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“Oh. That is generous,” I acknowledge with my best attempt at a sincere smile. No way in hell is he doing anything that generous unless he’s getting something out of it. That’s for sure.
My parents share a smile, and I wonder if they might not have had something to do with this whole charity ball idea in the first place. God, I hate the political dog-and-pony show.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” I ask. “I think I need to get some air.”
“Of course.”
I give Dr. Estrada a polite nod, then one to my parents as I climb back up the stairs and head to the far end of the hall where Bar SixtyFive and the rooftop patio house the overflow of guests.
“Yowza, Dani Richelieu, is that you?”
Suppressing my inclination to be offended by the mildly offensive interjection, I turn to find Adam Page leaning against the bar counter, what looks like a scotch on the rocks.
“Hey, Adam.”
Years ago, when we were growing up in the political arena together, Adam and I had been as thick as thieves, fellow haters of the stuffy events that brought the world’s elite into the same room where they could all talk about just how important they are to the world.
But after the last charity event where I saw Adam, I realized he’s fallen in line with all the other politics-hungry dreamers. He and my dad managed to have an entire conversation over my head during that dinner, and I’m not so ready to forgive and forget that Adam left me to the wolves, so to speak, when he knows just how god-awful and boring I find these things.
Not that I find charity in any way boring or unimportant—only the pumped-up, glitzy events like these that really just create an excuse for the top one percent of society to spend exorbitant amounts of money on a seat at the table so they can claim themselves to be philanthropists because they overbid on some lavish auction piece, like a luxury vacation in the Bahamas.
“Wow, that was a warm welcome,” Adam observes dryly, pushing off from the bar to approach me. His eyes scan me up and down, lingering along the neckline of my dress longer than I appreciate, before they flick back up to meet my eyes.
“Well, I’m not in the warmest of moods,” I state flatly, ready to be done with this conversation so I can catch a moment’s reprieve on the balcony.
“Not even for an old friend?”
“I thought you and my dad were best buds now,” I point out sarcastically.
“Sheesh, Dani. Cut me some slack. Aren’t I allowed one conversation with the guy after I’ve known you for more than half your life?”
Well, when he puts it that way… “I suppose.”
“But let me tell you, if you were wearing that dress at the last event…?” Adam whistles. “Damn, Dani. I wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes off you. It’s like you grew up overnight.”
Bleh, I can’t believe I used to enjoy spending time with this guy.
Maybe it’s just that Adam’s not as mature as Efrem, but it boggles my mind that this is supposed to be the elite of our society when he thinks a comment like that is going to flatter me.
And just like that, my stomach drops as I realize my mind automatically turned to Efrem. And not just any old thought about Efrem but how much I miss the sexy, subtle way he made me feel seen and told me I’m beautiful.
“Excuse me,” I state, not waiting for Adam’s reply as I continue on my path toward the rooftop patio with renewed purpose.
Having Efrem enter my head when I’ve worked so hard not to think of him tonight has thrown me further off balance.
Bursting through the door, I step out into the crisp evening air and find an opening along the railing. Gripping it fiercely with both hands, I lean out into the open space and take a deep breath, trying to ease the wave of claustrophobia that threatens to choke me.
Closing my eyes, I focus on my breathing, inhaling deeply through my nose and out through my mouth. Far below me is the welcome chorus of New York traffic, a sound that helps ground me in reality once again.
“Beautiful out here, isn’t it?” asks a familiar voice that makes my blood run cold.
Eyes snapping open, I step instinctually away from Mikhail, suddenly on guard.
“Relax, Dani. I only came out to talk. You looked like you might be in need of a friend,” he says, his smile as oily as his voice.
“And you think that friend could be you?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay light because we’re not far from several important members of the New York legislature, and it seems everyone here is singing Mikhail’s praises.
It wouldn’t look good for Robert Richelieu’s daughter to speak hostilely to the man hosting tonight’s event. Still, while they’re all talking about what a philanthropist the successful businessman is, I know the truth of it. He’s as sick and twisted as the rest of New York’s white-collar criminals.
