Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ANGEL
Tipping my head back, I blink at the massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceilings. They’ve been dimmed, which bathes most of the room in a shimmering shadow I assume is meant to provide ambiance, or an opportunity to hide behind darkness.
Plucking a third glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, I down half of it before Michaela can chastise me again. According to crusty Bel Air elite protocol, it’s not socially acceptable for the hostess to drink at her own party. Good thing I subscribe to the underprivileged Chula Vista orphan handbook.
My hand tightens around the glass as my gaze wanders around the decorated room.
He’s still not here.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. As he said, he got his money. I knew better than to count on Dominic McCallum for anything, but a part of me hoped tonight would be different. That he would be different.
Slamming the rest of the champagne, I pick myself up and straighten my crown. Because I have one now, fuck him very much . Dominic scrambles my thoughts every time he’s within ten feet of my vagina, making me forget I’m the one in control. I’m the heiress. I’m the one sitting on a family fortune the size of a small continent.
I’m Alexandra Romanov.
“Fascinating.”
Startled, I spin around, almost dropping my glass at the man standing in front of me. He stares at me with cold, celestial blue eyes as unnerving as they are startling. “Excuse me?”
His fingers curls around a short glass of brown liquid. “Your event, Alexandra. It’s a fascinating affair.”
I roll the word around in my head while assessing him. He seems familiar. I can’t place it, but I know I’ve seen him before. “That’s an odd choice of wording, Mr…” I pause, giving him a chance to fill in the blank. When he just stands there, sipping his drink, I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
He glances up, still holding his drink to his lips. “I tend not to adhere to society’s rules, Miss Romanov. Or rules in general.”
Forcing a plastic smile, I allow those pale eyes to swallow me whole. “So how is my event fascinating? Does something not conform to Romanov standards? Because I assure you my public relations director has gone to great lengths to ensure no expense has been spared in recreating—”
“It’s fascinating because of you , Alexandra.” His lips peel back to reveal a smile that never quite meets his eyes. “Your presence is fascinating, your beauty is fascinating, that dress is fascinating.” His eyes scan my gown, and as if pulled by force, mine follow.
Michaela insisted I make a statement that Alexandra Romanov is all grown up. Sleek and straight, the gown is a blue and gold showstopper with a daring slit on the side and a train flowing so far behind me, I need a twelve foot radius.
“But mostly, Miss Romanov,” he continues, “your existence is fascinating.”
I lift my chin, stunned by his bold statement. “If this is about my memory, the estate has already put out a statement about that—”
“I have no interest in your memory. I’m more intrigued by your allure.”
“My allure?”
“Yes, my dear. Six people were brutally murdered on the very ground beneath our feet, yet here you stand, unharmed.” He casually motions toward the floor, his voice eerily calm. “Thriving, dare I say. Why is that? Why would a team of vicious killers spare a young girl and risk having her identify them to the police?”
He doesn’t know we’re lying. He can’t know.
“From what I’ve read, the assailant was killed, as well.”
He takes a step forward. We’re so close we could be dancing, but somehow, I know it wouldn’t just be a dance. It would be an oath. “Then one might beg the question, how did an eight-year-old girl escape a crime scene unseen and then make it from Bel Air to Chula Vista with just the clothes on her back?”
“I-I don’t know.” I stumble backward, my high heel catching on my train. I feel my balance shift and the world tilt. I’m going to fall, and I can’t stop it. I close my eyes and wait, but I don’t fall. My eyelashes flutter open as I stare down at the man’s hand, wrapped firmly around my bicep as he steadies me.
“Like I said, a fascinating event.” Releasing me, he holds up his drink. “Until we meet again, Miss Romanov.”
As he tips his glass, the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket slides up his arm, and my eye catches something familiar. Something kept covered by expensive material and pretenses. Something that makes my throat close up and my heart slam against my chest so hard I can’t breathe.
Half an hour and three drinks later, my nerves still haven’t settled. In fact, I’m three times as on edge and wound tighter than a mattress coil.
“I’m overreacting,” I tell myself pacing the length of the kitchen. Dozens of wait staff dodge my repeated path, clearly annoyed, but smart enough not to say a word. Tipping back the fresh glass in my hand, I drink and pace until my lungs beg for air. “There’s no way that’s possible. Dominic is ruthless but he’s not a—”
“Alexandra, just the person I was”—Michaela’s wine-stained lips pinch as she plucks the flute out of my hand—“looking for.”
“Lucky me.” I sigh, my shoulders sagging.
Placing my half-empty flute on a passing food tray, she hardens a stare at me, “Alexandra, I feel as your PR director, it’s my job to remind you how paramount this party is in restoring the Romanov name. Your parents came to this country to make that name mean something. Not only did they do that, but they made it a household name.”
“Why do I feel a ‘but’ coming?”
She doesn’t acknowledge me, instead taking a firm hold of my elbow and leading me toward the main parlor. “But I also feel it’s also important to remind you the very people you keep rolling your eyes at can make or break your career, not to mention your reputation. The tabloids don’t have to dig very far to come up with a handful of dirt on you and Dominic McCallum. ”
Shit!
“I don’t know what you mean.” God that sounds weak.
“Don’t play dumb,” Michaela bites out through a practiced smile. “I’m not in the mood.”
I scrape my palm across my forehead. “What did you need Michaela?”
She casts a quick glance at the boisterous party. “There are a lot of producers here vying for your attention. And when I say a lot, I mean every single president of every single studio that matters. You can’t keep ignoring them, Alexandra. If you hope to have a film career, this is your chance. Don’t screw it up.”
“You’re right. Just give me a few minutes, and then I’m on it.” She lifts a sharp eyebrow, and I groan, “I promise.”
“Good.” Nodding, she starts to walk away, then stops, her gaze snapping back as a waiter strolls by. “And no more champagne.”
True to my word, I play my part. I put on the perfect show, seeking out and networking with producers and studio execs from Ravengate, MillenniumWorks, hell even the assholes at Optimax who were involved in Paulo Bellini’s fiasco. By the time I finish stroking everyone’s egos, I need more than a glass of champagne. I need a good shot of whiskey.
Whiskey.
Another reminder Dominic still hasn’t shown his face. Of course, I’ve spent the last hour under the lecherous watch of the men who all but own this industry, so he very well could have snuck in when my back was turned. Maybe he’s in one of the other rooms.
Maintaining an artificial smile, I cross the main ballroom at a speed unwise for a woman in six-inch stilettos. I’m racing around, determined to search every inch of this godforsaken house when once again, I crash into another guest in another tuxedo.
Jesus, have I not met a quota tonight, or something?
“Shit!” I blurt out as his hand steadies my arm. Then Michaela’s warning rings in my ear about being elegant and refined, so I rush a hurried, “I mean, my apologies. I didn’t see you there.”
There’s a low chuckle as he moves his hand from my arm to my chin, holding it between his fingers. “No need for apologies, my sweet. I make it my life’s work to rescue damsels in distress.”
As if pulled by a string, my chin lifts and I meet his stare. “Greg Rosten.”
“Ah, my reputation precedes me.”
I jerk my chin away, Milly’s confession causing me to fling out hostility like a dart. “Yes, just not the one you’re proud of.”
I expect outrage, or at the very least a returned insult. Instead, he laughs as if my pain has somehow amused him. “You’re a firecracker, Alexandra. I like that. I can appreciate a woman with bite.” He leans in close, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “It’s so much more satisfying when you bring them to heel.”
What a disgusting pig. I have an agenda, but I’m not sure it’s worth spending another minute in his presence.
I’m about to make my exit when he holds out a hand. “I believe I’m the only executive here who hasn’t had the pleasure of a dance.”
Fuck.
Channeling Michaela, I grit my teeth and take his hand. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a little rusty at ballroom dancing.”
And by ‘a little rusty’ I mean clueless.
“That’s not a problem,” he says. Placing my other hand on his shoulder, he slips his around my back. “Just follow my lead.”
I bite my tongue as he leads me in a classic Viennese Waltz, constantly turning with confusing change of steps that cause my feet to tangle more than once. “Enjoying yourself tonight, Mr. Rosten?”
“It’s Greg, and of course. I’ve always been partial to the Romanovs. I have fond memories of them. Silverline gave your mother her big break, and Nicholas was our most profitable leading man until he took a more directorial role.”
Swallowing, I give myself a mental pep talk.
What the hell are you waiting for? Accept the offer. Just say, yes.
Unfortunately, that’s not what comes out. “It was a pleasure, Greg, but I—”
He spins me around once more then comes to a dead stop. “I’m going to be frank with you, Alexandra. I want you to sign with Silverline.”
“I’m flattered, but I have other offers to consider.”
His grip tightens. “But we fit so well together. You know I cast you in your first role. You were only five,” he murmurs, tucking a wisp of hair behind my ear before resuming our dance. “So young and innocent, but such raw talent. You were always special.”
I stumble, missing steps in the waltz as the static from my dream blinds me, clouding my vision. The zigzag lines flash as the scratching in the back of my mind gets louder and louder. In between the zigzags, I can see slivers of faces but not enough to recognize anyone. I see lips moving, then they disappear as static turns them into dust.
But then there’s a voice. Broken words, sifting through the scratches.
“Here… sweet… good… now.”
I listen but there’s nothing until.. .
“Special.”
A gurgle rattles in my throat, and then they’re gone. The flashes, static, scratching, and voices all vanish as quickly as they came. Almost as if they were never there at all. I know something important just happened, but it’s like someone marked over my memory with black chalk.
“I have to go.” I can taste the bile rising up in my throat as I try to wrench out of his hold, but he only tightens his grasp.
“Alexandra, you don’t look well. Maybe I should take you somewhere to lie down.”
No. No. No.
He’s caging me. I’m flapping my wings as hard as I can, but it doesn’t matter. It’ll never matter.
“Sorry I’m late,” a familiar voice rumbles behind me. “Traffic was a bitch.”
Rosten and I both turn and relief rushes over me like warm water. I was told wishes and hope don’t exist. But if they do, they’re standing in front of me wrapped in all black and accented with a pair of piercing pale blue eyes.