Seduce Me (Stark Trilogy 3.4)

She glances sideways at me. "You're not shopping?"

I think of my closet back home, which is about the size of my college apartment and completely stuffed with the clothes and jewelry that Damien is always buying me. Sometimes I think he won't be satisfied until I own at least one of everything.

"I might look for a present for Damien," I say. "Then again, in this weekend's reality, I don't have a Damien in my life."

"You're still playing?"

"Sure," I say. "It's fun. I take it you and Ryan aren't?"

Jamie lifts a shoulder. "Playing, sure. Pretending we picked each other up at a bar? Not anymore. Pretending other things..." Her voice trails off with a hint of a naughty lilt. "Well, a lady never kisses and tells. Or fucks and tells. Or blindfolds and tells. Or--"

"Jamie!" I slap my hands over my ears, laughing. "Stop. Please, stop."

She shrugs good-naturedly. "Hey, you asked."

I'm pretty sure I didn't, but I don't press the point.

"There," she says, pointing to a display of embroidered jeans in the window of one of the fancy boutiques on the other side of this wide walkway. "Let's check it out."

"Sure," I say and follow her. As we're about to go in, a dark-haired woman rushes past us as she hurries to catch up with friends. Seeing her reminds me, and I turn back to Jamie. "I had that feeling again," I say. "When I was by the pool this morning."

"What? Someone you know?"

"I have no idea, but yeah. It's a little disconcerting."

"It's probably nothing," Jamie says. "Or if you really are seeing someone familiar, they're probably just snapping pictures of you for Twitter. The price you pay for being married to a god of the universe."

I scowl, but have to concede she has a point. Since marrying Damien, I'm regularly all over social media.

"Listen, go on in," I say, pointing toward the store. "I want to look next door." The jewelry store window has a display of emerald and diamond jewelry, and I would love to find earrings to match the stunning anklet that Damien gave me when we first got together.

"I buy denim, you buy diamonds," she trills. "That pretty much sums up the differences in our lives these days."

I just laugh. "Oh, those aren't the only differences." I start to count on my fingers. "Beach house. Limo. Private jet. And don't forget the chocolate company in Switzerland."

"Well, now you're just being mean." She hip butts me. "Catch you in a few."

I grin, watching her go, then head into the store. It's larger than it looks from the outside and surprisingly crowded. A uniformed security guard stands at the door looking bored.

Glass shelving lines the walls full of pricey decorator items like handblown glass vases and porcelain statuary. The center of the space is made up of glass display cases arranged in a horseshoe, and the customers walk around the U-shape to scope out both the items on the shelves and those in the cabinets. Some are filled with brand-new pieces, others display estate jewelry. I find antique emerald and diamond drop earrings set in platinum and a matching bracelet that are almost exactly what I have in mind.

"They're stunning quality," the man behind the counter says. His nametag identifies him as Frederick Pyle.

"I'm looking for something to match this," I say, bending to remove my anklet. As I do, I see her again. My dark-haired shadow. And this time I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure that I know her. She has wavy hair that reaches her shoulders and a round face with prominent cheekbones. She's petite, and looks even smaller because she keeps herself hunched over, as if she is trying to hide from the world.

She's browsing the glass shelves, and I turn back to Mr. Pyle, both because he has brought out the pieces for me to look at, and also because I don't want to catch her eye while I'm still trying to remember her name.

Where do I know her from?

I try not to think too hard, because that is a surefire way to ensure that I don't remember. Instead, I put the anklet next to the bracelet. They are not a perfect match, but the settings complement each other beautifully. And, most important, I like them. "I'll take them," I say. And because I'm Mrs. Damien Stark and I never, ever do this, despite Damien telling me to buy whatever I want, whenever I want, I don't even ask the price. Instead, I just tell him to charge it to my room. Then I tell him my name, show him my ID, and fight not to smile when his already polite and deferential attitude ratchets up about a thousandfold.

"Of course, Mrs. Stark. Would you like to wait? Or shall I deliver the pieces to your suite after we've cleaned and packaged them?"

"I'd love to wear them," I admit. "How long?"

"Ten minutes. If you'd like to have a seat?" He points to a silk-upholstered divan at the back of the store. "Some wine?"

"I'll just browse," I say. "Thanks."

I stroll around the store, peeking into the glass cases, checking out all of the lovely, sparkly items. But my attention is only half there. Mostly I am racking my brain, trying to remember that woman's name. I'm trying very hard not to stare, too, which is good, as she keeps turning side to side, her eyes darting all over the place as if she is nervous.

Soon enough, I realize why.

She takes one of the handblown glass vases, and slides it surreptitiously into her purse.

Then she straightens her shoulders, browses the shelves for a few more minutes, and heads for the entrance. She's almost through, when the security guard steps in front of her.

"Excuse me, miss," he says. "I'm going to have to ask you to open your purse."

"Pardon?" Her voice rises, and even from across the store I can hear her panic. "Oh, golly," she adds, and in that moment, I know exactly who she is. Marcy Kendall from Dallas, Texas. One of the few girls in high school that Jamie and I genuinely liked. One of the few who was nice to me and didn't think I was stuck-up and bitchy just because I entered pageants. Somehow, she saw through all the bullshit and realized that my reserve wasn't bitchiness, and that the pageants were torture.

We'd never been close, but I'd liked her. And she'd been like a mirror on the world. A reminder that there were people who would see the real you, even when you tried to hide away.

I have no idea why Marcy Kendall is shoplifting a glass vase, but I'm determined to find out. First, though, I'm going to help her.

"Marcy!" I call, and then watch as she jumps almost a foot. She turns in my direction, and her eyes go wide.

"What--"

But I interrupt before she can say something stupid. "Where'd you put the glass vase? Did you give it to Mr. Pyle? Because I haven't paid for it yet."

For a second, her face is so awash in confusion that I am absolutely certain the guard is going to swoop down and arrest us both. But then it clears and the confusion shifts to such a profound gratitude that any doubts I may have had about helping her are firmly swept away.

"Oh," she says. "I thought you already had. I'm sorry." She laughs. "I told you that having mimosas at breakfast was a bad idea. I'm such a dope when I've been drinking." She smiles up at the guard, then pulls the vase out of her bag. "Sorry. Guess it looked like I was stealing it."

She starts to w

alk back toward me, and I think that all is well. But then the guard says, "Just one minute, miss," and he plucks the vase right out of her hand. He points to me. "And I'd like to speak to you, too, miss."

"Me? But I--"

I cut myself off. What the hell should I say?

Fortunately, Mr. Pyle chooses that moment to return. "Here you go, Mrs. Stark," and though I know he is using his outdoor voice so that he can share with the world--or at least these customers--that the fabulously rich Damien Stark's wife actually shopped in his store, right then all I can think is that his well-projected voice has reached the security guard. And that is a good thing.

The guard's mouth closes, and he hands the vase back to Marcy. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."

"Of course. My fault. Truly."

I look at Mr. Pyle. "Could you add that vase to my bill?" I smile sweetly. "She doesn't need it wrapped."

I take my package and hurry after Marcy, hoping that she won't run off in the time it takes me to get outside.

She hasn't.

I find her waiting for me on a bench across from the entrance to the store with Jamie's jeans.

She looks up as I approach, her smile tremulous. "Thanks," she says. "You really saved me."

I take a seat beside her. "What's going on, Marcy? Why were you stealing a vase?"

She lifts her chin. "Oh, I wasn't," she says, but I barely hear her words. She's done a decent job covering them, but in this lighting, I can see the bruises beneath her makeup. And now that I know what to look for, I see them not just on her cheek and neck, but also on her upper arm and wrist.

I keep my face impassive. I don't want her to know that I understand. Because I don't want her to bolt.

"I meant what I said about drinking in the morning," she is saying lightly. "I just grabbed it and walked out. Stupid. I would totally have paid."

I don't believe her, of course.

But I am determined to help her.

Chapter 7

I'm sitting with Marcy on a bench when Jamie bops out of the clothing store swinging a shopping bag.

She sees us, and her jaw drops open. "Marcy? Marcy Kendall?"

Marcy's smile is thin, but sincere. "Hey, Jamie. It's good to see you again."

Jamie looks between the two of us. "What's going on?"