9. Chapter 9
9
Chapter 9
CAMILLE
A fter taking final measurements and promising to deliver the dress to me at the hotel the next day, with just a few minor alterations, Brigitte boxes up the shoes for me and places them into a cardboard shopping bag, elegantly displaying their logo on the front.
When we step back out into reality, Finn’s eyes are hidden behind sunglasses.
I think of how they darkened when he looked at me, and I shiver.
We’re quiet in the car as he drives us back to the hotel. His forearm muscles flex as he spins the wheel around turns and he drops his hand to the gear shaft frequently.
“You don’t drive automatic?”
He grins but keeps his eyes on the road. “No. I prefer deciding when the gears change.”
“Control freak?”
“I like being in control,” he admits. “I like knowing what the outcome will be and that I have a say in it. ”
“Fair enough.”
“I’d love to take you out on the track sometime.”
I think it over. “In a race car?”
He grins. “Unfortunately not. That’s a one seat car. Maybe a rally car.”
“I’m really sorry, but I don’t know what that even means.”
He shakes his head in mock disappointment.
We sit in companionable silence.
“I filmed the wives and girlfriends the other day.”
He gives a noncommittal grunt.
“Have you ever had a serious relationship?”
“Off the record?” I watch his neck tense up.
I frown. “Just making conversation.”
“I told you I have nothing to offer women.” He shrugs.
“Well, not nothing. You bought me a fabulous dress.”
We’re quiet for a moment as we reflect on the dress, how he helped me step into the shoes, how he looked at me afterwards.
The tension between us is back, warm and thick and cloying.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, they had quite an interesting take on it.”
“On what?”
“On being with a race car driver.”
He’s keeping his eyes on the road and his shoulders relaxed, but I can see his fingers clench the wheel a little harder.
I wish I could let it go.
Why can’t I let it go?
Because I suspect he was waiting for me at the cafe. Because of how his eyes drew me in and how the muscles on his forearms flexed when he drove, how he grimaced, and smoothed the pain away with the tip of his tongue. Because his body under the shirt was covered in tattoos and because his shoulder was a warped and twisted scar, and because I wanted to touch him there, and trail my hands down and have him shiver the way I did when his thumbs grazed my ankle.
He will not give me any part of his soul, and he’s made that very clear. He’s waiting for me to decide if that is good enough for me.
I’m not sure that it is.
Besides, I think, shaking my head. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. As soon as Dixon is ready, after his wife, after he mourns, he will take his place here.
It’s all temporary. It will do me good not to get lost in that.
We pull up to the curb at the hotel and a valet stands off to one side, tentatively gauging if Finn wants his service or not.
I hadn’t realised we’d stopped, and Finn sits with his back to his door, body squared towards me, watching me in silence.
I blush.
“What did you want to say?” he asks softly.
“Just that they seem to have found ways to make it work, this lifestyle and the risk.”
He bites his lip.
“My mother would disagree.”
I don’t speak, urging him to fill the silence.
“It’s having a family, or racing,” he states. “That’s what my mother said before she left.”
“She left you?”
He nods. “My father didn’t know how to fill that void in me. He tried by taking me to go racing, instilling this passion in me.”
“Ollie and Sophia, though, they’re the real deal.”
“Are they?” He cocks his head at me. “Are they truly? Your man Ollie makes sixty million dollars a year, and that excludes his endorsements and sponsorship deals. For that kind of money, she has to be okay with it.”
“You think Sophia’s a gold digger?”
“My father wasn’t rich. He had only himself and his passion, and she couldn’t love him and live with it. There was no incentive.”
I’m angry now.
“You think the wives and girlfriends hang around for the money?”
“I think,” he says tentatively, “that if you earn what we earn, there are always women willing to accept the risks.”
It takes my breath away, the embarrassment. This is what he thinks of me.
“That’s not true,” I breathe. I want to defend myself and how I feel about him, but if this is how he looks at women, at me, I can’t navigate that. “Women aren’t toys.”
“You misunderstand,” he says harshly. “I never said they were. They’re beautiful and smart and they make their own decisions, and if they choose to be with us, that’s them taking control of their own lives, weighing up the risks that they’re comfortable with. The choice is always in their hands. I am just not willing to ask that from someone, especially someone I actually care about.”
I throw my hands up in frustration and lean back to snatch my backpack, but he takes me by the arm and turns me towards him.
“If there is a chance that you are right,” he says softly, his voice a deep murmur, “even if I believed it was true, I still could never be with someone that way.”
He’s trying to be factual, but his face is open and raw and uncertain .
“Why?” I am trying to understand.
He makes to speak but stops himself. There is a line he cannot cross.
I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder, open the door, and get out. I feel like I want to cry, and I could never do that in front of him, show him he hurt me.
He doesn’t stop me, and I close the door quietly.
I nod at the valet as I shoulder my way past him.
In my room, I fling my backpack onto the bed and fall down next to it with a sigh.
I am fighting tears, but I refuse to cry.
I wish I was back home. I wish I never took this job.
I wish I knew why he would make it so clear that he wants me, but that he would never love me.
I wish. I wish. I wish.
* * *
CAMILLE
We’re at a palace. The steps that lead up to the foyer was draped in a red carpet with lanterns flanking the sides, casting a golden glow over the milling guests. Valets dressed in tuxedos drive away a fleet of luxury cars as the guests ascend the stairs.
At the foyer door, they give everyone a mask. For the women, it’s a black lacy thing that covers the top half of our faces. For the men, it’s the famous half face white mask that covers the right side of their face, leaving the left side and their mouths open.
Nothing to hinder the liters of champagne going down tonight.
Jay and Evan and Bruce are all bunched together uncomfortably on one side of the foyer.
Evan is panning the crowd, the red light on his camera blinking, and Jay, used to my direction by now, is taking close-up shots of the guests, the glamorous gowns, the glittering diamonds.
Casey stands off to one side, taking in Bruce in his tuxedo. Bruce is impervious to her appreciative glance. From what I can tell, they haven’t spoken since Monaco.
She’s wearing a blood-red dress, cut low in the back, thin straps over her shoulders. Her face is flawlessly made up, and she tucks her hair over a shoulder to show off her back.
I grab two glasses of champagne when a server passes me with a big tray and hand one over to Casey when I approach the group.
“Holy shit,” Jay says.
“What?” I glance at the group of people he was just filming.
“You look incredible,” he says.
“Legit, Cam, you look great.” Evan nods at me.
Bruce says nothing, but his mouth hangs open.
They’re making me feel self-conscious.
I had washed my hair and put a lot of product in and let it air dry. The curls were long twirling individual strands, that I had then worked into an up do with a ton of bobby pins. As always, some curls have already escaped, and tendrils hang softly around my face.
I had opted for a bold cat-eye eyeliner and an oxblood-red lipstick, avoiding doing a full face of makeup. After our constant filming in the sun, I’ve gotten a bridge of freckles over my nose, and I had dabbed concealer under my eyes and around my nose to hide the natural redness there, ending up with very understated, fresh skin .
The lip, though. First, I was worried it’s too much, but it matches the soles of my shoes so perfectly I can’t resist. Now, with the lace mask covering the top half of my face, they seem more prominent somehow.
We spend an easy hour filming celebrities and dignitaries, film stars and the familiar faces of those in the racing world, all drinking champagne and mingling.
They announce the ballroom is open and we allow the guests to stream inside before following in their wake. It’s so gorgeous the guys don their cameras on their shoulders, and they pan from the crowd of guests to the intricately painted ceilings above, the vaulted ceiling high and glittering with gold chandeliers sparkling in the light.
Tables are set up around the edges of the ballroom and staff members are showing guests to their seats.
We film a young European royal as he gives a short welcome speech and thanks everyone for their support of the charity.
We clap softly along with the other guests.
I implore Jay and Evan to keep to the shadows while filming and rather zoom in on the guests instead of getting close. I want them in all their natural glory, without pretense for the cameras.
Bruce is setting up in a discreet corner. The goal is to ask guests to step over there to film a brief introduction and to get their opinion on the racing season. The background, showing the dance floor and the mingling of guests behind them, will illustrate the opulence and exclusivity of the event.
“It will create a sense of mystery about how luxurious their lives really are,” I instruct Bruce, and Casey shyly steps closer to help him with the lighting and the lapel mike he needs to fit for whomever we are filming .
I can tell Bruce isn’t ready.
“Case, why don’t you approach the guests and ask them if they’d be willing to give us two minutes of their time for the shots?”
She gives me an optimistic smile and disappears into the crowd.
I straighten a stack of disclosure agreements that the guests who will allow us to film them have to sign so that WebFlix Max has permission to air the footage of them.
Evan makes his way back and starts setting up with Bruce’s help.
“Let me get you guys some drinks.”
I walk to the far side of the room where a long bar has been set up, the brass counter glowing golden in the light from the chandeliers.
I order three waters, and as I turn to make my way back, Finn steps up to me.
He’s dressed in a tuxedo, his hair neatly sleeked back and tied up. His full mouth is on display, with the white mask covering half of his face. He’s clean shaven and his brows are low over dark eyes as he takes me in.
“Fuck.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “You’ve seen me in this dress.”
“Not like this.”
My belly swoops.
He’s looking at my lips and licking his own.
He steps up close, voice low and intimate.
“You should be wearing diamonds with this.”
I laugh, but he isn’t smiling. He’s serious.
“I don’t have diamonds.”
“It’s a fucking travesty. ”
“So is whatever it is that’s holding you back,” I challenge him. I think it’s the dress, or the oxblood lipstick, because it doesn’t feel like me.
His face turns to stone.
He licks at the corner of his mouth, steps up close.
He’s going to challenge me back.
I’m saved by the announcement of dinner, and he walks away to take his seat. Back with the group, we talk softly as a few speeches are made and then an army of servers serves a gourmet dinner, each course paired with its own wine.
For the duration of the meal, an orchestra strikes up and a voluptuous black woman sings an opera song on the stage.
After dinner, the guests mingle and make their rounds in the ladies’ room and the bar area and they take up their seats again shortly after to bid on a selection of items all donated by wealthy people.
I watch as a painting gets sold for two and a half million dollars.
It takes my breath away, the wealth.
We watch as two women bid ridiculous amounts of money for a date with Matteo Severini, Bianchi’s top driver. He’s a little drunk and removes his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt to show off his muscled abdomen. Laughter travels through the room as more women join in on the bidding.
At the last moment, a well-known theater producer raises his paddle and wins the bid. He’s wearing a too large satin shirt with ridiculous sleeves that billow as he claps, delighted at his victory. To everyone’s delight, Matteo gives him a wink before walking off the stage.
Next is a ridiculously expensive diamond collar.
“The Celestia collar embodies the pinnacle of luxury and craftsmanship,” the auctioneer announces. “This breathtaking work of art contains over two hundred diamonds totaling a total of one hundred and seventy-five carats, excluding the rare thirty carat cushion cut diamond at its heart, known for its depth and clarity. The central gem is encircled by pure white diamonds and from there it branches into the intricate smaller lattice, expertly mounted to create a seamless design, optimising movement to allow it to conform to the wearer’s neck, drawing attention to the jewel at the center.”
The audience, all at varying degrees of drunkenness, is enthralled. The auction kicks off enthusiastically and at a hefty price. As people fall out, the tension rises dramatically. We are craning our necks to see who would spend such a ridiculous amount of money on a trinket.
My stomach drops clean out of my body.
It’s Finn.
The auctioneer’s cadence ramps up as Finn bids against another man, a heavyset middle-aged man across the room. They are ignoring each other completely, lifting their paddles to ace each other’s bets.
“Going once,” the auctioneer cautions.
Finn has the winning bid.
“Going twice.”
Holy shit.
“Sold!” the auctioneer announces to a massive surge of applause.
I swivel my eyes towards Finn. He nods at the auctioneer and casually turns to a man seated beside him to continue a previous conversation, oblivious to the murmurs that echo through the room.
* * *
CAMILLE
“Without a doubt, one of our favourite events of the year,” Rheese drawls, Valentina draped over his arm. She’s wearing a see-through top and a long, see through tulle skirt, her midriff exposed. They’re leaning on each other pretty heavily.
“Thank you so much, guys.” I smile at them. Rheese looks me slowly up and down. He looks like he wants to say something, but his girl drags him away to introduce her to a celebrity.
Finn comes walking up.
Shit.
He ignores me and instead steps up to Bruce to mike him up.
He straightens his collar and looks into the camera expectantly. All the drivers are obliged to participate. But I can tell he’s spoiling for a fight.
I’m happy to oblige.
I clear my throat.
“Are you having a good time?”
“Sure.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“No.”
Fucker.
“You’re the proud new owner of an extremely expensive diamond necklace. How does that feel?”
“No, I’m not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It isn’t for me.”
He’s still looking into the camera, ignoring me.
“Who is it for? ”
He doesn’t answer.
A woman steps up, as if on cue. She’s in a champagne wrap dress, her bust barely held inside, a long slit on either side. Her legs kick out the cloud-like material as she walks over on impossibly high stilettos, every foot in front of the other. Her chocolate-brown hair is glossy and thick, falling down in layers.
“Wouldn’t we all like to know?” she says, breathily. She has a Latina accent, and she’s sex personified.
He looks at me now. He cocks his head, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. She steps up close to him, her back to the camera, and leans in to whisper something into his ear.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine.
He’s proving his point.
We’re squaring off. I’m all bravado, but I want to cry again. He’s infuriating.
The crew is looking at us curiously.
“That’s it,” I say to Bruce. “Un-mike him.”
Bruce steps up to remove the microphone from Finn’s lapel. And I have had enough.
I turn on my heel and walk away.
I am shaking all over. He’s proving his point, that there are women who wouldn’t ask him for more, not if he owned a two-and-a-half-million-dollar diamond necklace.
I make it halfway across the dance floor when Finn grabs me by the upper arm, and before I can whip it from his grasp, he spins me into a turn and pulls me into a waltz. The orchestra is strumming away happily, and he guides us into the throng of dancing couples.
“Fuck you,” I spit at him, face turned away, body pressed against his as he pulls me close, spinning me away .
“I really wish you would.” He’s angry too.
“You’ve proved your point; how shallow women can be.”
“Actually, I bought it because I’m shallow.”
He takes his hand from mine and grabs my chin, turning my face towards his.
He pulls me right up against him with his hand on my back, fingers splayed over my skin, close, touching everywhere, his breath mingling with mine.
It takes my breath away, the hardness of him.
“I want to fuck you while you wear it,” he growls softly.
I can feel him pressing against me.
“Camille.” God, how he says it. “I want you out of this dress with that diamond collar around your neck and I want you to wrap your legs around my shoulders with those fucking heels on and when you come, I want to feel it in your thighs.”
He’s never spoken to me like this. He’s always been reserved. He’s not giving me his soul, but he’s showing me a side of him I don’t know. He’s stating what he wants, and he expects me to answer, one way or another.
I’m struggling to think. No one’s ever spoken to me this way, so brazen and direct. It turns me on. I can feel my breath catch in my throat and that delicious warmth low in my belly.
Why now?
We hear a gong reverberate through the room. It’s midnight.
Around us, the other guests are unmasking themselves, laughing and joking.
He rips his mask from his face, and he’s wearing a look of naked hunger. He brings his hand to the base of my skull and presses the side of my face against his, speaking into my ear.
“You owe me nothing. I’ll spend as much money as I want on what I want. That doesn’t concern you.” His hands on my back slip lower and pull me closer still.
His dick, pressed firmly against me, is turning me on even more. How he desires me. It’s setting my skin on fire.
I won’t be here much longer. Dixon will take my place soon enough. If I want this, now is the time. While I could still walk away. I want to say yes. But I don’t know if I’ll lose something of myself if I do.
“Beg me,” I hear myself whisper into his ear.
He stills against me. His breathing in my ear is ragged. His fingers dig into my back.
His voice when he speaks is a low, angry growl.
“Camille, I am begging you. Let me make you come.”
In this scenario, only he gets what he wants. And if I lose, I want him to lose too.
I wrap an arm around his head, pull him close, my mouth right on his ear where I give him a slow, ragged breath. I rub up against him with my whole body. I can feel the tremors of lust run through him.
“No, thank you,” I whisper. “I can do that myself.”