seem surprised to find her beside me, and my suspicion only grows. “Ms. King. Allow me to introduce you to the members of the club.”
He takes us on a “tour” that seems more like the parade of a captured enemy through the streets of the victor’s city state. He shows us the club on the lower level, packed to the brim with socialites, clients, and the like. I recognize too many faces from either television or tabloid pages. If Evelyn’s starstruck appearance is any indicator, she does as well.
They eye us warily before focusing the brunt of their attention on Riley. He laps up the accolades, basting in the glow of the spotlight. The power.
I know the bastard thinks he has the upper hand when he sets me loose, to “mingle.” Perhaps, if I had been alone, he would have. But therein lies the infuriating talent of Evelyn King. By my side, she’s quiet, admittedly unassuming—but I see her. I watch her. She takes in every detail of the venue. Every patron. Every glance we catch and muttered whisper. Then, somehow she manages to use the information to her benefit. My benefit.
It seems like an accident at first, when she starts to drift through the crowd, knowing I’d follow. The act brings me to a man I recognize instantly—a fellow who just so happens to own one of the largest banks in the city, let alone the country. Introductions are made, and then I am introduced to a woman whose husband is running for the senate.
And so, it continues. She’s a subtle chess master, but no less skilled than Riley, able to manage my schedule flawlessly for three years while nagging me every step of the way. Naturally charismatic, she draws people to our corner effortlessly and, in only a few seconds, can strategize how best to get her victim to drop his or her guard. It’s almost frightening how easily she spins a web that the most distinguished patrons can’t seem to resist.
