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“That’s how it was. She was a vision.”
“Ah, and what was it that caused Ms. Becker to throw an envelope of cash in the lobby of Figleaf Terrace?”
Damn. What was their cover for that again?
Henry didn’t miss a beat. “That was completely my fault, it was a special date for us and I only realized last minute. I gave her a tactless gift and Ms. Becker was justifiably upset, but I’ve since made it up to her.” Henry smiled at her, the perfect actor.
She giggled in relief at his story, hoping that Alphonse would buy it.
Alphonse tittered and snapped a few more pictures before Henry waved him off. “Off with you and your story. Let us enjoy the night.”
The man smiled, satisfied that he’d gotten his story, and scurried off into the crowd. Sophie sighed. “Is that the beginning or the end of that?”
“The end. Which is why I allowed it. Now that Al has the pictures and the scoop the rest will all move on.”
She pressed back into Henry’s touch. “Good.”
&nb
sp; He opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of his name from across the room drew him up short. Scanning across the crowd, he grimaced.
“I have to go deal with this. Wait here. I won’t be long.”
***
“Well, at least the peasant knows how to dress. I suppose that’s something.” The heavily accented voice startled Sophie out of her people-watching. She glanced down at the frail man in the wheelchair.
His skin was a deep nut-brown and creased with age, though he had kept his long white hair. It was tied back in a ponytail and his goatee was trimmed to a sharp point. She didn’t need to ask him his name. The dark eyes boring into her from the pockets of wrinkles looked exactly like Henry’s, except they were full of spite.
She extended her hand. “Mr. Medina.”
He took her hand in his leathery grip and flipped it, palm up. “See? Callouses. Told you she was a peasant.” He directed the statement to the woman behind him, wheezing in a long, thin breath. His bony chest rattled with the effort. The woman held out an oxygen mask for him, her mouth twitching the slightest bit upwards at the corners.
“I see, Jorge,” she breathed. Her green eyes twinkled with amusement as she swept Sophie from head to foot. “It’s clear Henry chose the outfit. He has exquisite taste.”
“Usually. Nicole, I need to speak to this woman alone for a moment.”
She saw the muscle in Nicole’s jaw clench, but the slender blonde obeyed.
“I have spent my life building Henry’s fortune,” he started. He wheezed into his oxygen mask and coughed. “I will not see it squandered on some harlot dancer.”
“Excuse me?” Sophie practically choked on the words.
Jorge gestured with a jut of his lips toward Sophie’s shoes and dress. “These clothes, shoes, his mother’s pearls. You like to play dress-up, dancer? Never leave the stage? I’ve seen dozens of you and I’ll see dozens more. The best thing you can do now is get away from my son as fast as you can.”
Her throat caught as she tried to keep her fake smile plastered on. Bitter man that he was, he was shrewd. He knew how to hurt people. “I—”
“You don’t belong here,” Jorge sneered. “You didn’t earn any of this.”
Sophie was searching for what to say to this onslaught when help finally arrived. “Hello, father,” Henry said. His voice was cool as he slipped into place beside her. “You look well.”
She sagged slightly against Henry’s side. She might not really need Jorge’s approval, but getting the sharp side of his tongue still left her drained.
Jorge Medina’s lips writhed. “Why is this woman wearing your mother’s pearls?”
Henry’s hand tightened on her hip. “They look lovely on her, I think.”
“Thank you.” Sophie smiled up at Henry, avoiding his father’s gaze. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”
