Tuija and I wait behind the Grand Palace Hotel, away from the paparazzi and the steaming traffic. We've arranged to meet the employees of SilentWitn3ss here in order to escort them in. The Suicide Ball will be quieter tonight after the JFK incident; networks and publishers are hesitant to spare the staff. Nevertheless, the rumpus around the front of the hotel is all but deafening, and if I'm honest, I can't wait to show off.
Men like me are upper crust A-List. Gold class. I'm not the guy teenaged girls lust over in magazines; I'm the one behind him, pulling the strings. The paparazzi know the value of these things and the ones around the corner are there for two kinds of people: the TV presenters and the CEOs. I may not be Anderson Cooper or Ryan Seacrest, but I have a couple more zeros on my bank balance and a big lick of that pretty thing called class. With five minutes on that red carpet, I'll show Leontine what a big fucking deal I am; regardless of what they say, women love that crap. Every last one of them.
Exhibit A: Tuija in her tight blue bandage dress, tits and ass on display. She lives for nights like this, where she can shine her way out from beneath my shadow. Look at her, eye-fucking all the butler boys in their penguin suits—ah, I'm like a proud uncle. My redheaded rocket is going to disappoint a hundred men tonight, and they'll all think she belongs to me. Which is always interesting.
Desire is the pipe bomb of power, sports fans. Use it and abuse it for the lesser beings will choose it, but never pretend that it's truly within your control.
Harvey, dressed in his usual smart civilian attire, tucks a receiver into his pocket as he walks up to greet me. He leans in to speak with a low voice. "We'll be outside in the van the entire time. Are you sure you don't want an escort? What with the Sycamore business."
"I told you—I'm dealing with that myself."
Harvey narrows his brown eyes. "But until then..."
"I can handle it, Harvey." I give him a stiff pat on the shoulder. "I appreciate your concern. But you know where I'd rather you aimed it."
He gives a single, silent nod with that angular jaw of his.
Montgomery. I want that bastard watched like a hawk.
"Boss." Tuija gives my sleeve a yank.
"Mmm?"
"Your delivery just arrived." She nudges my shoulder toward a black BMW pulling up at the kerb. "Looky."
Leontine.
She's helped out of the car by a guy I recognise as one of her designers; some stocky ginger asshole called Finn in a clumsily fitted designer suit. Not that anyone is looking at him, of course. They're too busy appraising her.
Tuija made poor choices before I met her. She chose coke and prescription painkillers over food and respect and a roof over her head; she chose men who would beat her senseless over those who would pay fairly for her efforts to please. But since our magic little partnership, oh, her decision making has greatly improved, and tonight, Leontine is a walking example.
The gown is black. An obvious choice, perhaps, but the perfect one for buttery Leo, whose light tan sits against the dark shade in tempting contrast. A tight mesh bodice displays the curves of her body, covering her from waist to wrist; swirls of lace suck her breasts and belly. The skirt has the sheen of silk about it, and though it ends just above her knees, a split hints at the tawny flesh of her left thigh. Her blond hair is caught up in a pin of black feathers, the shorter strands left to frame those smudged, smoky eyes. Black heels. A feathered purse. She looks like a charred angel.
I give Tuija's enhanced ass a pat of gratitude. "Nice work, firecracker."
Her Jack-o'-lantern smile melts at my praise. "Oh, it was nothing."
"It's everything."
Leontine heads toward me through a crowd of guests. Even from a distance, I can see her looking me up and down; deciding if she likes my dinner suit. I love the way her pupils stretch when she sizes me up, all tainted with conflict and desire. My button-eyed doll.
I step out closer and hold my arm out as she approaches. "Good evening to you, madam."
She pretends to swoon. "And you, good sir."
"You, sweetheart, look absolutely stunning."
She eyes my arm, her glossy lips parted; again, she wonders whether or not to trust me. Don't, I want to whisper against the pulse at her throat. Don't, but let me in anyway. Come closer, closer, until all hope fades...and we fall.
Finally, she places her arm through mine, a flustered pink grazing her cheeks. "Thank you."
"And you're looking particularly handsome tonight, Aeron," I deadpan. "I've never seen such a specimen. Is it legal to look that good in a suit?"
She rolls her eyes at me and gives a chuckle. "Does it hurt, trying to get that ego into clothes in the morning? Does it actually fit into the shower?"
"Very subtle, Miss Reeves. Yes, there's room for you in my shower." I give her arm a squeeze. "You don't waste any time, huh?"
"I—" She cuts off, staring at me with the strangest look. "I give up now."
"Come on." I glance back to Tuija and my group of associates, gesturing to the front of the hotel. Then I turn my grin to Leontine. "Ever walked a red carpet before?"
"Not intentionally."
"Right." I laugh, a little more genuinely than I'd intended. "Stay close and let me do all the talking—unless you feel like it, that is. Follow my lead. I'll get you through unscathed, I promise." I give her arm a little pull, but she stands still.
"Aren't you...um..." Her eyes slide sideward to rest on Tuija. She lowers her voice. "Forgive me for being presumptuous, but isn't your girlfriend a little bothered by this?" She nods at our entwined arms.
Leontine cares enough about my relationship status to think she knows something about it. Which is delicious. "No," I tell her, ducking down to whisper, "for many reasons, all of which I'll explain later."
With that, I take her around the corner, down the scarlet path and into the crush of bodies...and yes, the irony is not lost on me. Never is.
Cameras flash, and then the calls begin: my name in twenty different voices and accents, over and over like a brash prayer. I march Leontine past the awards banners, pose with her for photographs, my hand splayed over her soft hip just for fleeting seconds at a time—to help her pose, obviously. When my cheeks begin to ache from all the smiling, Tuija guides us over to a news crew from GNS. A tight-looking witch in a red gown waits to interview us. She was too old for this shit about ten years ago, and judging by the way she eyes me, knows it.
"Aeron Lore." She beams into the camera, "Ladies and gents, we're privilege to have the CEO of Lore Incorporated with us this evening. Mr Lore, would you be so kind as to introduce your guest?" She pushes the microphone toward me gingerly.
"Absolutely. And hello. This is Leontine Reeves; her company will be working with us shortly."
The Witch leans out in feigned surprise. "Really? Is that so?"
She holds the microphone up to Leo, who has gone tense and awkward. My cock stirs briefly at the sight of her fists clenched at her sides.
"We're in the process of negotiating," she manages.
"Leontine is a genius," I go on, still smiling. Fucking smiling. Jesus, my face is about to split down the middle. "She graduated Harvard with a degree in engineering, and started her company in her junior year. Her projects are going to be revolutionary in this industry, trust me."
The Witch cocks a sparse eyebrow. "Cryptic. Not that we expect anything less."
"We'll tell you more when we're ready," I tease.
Leontine has gone prickly beside me, her body bristling with tension. My all-too-public assumption makes her uncomfortable, and her unease makes me hard. God. I told Tuija not to send her any panties with the dress. I wonder...?
Later. I have to behave.
"Your people are up for top accolades this evening," the Witch goes on. "I have to say, we're all anxious to see if Kasha Elliot can swipe the McAfee for the fourth year running. Her reports from Syria earlier this year...as a woman, I was pretty damn proud."
"Kasha has that effect on people. She's very genuine." Kasha is the most underhand bitch I know, which is precisely why she's so good at her job. The only difference between me and her is that she's in possession of a conscience, albeit one melted and singed at the edges. "She'll be a little late this evening, what with recent events."
We chat politely about the horror of the JFK incident, with the Witch and then another crew. Leontine stays silent, smiling when nodded at and standing a measured hand span from my body at all times. Every inch of me is aware of her. I simmer.