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Sophie reached out, grabbed his elbow, and squeezed. “Thanks, Dar. But she thinks that because I’ve allowed her to intimidate me and insult me. Not anymore. I’m going to show her the real Sophie Becker, the Sophie Becker that sambaed to a first place trophy, in Brazil, with a dislocated shoulder.”
Darren punched the air. “Yeah, Soph!” Wayne snorted. Sophie smiled.
“I know where she’s going to be tonight. Her, and Henry.” And more than likely Jorge too, though that didn’t really matter. The elderly man was surely egging the icy blonde on, but he could do little to Sophie himself. “And after tonight, we’ll see what’s what.”
A slow heat burned through her veins. Excitement, apprehension. She was going to see Henry again. The thought tingled in her brain. Sophie shivered. She was going to see Henry and she was going to show Nicole that she was no sad sack, easily pushed aside. And then?
Well, and then they’d go from there. It all depended on Henry’s reaction. She knew how her words to him during their last conversation couldn’t just be brushed aside. She’d been hurt, and trying to hurt him too. If he did care, if he hadn’t just been playing her, than Sophie had a lot of ground to make up.
“What exactly are you planning to do, Sophie?” Wayne had relaxed back against the cream-colored sofa, but his eyes were troubled, wary. For a moment, she wasn’t sure why. And then she realized he was worried for her. It was sweet. She had never thought of herself as being as close to Wayne as she was to Darren. She’d known Darren longer, for one. And the dark-haired accountant kept his feelings to himself a lot. She’d always known he liked her, but hadn’t realized, until now, that he actually cared as deeply for her as Darren did.
“I’m just going to a party. That’s all.” She winked at him.
Wayne frowned. Darren’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened, but before he could utter a word, there was a short rap at the door. Sophie popped to her feet and set aside her empty martini glass. When had she finished it? She didn’t know, but it was a warm glow in her belly now.
“That will be my th
ird musketeer.” She practically skipped to the apartment door and pulled it open.
Carl stood on the other side, tall and lean and grinning wider than the Cheshire cat.
“My lady.” He sketched her a quick bow. “Do you know who owns this building?” He cocked a brow at her as he straightened.
“I do.” She tugged him inside. “Darren, Wayne, this is Carl. Carl, Darren and Wayne.” Sophie pushed the door shut and stared up into Carl’s grinning face. “Did you bring it?”
The comedian winked and lifted the garment bag he held at his side. “You’d better believe it.”
Sophie clapped her hands. “Great!” She turned her dazzling smile on the other two men in the room, who both looked slightly stunned. “Well, don’t just stand there! We’ve got work to do!”
Chapter Twenty-one
The gallery was dripping with softly glittering lights, purposefully arranged to highlight the works of art. Both the stuff on the walls, and what people wore. Not to mention the glint at throats, wrists and fingers. All the glitterati were here tonight, to see and be seen, and had dressed their plumage to best advantage.
Sophie didn’t feel a bit out of place on Carl’s arm as they glided into the front room. Her dress was every bit as fabulous as any of the other women’s. Perhaps more so. Carl had outdone himself. Sophie didn’t even want to know how much it cost. It was merely a loaner, anyway.
It was a Monique Lhuillier in shocking red with a demure illusion neckline and a deep V in the back. But the hem was going to draw the most attention, Sophie knew. That was the point. In back, the tulle brushed her heels, but in front it barely brushed the tops of her knees, and the heavier pleating of the embroidered overskirt didn’t even reach mid-thigh.
The dress showed off the entire length of her legs all the way down to the strappy black heels and her cherry painted toenails. The pale pitting and thick twist of her scar was visible for everyone to see for the very first time since her surgeries, and Sophie didn’t care.
Okay, she cared a little. But it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as she’d always feared. She held her head high, her hair in soft, dark waves around her shoulders, with only the front held back simply by a couple of jeweled pins. Her heart thumped against her ribcage and her hand shook a bit where she clutched Carl’s elbow, but there was more excitement in it than shame or fear.
“You ready for this, Ms. Becker?” He smiled down at her, eyes glittering with amusement. She squeezed his bicep a little. On the ride over in his limo, Carl had kept up a steady stream of hilarious banter, not giving her the time to worry about how tonight was going to go.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Mr. Barrett.”
“We’re already drawing some attention. It must be you. No one ever notices when I arrive.” He winked, patting her hand.
Sophie chuckled. “I find that hard to believe. And it’s the dress, I’m sure. You have impeccable taste. Remind me to call you the next time I plan to walk a red carpet.”
Carl snatched two champagne glasses from a passing waiter and handed her one. “Is that something you’re planning on doing a lot of?” He drew her further into the crowd. Sophie did her best to ignore the murmurs of people around them. She heard the whispered hiss of her name several times and knew what speculation was going on. They probably thought that now that Henry had gone back to his real girlfriend, the cast-off harlot had moved on to his best friend. She straightened her shoulders and toasted Carl.
“I don’t know, maybe. If it doesn’t work out tonight, maybe I can convince you to take a chance on another dancer.” She only said it because she knew for a fact Carl wouldn’t take her seriously.
He didn’t, he threw back his head and laughed the raucous, braying laugh she’d become used to in the short time she’d known him. Sophie’s mouth curved in an answering smile.
“You just might be able to, if anyone could.” He clinked his glass against hers. “But I think it won’t be necessary. There’s no way anyone could resist you in that dress.”
Sophie caught the wink of light on metal and glanced to her left, not entirely surprised to find the scowling visage of Jorge Medina. He sat straight in his wheelchair near a steel sculpture of half a man carrying a javelin. His white hair was loose around his shoulders too, his wide mouth a thin white line as he stared daggers at her.
