Madame X - Wilder Jasinda (книги бесплатно без .TXT) 📗

I find you on the far side of the ballroom, leaning against the wall with a glass of wine in one hand, engaging Len in conversation. I hear words bandied back and forth that I believe are car terms, the kind of thing I imagine men discuss between themselves in a strange language all their own: horsepower and torque and cylinders.

Thomas, however, is on the edge of the dancing crowd, and those wide black eyes see me, and I wonder how much else they saw.

“Madame X?” You say my name, as if you suspect something.

“I’m fine, Jonathan.” I refuse to look anywhere but at the dark red rose in your lapel. I hadn’t noticed that before. It matches the shade of my dress exactly.

“They’re seating us for dinner.” You escort me—guide me—through the crowd, through a set of guarded doors, to an enormous room filled with large round tables with six place settings each.

There is a stage at the front of the room. A lectern, a microphone.

Dinner is a long, quiet, formal affair. Outside fork, inside fork, outside spoon, inside spoon. Ice water. Sip at white wine. Nibble at salad greens, a sliver of bread, then a dinner of shredded quail and spicy brown rice and pea pods cooked in oil. As the dinner ends and a delicate dark chocolate mousse is brought out, a stout, middle-aged man takes the stage, adjusts the mic, taps it. Speaks in slow, precise, measured tones of the items to be auctioned this evening. A priceless original painting. A one-of-a-kind, two-hundred-year-old sapphire necklace. A chair that once belonged to King Louis XVI. An ancient Roman Gladius Hispaniensis.

You bid on the necklace. A hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Two hundred fifty thousand. You are reckless with your money, I think. You win the bid.

The sword captures my attention. The scabbard is bronze, the hilt of polished bone, the blade so ancient and pitted and rusted that its shape is nearly lost. This is the crown jewel of the auction, a museum-quality piece of history. Bidding starts at a mind-boggling number. Three men bid: an old man with four wisps of white hair draped across his bald pate, a ridiculously beautiful man whom I assume is a movie star, and—

Him.

The table holds two other couples, one a pair of celebrities, the other an elderly couple ignoring the auction completely. The chair beside Logan is empty, the place setting removed.

He lounges in his chair, a glass of red wine held by the stem in one hand. As the bidding continues, he lifts the glass as his signal, ruby liquid sloshing in the goblet.

The bidding reaches seven figures.

I need to look away, but I cannot.

He is a jaguar, all sleek and perfect features, compact, easy power held in repose, exuding threat simply by his mere existence. Blond hair like a fall of gold, swept back in kinked and wavy strands around his ears, the ends brushing his collar. Indigo eyes sweeping the room.

Finding me.

He does not look away. Even when he lifts his wine in a silent bid, he does not look away.

Neither do I.

You are beside me. Logan is across the room. Caleb Indigo is under my skin.

I have no pulse, no breath, no vital functions. All I am is sight, the war of nerves, the fire of need, the calcification of fear inside my throat.

“Friend of yours?” you ask, your voice low, pitched so only I can hear.

“No.” It is the only answer of which I am capable.

“You’re a better liar than that, X. I saw you two dancing.” You take a long swig of scotch. You have been drinking heavily. I worry. “Logan Ryder. I’ve heard of him.”

“Oh?” I endeavor to sound casual, and almost succeed.

But my eyes are still locked, pulled, hypnotized, drawn to the exotic gaze of the man across the room. I must look away or betray myself yet further. Only . . . I am incapable. Made weak.

My will is gutted by the memory of a near-kiss. I am shredded by the desire to finish it, to consummate the kiss.

“He’s kind of a mystery in the business world. Has his fingers in a dozen of the most lucrative pies in the city, but no one knows shit about him. Where he got his money, how much he’s worth, where he lives, nothing. Just showed up one day on the scene, investing here and there, in this and that. He’s got this uncanny knack for selling off right when the prices are best. He never comes to events like this, though. Total recluse.” You sound speculative. “He a client of yours?”

“No.”

“But you know him.”

“No, I really don’t.” I sound almost cool, almost even, almost believably casual.

You lean close. “I’ll give you your lie, Madame X. I owe you that much.”

“I’m not—”

“Just do me a favor, will you?”

“What’s that?” I force my gaze away, at long, long last, down to my empty plate. I am unaware of having eaten dessert, but there is nothing left except brown smears and crumbs. I feel his eyes still watching me from afar, even with my own closed, pinched shut.

“Quit pretending I don’t know you better than that. Quit pretending I didn’t see the way you two danced. You may not know each other, but you want to.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Don’t you, though?” Your eyes are sharp, too much so.

“No.” I swallow hard, force my eyes to yours. “I am loyal to Caleb. But I will agree to drop the subject if you will.”

“Fine with me.” You stand up. Extend your hand to mine, assist me to my feet. As soon as I’m upright, you let go. “I’ve had enough of this shit-show. Let’s go.”

“Very well.” I accomplish a miracle: I do not look back. Not once.

No Lot’s wife, I.

You, Thomas, and Len, you all three escort me out of the building. I am in the lead, escaping the hot confines of that building. Once we are out into the night, sirens howl and horns blare and eight people pass between me and the entrance in a gaggle talking, laughing, trailing clouds of cigarette smoke and gaiety. Fingers tangled in the gauzy crimson at my thighs, I bunch the skirts, lift them clear of the sidewalk. Stare out and up into the night sky, at the window squares, familiar buildings seen from an unfamiliar angle, yellow taxis in serried ranks. Stoplight, cycling from green to amber to red, the lights much larger and brighter from down here.

I ignore Thomas, ignore your questioning stare, ignore Len’s puzzled eyebrows raised in an arch. I stride away, skirts held around my ankles, heels clicking on the concrete. Freedom. Ripe, thick air in my lungs, noises in my ear.

The heel of my shoe catches in a crack in the sidewalk and I trip, one foot bare on the cold concrete now. I stumble, nearly hit the ground. But a hard body is there, an arm around my waist.

A door, propped open with a wedge, a suddenly familiar blast of scent: cinnamon, wine, and now cigarette smoke, strongly.

I look up, and there he is. “Cinderella. You all right?”

I cannot be this close to him. Cannot.

I turn away, intending to leave my shoe caught in the sidewalk. I have to get away from him before I kiss him. The need to taste his mouth is overwhelming, the need to feel his arms around me all-consuming.

“Your shoe.” He bends, retrieves my shoe, and hands it to me.

I slip it on my foot, and then Thomas is there, a huge hand gripping my upper arm, turning me in place. “It is time to return now, Madame X.”

I see a light in Logan’s eyes as Thomas gives away my name.

I walk beside Thomas back to the car.

Oh, I turn and look back. I must.

Place a foot in the car, a hand on the roof. Stare out over the long roof and sleek hood, watch the stoplight flash to bright green, the cars in a line accelerating. Another crowd of people passes under the awning, but this is an incidental crowd, none speaking to the others.

He is there, watching me intently, blond hair loose and wavy. A hand in his pants pocket, the other lifting a cigarette to his lips, an orange-glowing circle casting his eyes and forehead and sharp high cheekbones into brief illumination—a pause, and a pall of white smoke curling up and away and dissipating.