Sonata (North Security 3)

Of course she stretches first. You’re supposed to stretch first, and Bethany is a rule follower. Which makes me want to create rules for her to follow. “I’ll help you.”

It’s a completely normal offer between workout partners. We aren’t exactly partners, but the private facility creates a sort of intimacy. Her expression wavers. “I’m not sure.”

“What are you worried about? You already said I won’t bother you in Fransisco’s house.”

She’s smart enough to recognize the threat inherent in my words. And polite enough to still consider letting me touch her lithe body. I would bend her legs far apart, giving her the perfect stretch. Only when she was completely warm would I consider touching her inappropriately.

“It’s probably not a good idea,” she says, taking a step back. It doesn’t appear to be conscious, that step. It’s the natural move away from danger. Walking away from a ledge. “You and I don’t exactly get along. I promise not to disturb your workout, though.”

“It’s a little late for that promise,” I say with a wry laugh, glancing down at my erection. Hope springs eternal, even though she’s unlikely to give it up in the next few minutes.

A blush darkens her cheeks. Her chest rises and falls a little quicker. Well, well. She’s not immune to me. Then again, I already knew that. It wouldn’t be so fun to tease her if she didn’t mind.

“I’m not going to apologize,” she says. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Wrong,” I say, tasting the words. “Is it wrong to have a tight little body? Wrong to make me lust after you? Wrong to make me imagine that pretty little mouth wrapped around my—”

“You’re trying to scare me, but it won’t work.”

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to turn you on.” Her eyes have dilated. Nipples press against the stretchy material of her leotard. Oh yes, it’s working.

“God, don’t you have someone else to bother.”

I turn around, because looking at her only makes the ache harder to bear. A hard punch to the bag reverberates through my body. Fight or flight. “So many, Bethany. You have no fucking idea.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

In a study of music in dreams, nearly half of the recalled music was non-standard, suggesting that original music can be created in dreams.

Samantha

A maid wakes me up at 7 a.m. on the day of the ball. I’m led to the duchess’s apartments, which make my set of rooms look tiny.

“I’m used to doing my own before the shows,” I say, hoping that I won’t have to be fussed over. I’m also hoping that I don’t end up trapped in a chair for hours. The ball does

n’t start until 8 p.m.

I have a ritual involving black dresses and lip gloss. The tour added liquid eyeliner and some glitter to my cheeks so that my expressions would be more visible from far away. We’re still talking about fifteen minutes, not a full day of preparations.

Isa exclaims with a weird amount of excitement for early in the morning and gives me a hug. Bethany appears from behind a swath of red fabric, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I’m relieved that neither of them look primped, even if Isa’s disconcertingly enthusiastic.

“We’re going to be bugs,” she says.

“Excuse me?” It occurs to me that I might still be asleep. This could be a dream.

Only Bethany looks slightly amused, which lends realism to the experience. “I had this idea when I saw you last night, that you were like a ladybug. They mean good luck.”

My gaze falls to a mountain of a red dress. Like a ladybug. It looked pretty but maybe a little disturbing. “I’m not sure how I feel about being a bug.”

“Told you so,” Isa says to Bethany. “That’s why we’re going to do it with you. My lady’s maid has been sewing since nine o’clock last night. I’m going to be a monarch butterfly. Obviously.”

I turn to Bethany. “What are you going to be? A dragonfly?”

“Ooh, that’s actually a good idea. I already had a different idea, though. I’m going to be a bumble bee.” She gestures to two fashion forms standing in the corner of the room. A ballgown of deep orange is streaked by symmetrical black designs, giving the impression of wings. The yellow gown beside it is broken only by a single thick band of black at the waist. Both of them are gorgeous and classy—the whole insect thing more of a suggestion than actual costume.

“So I just wear a red dress?” I ask hopefully.

“Don’t be silly,” Isa says, turning the red mountain of fabric upright so it resembles a dress. “We have this black netting that will resemble the spots.”