Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

Except it's obviously not okay, and I can't help but wonder what happened to her that has haunted him for thirteen long years.

A reflecting pool dominates the plaza, and we walk past it toward the entrance. Now I can see reporters buzzing around. And camera flashes. And microphones.

And, oh God, there's even a red carpet.

"Showtime," Lyle says, and I jerk my head up to look at him, then wish I hadn't moved quite so fast. Because now I'm afraid that I might throw-up the swarm of butterflies that are duking it out in my stomach.

I point dully at the crowd. "I didn't realize--I mean, this is all very--"

"Shhh," he whispers. Then he leans in and brushes a soft kiss over my lips. "You're going to be fine."

He pulls back, his hands on both my shoulders as he studies my face. "Okay?"

I nod, managing a wobbly smile. "Yeah," I say, fighting the urge to lift my hand and brush my finger over my lips where he kissed me. "I just didn't expect all this, well, stuff. I've never done a red carpet thing before."

For a second, he looks abashed. "I didn't think. I should have warned you. After so many years, I've gotten used to the hoopla."

"It's a lot of hoopla," I agree.

"I promise it's painless. We'll walk down the red carpet, pause at the step-and-repeat for a photo, and then head on inside."

"No chatting with reporters?"

He shakes his head as we start walking again. "Not today. They'll see you with me and they can draw their own conclusions. Usually, I chat them up so that I can get in a pitch for the Stark Children's Foundation, but considering the erotic nature of this exhibit, we decided that it really wasn't the place."

"Guess that makes sense," I say. I've heard about the SCF, of course. It's a major charity in the LA area that provides help to abused and neglected kids. I also know that Lyle is the current celebrity sponsor. It's hard to miss, since his picture is on donation posters all over town.

"Ready?" he asks, and I realize that the line has gotten shorter as we've talked, and now we're next in line for the picture.

The step-and-repeat is basically an area off to the side with a giant publicity poster behind it. This one for the Stark Center for the Visual Arts. Lyle puts an arm around my shoulder, and I lean in, feeling more comfortable with him than I probably should.

We smile, the photographer snaps, and then we move on.

Lyle was right. Easy-peasy.

At least until we step through the glass doors into the Center's main exhibit space. It's like walking into the annual meeting of the Rich, Powerful, and Well-Dressed Club.

"You okay?"

"What?" I look up at Lyle's face, and see him peering at me with concern. "Why?"

He glances meaningfully at our joined hands, and I realize I'm holding on so tight my knuckles are white. "Oh. Right." I let go, then resist the urge to dry my palms on my skirt.

"This is a little bit out of my comfort zone," I admit. "I mean, the fanciest place I've ever eaten is a place we ate half an hour ago."

This time when he looks at me, I see understanding on his face. "It'll be okay," he promises, then takes my hand again, this time more gently. "I've got your back."

"You didn't grow up attending parties like this either," I say, as he leads me further into the room. It's large and circular, with a few hallways leading off from it. I know from experience that those halls lead to the permanent exhibit areas. Tonight, they're roped off. "Are you comfortable with it now?"

I expect him to say yes. To tell me how easy it is to survive with money and privilege. Instead, he says nothing.

I clear my throat, feeling like a dolt for asking what was obviously a wrong question, and I glance around the room, trying to look like I'm fascinated by the new set-up so that I can hide my embarrassment.

Usually, this room is a large, circular space with four other rooms opening off of it as if at fifteen-minute intervals on a clockface. Today, however, only three of those openings are visible, and each of those three are blocked by velvet ropes that prevent anyone from going into the other exhibit spaces.

The twelve o'clock opening is blocked by a makeshift walkway that comes off that point and extends to the center of the room, like a line partially bisecting a circle in geometry class. The corridor is formed by temporarily erected walls, and some of the show's photographs are displayed on the exterior sides of those walls.

I don't know what's on the inside of the corridor, as the entrance to the walkway--which is right at the center point of the gallery--is currently blocked by a velvet rope, and from what I can see there are no lights inside the corridor itself. I assume that part of the show is in there, and I can't help but wonder what we'll eventually see.