Thirty-Six #2
Bastien chuckles and Van Wyk smiles. Some people nearby notice, and I see the double-takes as they’re unable to hide their surprise.
Yes, everyone, my husband smiles now.
And I know why: it’s me. Our marriage of convenience was never merely a convenience in his mind.
But that makes no sense. Serranto threatening my sister. The Volkovs. Proposing to me—informing me, rather—after only four weeks? No one could be that certain. It doesn’t make sense.
“She’s a catch,” Bastien says to Van Wyk, drawing me from my thoughts.
“Isn’t she?” His arm slides around my waist, pulling me close in a possessive display.
I push aside my musings and use the moment to assess the rest of Bastien’s entourage. A couple of the men nearby I recognize as his security from the wedding, but they’re wearing sharp tuxedos and blending in. A woman in her early thirties hovers close.
Bastien sees my gaze and turns to her. “This is Anna, my personal assistant.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Van Wyk.”
“Call me Amelia, please.”
There’s another woman behind Anna, who doesn’t merit an introduction. She’s younger, maybe early twenties, stunningly beautiful with deep auburn hair and an intelligent face. I know something of being ignored, and I slip from beneath Van Wyk’s arm to talk to her.
“You remember that private investigator I mentioned?” Bastien murmurs behind me, and his tone makes me pause.
“Victoria Callahan,” Van Wyk replies. “The one from Dalton Reed.”
“Except she’s working for herself, now. Haynes updated her profile.”
“What of her?”
“She’s just walked in.”
I turn in curiosity. Why would a PI be here? It reminds me of gatecrashing the gala uninvited. What is my husband going to do in his capacity as ‘security’?
The woman in question is blond, elegant, and determined. She stands out because she’s alone, and the subject of both men’s scrutiny. I’m suddenly feeling mischievous, and want to get to know her, too. This night is shaping up to be more interesting than I’d thought.
Van Wyk steps close, taking my hand. “Someone has arrived.”
“Uh-huh?” I play ignorance.
“Would you mind if I dance with her?”
I blink in confusion. We haven’t danced yet, but he wants to dance with her. Maybe I don’t want to talk to her after all. “Why are you asking me? Don’t you always do what you want?”
“Because I said I wouldn’t,” he replies softly.
With swift insight, I understand. His word is that important, and he needs permission to break the promise he made. It’s a strange kind of power. What will he do if I refuse? I’m tempted to find out.
“Is this work?” I ask carefully.
“Yes.”
I glance over his shoulder, looking at her again.
Her dress is a striking green, more conservative than those around her.
She looks somehow vulnerable, despite the set of her features.
It’s difficult to tell across the room, but I’d swear she was angry, though masking it well.
I feel a strange kinship with this mystery woman.
“What will you do if I say no?” I ask quietly.
“Dance with you instead.”
I glance at him, at his perfectly steady steel-grey eyes, inches from mine. He’s serious.
“Fine, whatever,” I say, looking away. Of course his work comes first. How often does it involve dancing with beautiful women? What else does he do when he’s at work?
“Thank you,” Van Wyk says quietly. He pauses. “Will you engage her in conversation?”
His question snaps my eyes back to him. “You want me to talk to her?”
“I’m married,” he reminds me. “It will be a lot easier once you’ve broken the ice.”
I make a noise of resignation. “All right.” I did want to talk to her anyway, but that was before my husband showed his interest. Maybe this is just a marriage of convenience after all, and my new job is to help him pull girls. Start a harem. Break into more apartments.
With Van Wyk, it feels like one moment I know where I stand, and the next I’m on my back, wondering how I got there. Figuratively and literally.
What’s he going to do with her? I’m certain it won’t just be a dance. Is there a terrace around here?
I glance at the girl beside Anna that I wanted to talk to, wondering if I should start with her instead. Give Victoria time to get settled, put off the moment that I have to deliver her to my husband.
Anna sees where I’m looking. “Amelia, would you like to meet Natalie?”
“Yes, I would.” I disengage from Van Wyk who watches me go. I can feel his eyes burning into my back. Does he not want me to talk to anyone? Screw him.
“You don’t have a drink,” Anna says, passing me a glass of champagne.
“Thank you.” It’s easy to put on a smile, partly because I know it will annoy him. “Cheers to you both. So nice to talk without the pressure of all that testosterone.” I don’t keep my voice down; I want him to hear me.
“Congratulations on your recent nuptials, Mrs. Van Wyk,” Natalie says politely. There’s an intelligence in her eyes, and I feel appraised, but not in a bad way.
“Call me Amelia, please.”
She chinks my glass. “Call me Nat.”
We talk lightly, but it’s nice all the same. She’s Anna’s assistant, and Anna is smart too. I would expect nothing less from Bastien. Neither of them brought partners, and nor did Fournier. Two beautiful, intelligent women here just for him? I can imagine that’s very much his scene.
“One moment.” I interrupt Anna in mid-story as Victoria drifts in range. I wasn’t sure I was going to do this, but I can’t resist the opportunity. “Hi,” I say boldly. “Come and join us? This is the anti-men group.”
She looks taken aback for a brief moment, then laughs in delight. “I’ve found my people,” she says, coming over. “I’m Vicky.”
“Amelia.” I point. “Nat. Anna.”
For some reason, I find myself the focus. Anna is keen to know me, probably because I’m the wife of her employer’s number-one. Vicky asks me questions too, but not in an interrogative style, like I might expect from a PI. Even Nat listens with active interest, though I imagine she’s being polite.
It’s fun. It’s easy. It’s not Tony or Jorge or Van Wyk.
It’s not Lucy, casting me worried glances from beneath her eyebrows, or Sierra, suggesting we slip into the crowd, get a cab, and escape to South America.
We swap numbers early, agreeing to do lunch ‘sometime soon,’ which I’m grateful for even though I know it won’t happen, then pour more champagne and toast new friendships.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Vicky holds a hand up, smiling at the story I’m telling. “Are you saying you married him after five weeks?”
“That’s right,” I say, playing it up, and turn to direct my next words toward Van Wyk. “We’re so very much in love, aren’t we dear?”
He does a double-take, then comes over. Damn, I didn’t intend that, and I’ve given him the opportunity he wanted.
“I’ve never loved anyone more,” he says smoothly, lying for the first time since I’ve known him. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me to his side. “She captured me from the first night I saw her, and I never stood a chance.”
He’s describing my situation, not his. I’ve gone tense, and Vicky and Nat have both noticed. I force myself to relax, smiling up at him, playing the role.
“Who do we have here?” he asks me, and I’m forced to do the introductions. “And what do you do?” he asks Vicky, like he doesn’t know.
“I’m a private investigator,” she replies self-deprecatingly. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”
“How interesting,” my husband replies. “I’m in security.” Like hell he is. “May I have the next dance with you? Perhaps we can compare notes.”
Bold, but the delivery is smooth. Vicky glances at me without enthusiasm, as if asking permission and not wanting a yes. Smart woman.
But I have to nod. That’s what he wants.
Van Wyk whisks her away, and I watch them dance.
Nat steps up at my side. “Interesting man.”
“Yes, he is,” I say, distracted.
“I can see why he’s captured you.”
I glance at her.
“Your heart,” she qualifies with a smile, and raises a bottle of champagne. “It’s clear you’re in love.”
Now everyone is lying to maintain our little charade.
“Yes,” I say, holding out my glass. I’ve drunk too much already, but why not? I think it’s helping, as it always does. I take another sip as I look back at my husband and my new friend. If indeed Vicky is a friend.
They’re not dancing close, not like he said he’d hold me. There’s a civilized gap between them, and it’s clear they’re talking. About what, I wonder? They’re barely moving, the flow around the floor sedate. I could do this dance; it’s not difficult.
“Do you know Bastien well?” Nat asks from beside me.
“A little. You?”
“Not yet. It’s a new job.” She takes a sip of her champagne, but I’m certain it’s only her second glass. The level hardly drops. I take a swig of mine, and the alcohol is having an effect.
Watching him dance with Vicky, I’m grateful for it. He’s just lied and said he loved me, and it hurt more than I’m willing to admit.
Why should I care? What did I expect? This isn’t love, and it was never going to be. How can I love my captor, a murderer? Why would he ever love me?
The worst of it isn’t that he lied. It’s that he delivered it so smoothly, so confidently, that for one second I believed him. The most beautiful lie I’ve ever heard, the first he’s ever uttered, and I hate him for it. I hate myself more for caring.
I drain my glass and turn away from them, my eyes perfectly dry. “Let’s get some more champagne.”
Nat won’t drink it, but I will, and with enthusiasm. It turns out I was wrong again: numb is better than feeling.
Maybe, if I get drunk enough, he’ll leave me alone tonight, and my beautiful dress won’t be ruined after all.