Behind the Veil

by Nolan, Kathryn

  “Of course,” Delilah and I said in unison. Victoria waltzed off, and I held out my hand toward my partner. “Shall we, wife?”

  “I don’t really know how to dance,” she admitted, color in her cheeks.

  “But you can subdue an attacker with a throat punch?”

  “Well, that’s easy,” she said, looking around my shoulder at the dance floor. I leaned down to her ear, brushing the hair away. “All we have to do is sway together. I’ll take the lead.”

  Hands clasped, I walked us to the dance floor, where Victoria and her chosen date were in the center. I half-expected a spotlight to descend upon them. We found a spot close to the edge; I placed my palm low on Delilah’s back, clasped her hand to my chest. My head lowered until we were cheek-to-cheek. The music swelled around us—I kept her snug against me, moving us in time to the bass player’s notes.

  “I thought Henry and Delilah Thornhill fought over household errands. Not slow-danced in their kitchen,” she said.

  “Abe and Freya said romantic,” I mock-chided. “And actually, I think a couple slow-dancing in their kitchen together would be, well…lovely. Don’t you?”

  “I do,” she said in an almost-whisper. “What kind of couple do you think would do something like that?”

  I rested my lips against Delilah’s hair. “Maybe a couple so swept up in their love they need to touch each other constantly. Breathe each other in. Feel connected through movement.”

  “Maybe…” she started, “maybe they love the home they created together. I can see the Thornhills dancing together at the end of a long day. As a form of comfort. Romantic comfort.”

  “It sounds like our fake marriage is quite happy,” I said. Delilah was dancing easily with me, our bodies attuned to the steps although we’d never practiced. “Perhaps we do it every night.”

  She hummed a little—a sound of bliss. “Even though I can’t dance?”

  “I’d keep teaching you,” I promised. “And really, it would only be an excuse to hold you.”

  She squeezed my hand tighter.

  “We probably did dance the night we eloped,” she said so softly I almost missed it. “A little drunk, still in our wedding clothes, feet bare in our hotel room.”

  My lips grazed her temple, the shell of her ear. “Then what happened, wife?”

  “I think we both know what happened.”

  Across the floor, Victoria wiggled her fingers at me. I wiggled mine back. I twirled Delilah in a circle, her skirts billowing around her heels glamorously. She looked surprised, then delighted.

  I tugged a laughing Delilah back into my chest. “Where does a librarian learn how to dance?” she said.

  I twirled her again, and she hammed it up a little this time.

  “Now who’s a quick study?” I grinned. The tip of my nose brushed along her jaw. “My grandparents lived in a care facility for years with dementia. They didn’t always recognize each other, though they loved to share a dance during the facility dance lessons. I used to take my siblings, Joelle and Jeremiah, with me every Saturday for dance lessons there. It was completely silly, completely happy, and entirely heart-breaking, all at the same time.”

  “They’d still dance with each other though?” Delilah asked.

  We were barely swaying now.

  “Yes, they did, quite happily too.” I smiled at the memory. “They passed away one month apart. I was in high school and I remember my mom taking her first sabbatical after they died. She’d never even taken a vacation day before.”

  “What did you do together when she wasn’t working?”

  “Read books. Went to the park. Checked out novels at the library. It wasn’t anything particularly spectacular. The ordinariness of that time is what made it so memorable for me.”

  “Oh,” she began, “oh, I love that story, Henry. Your grandparents must have loved each other very much.”

  “They were devoted to each other,” I replied.

  Our feet moved back and forth, our bodies pushed together as one as I stared into Delilah’s eyes. This was all part of the game, all part of my job—seducing her, seducing the crowd into believing our love was real. At least, that was the lie I told myself when I brushed my lips against her cheek.

  “How come no one ever taught you how to dance?” I asked.

  “I haven’t dated anyone who ever wanted to dance with me.”

  She was tilting her neck, and I was entranced with the column of her throat—the line of her collarbone, the pale flesh disappearing beneath the beads. I wanted to caress her fluttering pulse point but held off. The minute my lips touched such an intimate place on Delilah’s body, I was going to permanently lose any remnants of this charade.

  There’d be no more pretending between us.

  “I don’t have a ton of experience with passion or romance.” Delilah beheld our joined hands, the diamonds of her ring twinkling. “I wasn’t sure I’d do a good job undercover because of it.”

  “Because you couldn’t fake being married?”

  “No.” Our lips hovered an inch apart. “I wasn’t sure I could fake being in love.”

  I’d worried about this too. And yet even at our most awkward, our partnership had held the shape of something comfortable; a natural texture that made becoming the Thornhills easier and easier for me.

  “You do a pretty decent job of bluffing though. Victoria totally believes you’re madly in love with me.” She was attempting to tease, but I remembered how she’d described her relationship with Mark: I wasn’t a person to him. I was a body to be used.

  Delilah’s gown swished across the floor as we danced closer and closer to the string quartet. The opening melody of Etta James’s “At Last” swirled around us, serving only to loosen my tongue.

  “It’s not hard to pretend when you’re the most beautiful woman in this entire room, Delilah.” My teeth lightly scraped at the skin below her ear.

  “Henry,” she said.

  I’d gone too far.

  “Henry.” Her tone was sharp, entire body stiffening in a single second. I scanned the crowd for Victoria—goddammit. I’d been so wrapped up in Delilah I’d forgotten to pay attention to our suspect.

  And she was striding from the dance floor, Sven in tow. Heading for a back part of the room with an Employees Only: Authorized Area sign hanging across it.

  “Follow my lead.” Delilah was half-dragging me across the dance floor as my mind scrambled to catch up. Our staged slow dance had left me dazed. But my partner was on the move, two steps ahead, racing toward two burly security guards who were standing in front of the Authorized Area sign.

  She stopped and I almost ran into her. “Excuse me,” she said to Burly Guard #1. “I need your help. Immediately.” Her tone was haughty. She gestured for them to stand close to her, and as they moved her index finger pointed at the briefly exposed hallway.

  “Some kind of problem?” #1 asked.

  “A man, a gentleman over there?” They glared off into the distance—and I slipped into the darkness, aware of the other guests, their possible attention. “It’s the one in the dark-blue suit.”

  “Half the crowd is wearing dark-blue suits,” #2 sighed. “Ma’am.”

  Delilah gave her best Victoria impression, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. “Yes, well, can you please go over and tend to them? I’ve been trying to get a drink for the past hour, and their behavior is upsetting. It’s out of control.”

  As if on cue, two men by the bar began laughing uproariously.

  Both guards sighed extravagantly, one of them squawking into a radio. “Yeah, wait right here.”

  I was flat against the wall, hidden by shadows. Delilah watched them lumber off for all of a second before dashing backward into the hallway, backing right into my chest.

  “Fuck,” she wheezed.

  “It’s just me.” I grabbed her shoulders. “What’s the plan?”

  “Where on earth did she go?” she muttered. “And it’s not like Sven’s easy
to miss.” The carpeted hallway was pitch-black and filled with doors. No windows.

  “Delilah? The plan?” We were slipping down the hallway like sharply dressed cat burglars. The raucous sounds of the museum gala faded away the farther we walked.

  “No plan, just action,” she whispered.

  The hallway ended, curving to the right. There were muffled voices. A louder one—Victoria’s. Behind us stretched the long, lonely hallway and a sea of closed doors.

  In front of us: Victoria and Sven.

  We were totally exposed if she came around that corner.

  “And what’s the delay?” Victoria’s tone was abrupt. There was an answering silence, like she was on the phone.

  “Unacceptable. I’ll do nothing of the sort. I have 300 people coming tomorrow and I would never cancel. We’ll move it after the party.”

  “Ma’am.” That was Sven. Delilah and I were squashed together, pushed to the wall. “You have to be reasonable.”

  I heard Delilah whisper, “You’re about to die, buddy.”

  Whatever Victoria said next was unintelligible, but her harsh tone was clear. A cell phone went off, and I thought my heart was going to explode.

  “Take that call,” she snapped. “I need to get back to my guests. I’ve been gone too long.”

  Footsteps. Fucking footsteps terrifyingly close to where we were standing. Coming closer and closer. As I stood frozen, Delilah was reaching for the closest doorknob. She turned it. It opened.

  And she yanked me inside.

  26

  Delilah

  My first recognizable thought was: total darkness.

  A second earlier I’d twisted the closest doorknob and prayed like hell it was open. It’d been a long time since I’d chased a suspect down a shadowy hallway without a second thought. And those times I’d had handcuffs and a warrant. I didn’t even have a weapon on me tonight—Abe had been nervous about museum metal detectors going off.

  And now my palms were on the closet door—my back to Henry’s chest—his hands boxing me in. The only sounds were our labored, panicked breathing. I found the doorknob, engaged the lock.

  My ear went to the wood. I heard footsteps, striding away.

  “I think she’s gone,” I whispered.

  When I turned my head, our mouths almost connected.

  Henry’s words came back to me: You’re the most beautiful woman in this room, Delilah.

  “Of course she’s fucking concerned. She expected a job to get done.” Sven’s voice barked right outside our door.

  Henry wrapped one arm around my waist.

  “Not tomorrow,” Sven growled.

  Henry and I were breathing in perfect sync.

  There was a horrible, piercing crack against our door. My head snapped back.

  “I’ve got you,” Henry whispered.

  “What did I just say?” Sven’s voice was dangerously low. “And I’m not afraid of her.”

  A bizarre laugh threatened to force its way from my chest.

  And then I heard the most wondrous sound in the world: Sven also walking away.

  Henry and I collapsed against the door in relief.

  But his arms stayed wrapped around me. And pressed to my ass was a cock as hard as steel.

  “I think the coast is clear,” I managed to whisper. “We should probably go now.”

  “We should.” The reluctance in my partner’s voice was its own aphrodisiac. Henry reached in front of me, covering my hand with his on the doorknob. “We should definitely go.”

  Whatever space I’d landed us in was pitch fucking black and soundless, set adrift from our brightly colored reality.

  “Unless,” I said, voice trembling, “we’re the kind of fake married couple who sneaks away to fuck in a closet at a gala.”

  He didn’t say a word. But a hoarse growl came from his throat as he shifted his hips against me.

  And the slight brush of friction was enough to make us both gasp.

  But I turned the doorknob, even as my baser instincts screamed for me to stay. Cracked the door open an inch.

  “Why the hell would they be back here? There’s nothing except conference rooms and utility closets. Tell Jim he’s a fucking idiot. They’re still in the audience.”

  “Shit,” I hissed, clicking the door shut as quietly as I could at the last second. I spun around and Henry landed hard against me, flattening my back to the door. “It’s the guards from the front.”

  “And all I know is if Karen fucking finds out, we’re all fucking fired. So open all these doors and search each room, assholes.”

  Sounds of collective grumbling floated past the door. But no one pulled it open.

  Yet.

  Henry and I were face-to-face in the dark, every inch of our bodies together, like our slow dance. The difference being that no one could see us here—we were cloaked in a kind of fog, far from the viewing eyes of Victoria and the guests.

  Far from the viewing eyes of Freya and Abe.

  We were trapped in a place beyond space or time, beyond consequences or responsibilities. A secret place of bodies and limbs, hushed breath and lips.

  “If they find us,” I whispered, “we can still tell them we’d snuck away to have newlywed sex.”

  I could just make out the edges of Henry’s shy smile.

  “What’s newlywed sex?”

  His palm was suddenly on the back of my calf—I could feel the heat of it even through the gauzy layers.

  “We recently eloped, right?” I said, breathless. “Newlyweds can’t keep their hands off each other. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

  His hand danced up the back of my knee now, my thigh—there was the whisper of shifting fabric. He hooked my right leg high around his waist, the silk layers sliding away to reveal my bare skin. The tips of his fingers almost reached the swell of my ass.

  And the flimsiest scrap of material separated my pussy from the hard ridge of his cock.

  Henry’s index finger traced a path from my collarbone, to my throat, to my chin. Tilted my face all the way up. “We should get our stories straight, wife. In case we have to make this look real.” His hips flexed—a purposeful movement—and my clit was treated to a sweet, grinding pressure. My mouth popped open. “Don’t you think?”

  Outside the door, far to the left, came the sound of doors opening, slamming; a repetitive “not here” as they searched the unauthorized area we’d snuck into.

  “It’s not nice to seduce your fake wife at a gala,” I whispered.

  Henry grasped my wrists, pinned them above my head with one hand. “Who said your fake husband was nice?”

  I liked this fantasy—too fucking much. My internal walls wouldn’t stop clenching, begging to be filled. He rolled his hips, ghosting his lips along my hairline, at the base of my neck.

  “I think…” I said, mind clouded, “if we get caught, we could say…” His mouth found the curve of my throat. He kissed me there, dragging his lips slowly, fucking slowly, until they reached my jaw. “We do this kind of thing all the time.”

  “I fuck you in public?”

  Our bodies were writhing together in silent, erotic motion against the door. The sounds of the guards growing closer were practically nonexistent. What was real were the sensations already building low in my belly—the consequence of Henry’s skilled movements. Every grind was a delicious burn right where I needed it. It’d been so fucking long since a man had known how to touch me. But here I was, legs spread against a door as Henry worked my body into a quiet frenzy.

  “Maybe it’s our kink,” I gasped. “The Thornhills are into public sex.”

  He pressed our foreheads together like he was in physical pain. Pinned me harder against the door, tightened his hold on my wrists.

  “Delilah.” It was part growl, part plea. My eyes fluttered closed as pleasure tightened in my core. I was breathing heavily, struggling not to moan. The pressure of his grinding cock felt incredible. I let myself tumble back into our fa
ntasy—imagined being dragged into coat closets all across the city by this man and fucked senseless against any available surface.

  “Look at me, beautiful.” My eyes popped open.

  Henry stilled and I almost screamed. The sounds of boot steps filled the hallway, the dull chatter of the guards. I couldn’t even tell anymore if they were close.

  “If I don’t kiss you right now, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

  My resolve was crumbling like a fine dust. Somewhere, I recognized the distant sound of my moral compass being smashed to bits again; somewhere in my mind existed the anxiety of this case, the stakes, the pressure, the fear. But I’d been hurtling toward this desire since Henry had slid my fake wedding ring down my finger. I fantasized about his lips, had hot, furtive dreams about the feel of his tongue, had traced the outline of my own mouth as I’d daydreamed about this very moment.

  “I want to kiss you too,” I said, honesty blazing through me, as real as my arousal.

  He dropped my wrists so he could spear his fingers into my curls, holding me still. “Say that again.”

  “Please kiss me,” I begged.

  He grazed his lips against mine in an unhurried discovery. A tasting, like I was a fine wine he wanted to sip and savor; soft, gentle kisses, an exploration. A dance. The sweetness of this first kiss was unexpectedly poignant—it felt like a gift. In the midst of our forbidden fantasy, Henry was kissing me—not his fake wife. I sighed into the kiss, wistful; smiled against his mouth as I touched his face, finally experienced the sensation of his hair beneath my fingers.

  “You taste like ripe peaches on a summer’s day,” he whispered. The poetry of it startled me—I was floating on a sensual, simmering cloud. I opened my mouth to answer but he claimed it again. He was charged heat and white-hot electricity, and when he licked his tongue along the seam of my lips, I let him in, let him take possession of me the way my body craved.

  And then everything changed.

  He took my mouth in a bruising, brutal kiss that didn’t hide how badly he’d needed this. We barely came up for air as our lips met again and again. There was no hesitation between us. He took and I gave. I gave—and he drank me in with every swipe of his tongue. The walls trembled, the ground shook, our breath was hot, panting, harsh.