White Hot
Page 50
Lie.
“Likewise, Cheyenne,” Augustine said.
Lie. Clearly this wasn’t a close friend.
“We’ve been admiring your lovely companion,” Cheyenne said. Both she and her boy toy looked at me and for some reason I was reminded of hyenas baring their fangs.
“So interesting,” the boy toy said. “Perhaps she can settle our dispute. See, Cheyenne here contends that a woman should retain some hint of her natural state, while I firmly believe that a female body should be bald from the eyebrows down. Care to opine?”
Aha. Clearly he was some kind of idiot. I had no time for that nonsense. I looked directly at him, holding his stare for a full five seconds, then deliberately turned my back to him. Augustine and I walked away.
“Well done,” Augustine whispered.
“Who were they?”
“Nobody important.”
An elegant African American woman was making her way toward us. She wore a pink dress, not the overwhelming bright pink of Pepto-Bismol, but the gentle pastel pink a mere shade redder than white. The dress, slightly looser than a mermaid shape, hugged her statuesque frame. A half cape spilled from her shoulder, giving her a regal air. From the distance she looked ageless, but now, close up, I could see she was probably twice my age.
Augustine bowed his head. “Lady Azora.”
“May I borrow you for a moment, Augustine?” She glanced at me.
Augustine also glanced at me.
“Of course,” I said.
“Thank you, my dear,” Lady Azora told me.
They strolled away.
I turned so I could keep them in my view without staring at Augustine’s back. A man emerged from behind a group of people. African American, in his mid-thirties, he moved with an athletic grace, walking until he stopped next to me. Or rather loomed. He had to be three or four inches over six feet tall. Every tuxedo and suit in this place was custom-made, but his must’ve taken a couple of extra yards to accommodate his height and broad shoulders. His hair was cropped very short, and an equally short goatee beard and mustache traced his jaw, cut with razor-sharp precision. Our stares met. An agile intellect shone from his dark eyes. One look and you knew that he wasn’t just intelligent, he was sharp and shrewd. He wouldn’t mow down his opposition. He would disassemble it.
The man bent his head slightly toward me. His voice was deep and quiet. “Do you need help?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Do you need help?” he repeated quietly. “One word, and I’ll take you out of here and none of them can stop me. I’ll make sure you have access to a doctor, a safe place to stay, and a therapist to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like and will help. ”
The pieces clicked in my head. The bruise. Of course. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”
“You don’t know me. It’s difficult to trust me because I’m a man and a stranger. The woman speaking with Augustine is my aunt. The woman across the floor in the white-and-purple gown is my sister. Either of them will vouch for me. Let me help you.”
“Thank you,” I told him. “On behalf of every woman here. But I’m a private investigator. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse. This is a work-related injury and the man who put his hands on me is dead.”
The man studied me for a long moment and slid a card into my hand. “If you decide that the injury isn’t work related, call me.”
Augustine turned toward us.
The man gave him a hard stare and walked away. I glanced at the card. It was solid black, with the initials ML embossed on one side in silver and a phone number on the other.
“Do you know who that was?” Augustine asked.
“No.”
“Michael Latimer. Very powerful, very dangerous.”
“He wasn’t on my list.”
“He was supposed to be in France for the next month. What did he want?”
There was no harm in telling him. “He thought I was a victim of domestic violence. He offered to help.”
“I had no idea he cared.” Augustine narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”
Men and women drifted by us as the announcer kept reciting a measured litany of names. So-and-so of House so-and-so. So-and-spouse of House Whatever. I saw Cornelius next to a woman who could have been his sister. He looked at me in passing as if he had no idea who I was and I returned his gaze in the exact same way.
Minutes drifted by.
I turned and saw Gabriel Baranovsky on the second floor above us talking to an older Asian man. Two large men with shoulders so broad they looked almost square in their expensive suits waited calmly nearby. Bodyguards.
According to our background check, Baranovsky was fifty-eight. He wore the years well. His build, slender, almost slight, pointed to a man who was either a habitual runner or had an iron will when it came to food. His dark hair fell in a loose wavy mane, framing an angular intelligent face with a long nose, narrow chin, and large eyes. I had studied his picture from the files. You couldn’t tell from here, but he had remarkable eyes, light brown like whiskey and possessing a kind of sorrowful, wise expression. The rest of him was perfectly ordinary, but the eyes elevated his face, transforming him into someone unusual, someone you would want to talk to because you were sure he would have something unique to say. The eyes of the man who looked into the future. No wonder he collected women.
And he wasn’t looking at me at all.
The announcer’s voice faltered and for once I tuned into it.
“Connor Rogan of House Rogan.”
The floor around us became still and quiet. On the second floor Baranovsky pivoted toward the door, frowning. The pause lasted only a couple of moments, the slow drift of bodies and hum of conversation resuming, but now the voices were lower and the seemingly casual movement had acquired a definite direction as the attendees tried to clear the middle of the floor without looking like they were tripping over their feet.
Rogan walked into the hall. He wore a black suit, but the way they looked at him, he might as well have marched into the room in full armor. He’d shaved and brushed his hair, but the circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he probably hadn’t slept last night. A scowl hardened his face. He looked like he would murder anyone who got in his way.
One half of me wanted to punch him in the face for buying up my debts. The other half wanted to march into his path and chew him out for not sleeping. If this was love, then love was the most complicated emotion I had ever felt.
He saw me. Surprise flickered in his eyes and for a moment he was too stunned to hide it. The dress was worth every penny.
Rogan altered his course. Across the room Michael Latimer watched him quietly. The crowd’s reactions split. Most faces turned worried. A few others, men and women both, watched him the way Latimer did, not afraid but ready. They were all predators who’d agreed to play nice for one night and now they weren’t sure if the beast with the biggest fangs in the room would follow the rules.
Rogan crashed to a halt before me and held out his hand without saying a word. I didn’t dare to check if Baranovsky was watching but damn near everybody in the room was. Their stares pinned me down like daggers.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I put my hand in his.
He turned smoothly, sliding my hand down to rest on his elbow. We walked together up the stairs. I felt light-headed.
“Likewise, Cheyenne,” Augustine said.
Lie. Clearly this wasn’t a close friend.
“We’ve been admiring your lovely companion,” Cheyenne said. Both she and her boy toy looked at me and for some reason I was reminded of hyenas baring their fangs.
“So interesting,” the boy toy said. “Perhaps she can settle our dispute. See, Cheyenne here contends that a woman should retain some hint of her natural state, while I firmly believe that a female body should be bald from the eyebrows down. Care to opine?”
Aha. Clearly he was some kind of idiot. I had no time for that nonsense. I looked directly at him, holding his stare for a full five seconds, then deliberately turned my back to him. Augustine and I walked away.
“Well done,” Augustine whispered.
“Who were they?”
“Nobody important.”
An elegant African American woman was making her way toward us. She wore a pink dress, not the overwhelming bright pink of Pepto-Bismol, but the gentle pastel pink a mere shade redder than white. The dress, slightly looser than a mermaid shape, hugged her statuesque frame. A half cape spilled from her shoulder, giving her a regal air. From the distance she looked ageless, but now, close up, I could see she was probably twice my age.
Augustine bowed his head. “Lady Azora.”
“May I borrow you for a moment, Augustine?” She glanced at me.
Augustine also glanced at me.
“Of course,” I said.
“Thank you, my dear,” Lady Azora told me.
They strolled away.
I turned so I could keep them in my view without staring at Augustine’s back. A man emerged from behind a group of people. African American, in his mid-thirties, he moved with an athletic grace, walking until he stopped next to me. Or rather loomed. He had to be three or four inches over six feet tall. Every tuxedo and suit in this place was custom-made, but his must’ve taken a couple of extra yards to accommodate his height and broad shoulders. His hair was cropped very short, and an equally short goatee beard and mustache traced his jaw, cut with razor-sharp precision. Our stares met. An agile intellect shone from his dark eyes. One look and you knew that he wasn’t just intelligent, he was sharp and shrewd. He wouldn’t mow down his opposition. He would disassemble it.
The man bent his head slightly toward me. His voice was deep and quiet. “Do you need help?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Do you need help?” he repeated quietly. “One word, and I’ll take you out of here and none of them can stop me. I’ll make sure you have access to a doctor, a safe place to stay, and a therapist to talk to. Someone who understands what it’s like and will help. ”
The pieces clicked in my head. The bruise. Of course. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”
“You don’t know me. It’s difficult to trust me because I’m a man and a stranger. The woman speaking with Augustine is my aunt. The woman across the floor in the white-and-purple gown is my sister. Either of them will vouch for me. Let me help you.”
“Thank you,” I told him. “On behalf of every woman here. But I’m a private investigator. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse. This is a work-related injury and the man who put his hands on me is dead.”
The man studied me for a long moment and slid a card into my hand. “If you decide that the injury isn’t work related, call me.”
Augustine turned toward us.
The man gave him a hard stare and walked away. I glanced at the card. It was solid black, with the initials ML embossed on one side in silver and a phone number on the other.
“Do you know who that was?” Augustine asked.
“No.”
“Michael Latimer. Very powerful, very dangerous.”
“He wasn’t on my list.”
“He was supposed to be in France for the next month. What did he want?”
There was no harm in telling him. “He thought I was a victim of domestic violence. He offered to help.”
“I had no idea he cared.” Augustine narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”
Men and women drifted by us as the announcer kept reciting a measured litany of names. So-and-so of House so-and-so. So-and-spouse of House Whatever. I saw Cornelius next to a woman who could have been his sister. He looked at me in passing as if he had no idea who I was and I returned his gaze in the exact same way.
Minutes drifted by.
I turned and saw Gabriel Baranovsky on the second floor above us talking to an older Asian man. Two large men with shoulders so broad they looked almost square in their expensive suits waited calmly nearby. Bodyguards.
According to our background check, Baranovsky was fifty-eight. He wore the years well. His build, slender, almost slight, pointed to a man who was either a habitual runner or had an iron will when it came to food. His dark hair fell in a loose wavy mane, framing an angular intelligent face with a long nose, narrow chin, and large eyes. I had studied his picture from the files. You couldn’t tell from here, but he had remarkable eyes, light brown like whiskey and possessing a kind of sorrowful, wise expression. The rest of him was perfectly ordinary, but the eyes elevated his face, transforming him into someone unusual, someone you would want to talk to because you were sure he would have something unique to say. The eyes of the man who looked into the future. No wonder he collected women.
And he wasn’t looking at me at all.
The announcer’s voice faltered and for once I tuned into it.
“Connor Rogan of House Rogan.”
The floor around us became still and quiet. On the second floor Baranovsky pivoted toward the door, frowning. The pause lasted only a couple of moments, the slow drift of bodies and hum of conversation resuming, but now the voices were lower and the seemingly casual movement had acquired a definite direction as the attendees tried to clear the middle of the floor without looking like they were tripping over their feet.
Rogan walked into the hall. He wore a black suit, but the way they looked at him, he might as well have marched into the room in full armor. He’d shaved and brushed his hair, but the circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he probably hadn’t slept last night. A scowl hardened his face. He looked like he would murder anyone who got in his way.
One half of me wanted to punch him in the face for buying up my debts. The other half wanted to march into his path and chew him out for not sleeping. If this was love, then love was the most complicated emotion I had ever felt.
He saw me. Surprise flickered in his eyes and for a moment he was too stunned to hide it. The dress was worth every penny.
Rogan altered his course. Across the room Michael Latimer watched him quietly. The crowd’s reactions split. Most faces turned worried. A few others, men and women both, watched him the way Latimer did, not afraid but ready. They were all predators who’d agreed to play nice for one night and now they weren’t sure if the beast with the biggest fangs in the room would follow the rules.
Rogan crashed to a halt before me and held out his hand without saying a word. I didn’t dare to check if Baranovsky was watching but damn near everybody in the room was. Their stares pinned me down like daggers.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I put my hand in his.
He turned smoothly, sliding my hand down to rest on his elbow. We walked together up the stairs. I felt light-headed.
