Chapter 13 #2
She can’t even dance, but that’s not what gets my blood pumping. It’s the thought of another man with his hands on her.
Maria’s watching me, enjoying every moment of my consternation. What role has she had in constructing this moment? But no, she’s not the one to blame. I brought this on myself.
Yet I still have to know one thing.
“How long has she been here?” I ask, keeping it polite and offhand, fighting to keep my tone calm.
Maria takes the time to sip at her champagne, knowing full well the agony raging inside me, and my desire to find my fiancée.
“She did turn up late,” she concedes at last, and relief burns inside my chest like a flame. “Just in time to see your dance,” Maria concludes, twisting the knife. The flame is snuffed out, leaving only something cold and dark.
She saw the kiss. That’s what Maria’s telling me. Vicky saw me kiss Rita.
And she’s still here.
She didn’t leave, but she didn’t come and find me. She didn’t slap me or yell at me.
She didn’t destroy my career on my first night at a Company social.
But she’s still… here.
“I’ll see you at work on Monday,” I tell Rita sharply, then stride through the bar.
“Good night, Alex,” Maria calls from behind me, drawing the eyes of those in earshot. That’s half of the people in this room, but I don’t care.
I walk through to the grand hall, barely conscious of those I pass. My eyes search every face but move on. I know where she’ll be, because the music hasn’t stopped. The dance is still going on.
The floor’s busier than when Rita and I were on it. The music’s not a waltz but a slow dance, nice and basic, and couples shuffle around without any skill. I take a few steps up the stairs that overlook it all, using the height advantage to see across the floor.
It takes me a long moment. There are too many people, too many blonds.
Then I spy her. Taller than the women around her. She’s wearing the green dress I bought her in Venice last year, because it brings out the blue of her eyes. It’s the ideal choice to dance in, and she’s moving quite well. Better than I would’ve thought. Her rhythm is perfect.
The man she’s dancing with has his back to me, but both his hands are on her waist. Hers are on his shoulders. They’re not pressed as close as Rita and I were, but they’re too damn close.
She laughs at something he says. They’re talking while they dance. That’s not easy for a beginner, yet as far as I know, Vicky’s first dance lesson lasted two and a half minutes in her apartment a week ago.
A flicker of pride wars briefly with the rage building inside me, then loses.
I hurry down the steps, catching someone with my shoulder in my haste. But I don’t stop. I walk the perimeter of the floor, anticlockwise. The dancers are moving clockwise with the music, and I knew where she was. I know where she’ll be.
I reach that point. There’re couples between me and her, between me and them, and I’ve lost sight of her.
A flash of green.
What am I going to do? Cut in? Make a scene?
I want to. Fuck but I want to.
Possession wars with my control. How dare she dance with someone else.
Then I glimpse her through the throng. Or the back of her, at least. Her dress is distinctive, and I know it’s her. But it’s the man she’s dancing with—talking with—that gives me pause.
The man with his hands on my fiancée is Lukas Van Wyk.
The music’s drawing to a close. The beat’s slowing, the final bars. The couples break apart, with a smattering of polite applause for the musicians.
I can see Vicky clearly now, but she hasn’t noticed me. She makes a comment to Van Wyk, then laughs at his reply. She looks happy, like it’s a pleasant night out for her.
He leads her off the dance floor with a gallantry I wouldn’t have thought him capable of, and she lays her hand on his arm. A momentary touch, lingering in familiarity.
And I see red.
I push through the crowd, knowing my control is fraying.
The only thought that keeps me sane is that this man has his karambit on him, right now.
“Vicky,” I say as I near her.
She turns to me and her laughter dies. Her blond hair is tied up, her neck bare and vulnerable. She’s wearing the earrings I bought her, and her makeup is delicate and perfectly chosen.
A flicker crosses her eyes before she forces a smile, and it’s not a bad attempt.
“Oh, Alex. There you are. Have you met Lukas?”
“Yes,” I manage to say, shaking his hand as he offers it.
“Yes?” he echoes, with a note of amusement. “I’m sure I’d have remembered.”
“I mean I saw you the other night.” I make the correction, giving myself a firm mental kick. I can’t afford distractions right now. Where’s the cold composure that’s my go-to state?
It’s buried beneath the image of his hands on my fiancée’s waist.
“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Yes, I heard you were joining us.” He gives me an appraising look. “No doubt you’ll be a valuable asset.”
The words are there, but the tone is hollow. I don’t much care. I should, but I don’t.
My attention is on Vicky. “I think it’s time to go home.”
“Already?” she asks.
“Yes, already?” Van Wyk echoes, like it’s any of his fucking business.
“I’m afraid so.” My fingers close around her slender upper arm, and her eyes flash with something of her usual stubbornness. For a moment, I think she’s going to fight me.
Then to my relief, she acquiesces, rather than make a scene. “Of course, if you think that’s best.” She looks to Van Wyk. “So nice to meet you, and your lovely wife. Do be sure to say goodbye for me? And I’ll reach out to her.”
“Your clutch,” Van Wyk says. “Allow me.” He disappears through the crowd in the original direction they were heading.
“Alex, you’re hurting me,” Vicky mutters, and I ease up my grip on her arm. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“We’re going home.”
“I can get home by myself, thank you.”
“You’re coming home with me.”
Her chin lifts, her eyes steady, and I know this look.
“I mean I’ll see you home,” I amend hastily, before she argues with me. Van Wyk is returning, and the crowd peels back like he’s a live wire.
“Oh, very well,” Vicky agrees with bad grace. “But you can at least release my arm.”
I don’t release it because I’m concerned there’ll be fingermarks if I do, but I make a conscious effort to ease up.
Van Wyk hands Vicky her clutch, gives me a long look, then bows over my fiancée’s hand and brushes her knuckles with his lips. “My pleasure. Perhaps another dance, next time we meet?”
“I’d be delighted,” Vicky replies.
“Nice to meet you,” I mutter, then lead her across the floor before the music starts again. It’s the quickest way to the door.
“Alex,” she hisses. “Your damn grip.”
I’ve tightened up again. It takes more effort than I’d expect to persuade my fingers to relax.
Then we’re out of the great hall and into the foyer. With one look at my expression, it doesn’t take them long to bring our coats. When I release my hold, Vicky has red marks on her arm. But the coat hides it quickly.
I put my own on, then take her outside, my hand in the small of her back. “We’ll get a cab,” I say, as they have some waiting. That’s a good sign; perhaps we’re not the first to leave after all.
The night’s turned into an unmitigated disaster, but I’m still struggling to care. Perhaps I will, come tomorrow, but tonight I have other plans.
I open the door for Vicky, climb in beside her, and give the cabbie the address of my Manhattan apartment.
“You said you’d see me home,” Vicky says.
“Your home’s where I am,” I reply, reaching across to take her hand in mine. I don’t want her going for her door before the cab’s moving, but the locks engage as he rolls away from the curb.
“Great, Alex, great.” Vicky looks away from me, out of her window. “You make a scene as I arrive, and you make one when I leave too.” She looks back at me, eyes as sharp as her tongue. “How was your evening?”