Dangerous Alliance

by Kyra Davis

  “I can see her doing that,” I say as Robyn stops in front of a plain brown door labeled Bride’s Room. She pushes it open and I stand there for a moment, feeling honestly confused. The room is huge. It’s clearly not meant for one person, it’s meant for a bride and an entourage of bridesmaids. In the center there’s a table holding a single champagne flute, which has already been filled to the brim, along with a small fruit bowl and a dish full of mixed nuts. The walls are painted a quiet blue, the makeup counters are expansive, and there’s an oversized mirror mounted on the wall and storage bins for personal items.

  And there is my silk chiffon Badgley Mischka dress, hanging from a single cast-iron hook designed to look like a Victorian skeleton key in a door lock. The light pink shoes have been placed next to it on a small pedestal. Lander paid for these weeks ago, although he’s yet to see them. He just handed over his credit card number and blindly bought me a little magic.

  It’s right out of a fairy tale.

  “Enjoy it,” Robyn says with a smile. “You earned it. The champagne was just poured a few minutes ago so it’s cold. Figured you might need a drink before you share a table with the Gables.”

  I laugh politely and thank her as she rushes off to get back to the preparations.

  This is a bride’s dressing room. A princess room. I try to imagine myself as the kind of woman who belongs here. If I was that woman I would have at least ten, no, twelve bridesmaids. All of them would be good friends from school, people who really cared about me. And there would be a flower girl who was . . . a cousin? Is that who flower girls usually are? She’d definitely be some kind of family member; a bride who would get dressed in here would definitely have a big family.

  My groom would be extraordinarily handsome, impressively daring, and ridiculously rich, like Lander. Yes, Lander would be perfect! And my father . . . my father who . . . who always calls me princess, but not in a condescending way, he would escort me down the aisle, while my beautiful mother would weep with pride from her front-row seat.

  It’s with that final detail that the fun of my little fantasy goes up in smoke. I sit down in the middle of this cavernous room as my spirit crashes down to reality. My mother will never see me get married. And when she died she certainly wasn’t proud of me. I gave her no reason to be.

  I don’t have a father to walk me down the aisle. I have no little cousins that I know of, no friends who would want to attend to me on my special day.

  All I have is the man, Lander, my imaginary groom.

  I can’t lose him.

  I take a deep breath and then a sip of my champagne before pushing myself to my feet. I pull off my clothes, my muggle clothes, I think with a smile, and then I reach for my dress and slip into magic.

  That’s what the dress feels like, like a bunch of pixies took wisps of a cloud at sunrise and then used their magical talents to weave the ethereal fabric into a gown. The silk chiffon is the lightest shade of pink. Artfully draped ruffles adorn the bodice and fall along my left leg from where the dress gathers at the waist. The straps themselves are beaded and delicate, so delicate they can barely be seen. The shoes are patent leather heeled platforms in a slightly darker shade of pink.

  I take a moment to examine myself in the mirror. I stare hard, waiting for the illusion to dissipate the way my last fantasy did, but it doesn’t happen. While Jessica’s dress has the glamour and sophistication of the old Hollywood movie stars, this dress isn’t about sophistication at all. It’s about innocence, femininity, romance.

  Staring into the mirror I can almost see my fantasy family and friends behind me, all smiling approvingly except for one, the only one I recognize: my mother. She’s wearing her prison uniform and she looks so tired, so very disappointed.

  Because she knows I’m not an innocent. I’m certainly not some kind of fairy-tale princess. No, tonight I am Bellona Dantès. I’m here for revenge. This dress is just a nod of respect to something that has gone. It’s a quiet tribute to the woman I once thought I could be.

  “I’m sorry, Mamá,” I whisper. “I can’t make you proud. But . . .” I inhale deeply, forcing myself to absorb a new energy as I reach for my champagne and hold up my glass. “I can make them pay.”

  I pick up my evening bag and walk back out to the dinner.

  When I get there Travis and Jessica are talking to an elderly man with starkly white hair and the blotchy skin that comes with age and too much Scotch. Jessica spots me first and her mouth opens slightly in a rather unflattering manner. Then it’s Travis’s turn, and for a moment his expression is one of complete surprise, and then confusion. It’s as if he’s not entirely able to make sense of what he’s seeing. The old man, on the other hand, appears to be very happy to see me coming his way.

  “Mrs. Gable,” I say once I’m in their little circle. “Robyn has everything under control now. Things are ready to go.”

  “Good,” Jessica says after she closes her mouth and collects herself. “Jeremy, this is Bell, our personal assistant. Bell, this is Mr. Dixon. He’s the CEO of Portrait Electric and a major backer of some of our most respected political leaders.”

  “A personal assistant, really?” he says, shooting Travis a bemused look. “I would never have guessed. Where are you from, young lady?”

  “Right here. I was born in Brooklyn, sir.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have guessed that either. I would have thought you grew up in Connecticut or some such place and that you worked in a gallery somewhere, giving the old coots like me something to look at when the art isn’t enough.”

  I can see that this is meant to be a compliment, so I manage a smile and give a deferential nod.

  “You’re hardly an old coot!” Jessica laughs, resting her hand on his arm. “You’re a gentleman of culture and intellect. Highkin can’t wait to hear your thoughts on how best to restructure the tax laws, isn’t that right, Travis?”

  “Absolutely,” Travis agrees, jerking his eyes away from me. “I think you’ll find him to be a very impressive candidate. He can win this thing, and more importantly, he has a good memory. He never forgets a friend.”

  “Mr. Dixon, have you met Jon Gilmour?” Jessica interjects. “He starred in that film Projections? You simply have to meet him.” She leads Mr. Dixon away as Travis nods his approval.

  “You look different,” he says once we’re alone.

  “Well, I should hope so.” I laugh. “It’s a formal event. I wouldn’t wear something like this to work.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. The look’s all wrong for you. You seem different in that dress.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  He shrugs, a little annoyed. “It’s not what I’m paying for, that’s all. Innocence and romance bore me. Then again, it doesn’t really matter what dress you wear tonight,” he notes, a cool smile playing on his lips. “You’ll be taking it off for me later anyway.”

  I smile coyly but bristle inside and scan the crowd for Cathy. She’s not here. That could be a huge problem.

  “When I’m done with you you’ll be going to Lander’s, correct?”

  “Correct,” I say tersely.

  “Good.” He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a USB flash drive.

  My heart slams to a stop. “What, um, what is that?” I’m trying so hard to make my voice sound calm, but it’s just a little too high, a little too strained.

  “What do you mean, ‘what is that?’ ” Travis asks, irritated. “Obviously it’s a flash drive. Here, put it in your purse.”

  Somehow I manage to keep my hand steady as I follow his instructions.

  “I want a copy of every file on his computer. I want every email that looks even remotely interesting. I want his calendar. I want—”

  “This USB is blank?” I interrupt.

  Travis gives me an odd look. “Why would you think otherwise? Your job is to give me information, not the other way around.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .” I say, onc
e again glancing at the door, trying to will Cathy into the room. “You gave me a flash drive, I . . . I just got confused. But,” I say, finally pulling it together, “I don’t know the password for Lander’s computer.”

  Travis gives me a withering look. “Have him look something up on the Internet and stand behind him while he logs on. Use your eyes.”

  “What would I have him look up on the Internet for me?”

  “Stock trends, porn, a YouTube cat video, I don’t care. Just get this done. If you can’t be cunning you’re of no use to me.”

  If I can’t be cunning? It’s almost funny considering the circumstances.

  “Travis, how long has it been!” A woman in her late forties with a helmet of platinum-blond hair approaches Travis with arms outstretched before grasping his shoulders and leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks. “It’s been eons, no?” she says, then continues without waiting for a response. “Probably at one of these ghastly dinners. Now I have to ask you, are you sure about this Highkin fellow? He’s rather wet behind the ears, don’t you think?”

  I quietly excuse myself as the woman continues to ramble. I stare pointedly at the door. Please, please, please, Cathy, show up!

  But it’s just more guests, all with similar looks. Sophisticated, pretentious, wealthy. I’m surrounded by them. I feel like a shiny penny in a suitcase full of hundreds.

  And that’s when Lander walks in.

  He looks in my direction and stops in his tracks. I look around me to see what has him frozen, but then I realize he really is just looking at me. I turn back to him and now he’s smiling, his hand pressed firmly over his heart.

  The smile that comes over me is one of those smiles that’s rooted so deep it radiates throughout your whole body. The walking, talking hundred-dollar bills in the room become a blur, nothing more than background noise as Lander moves through them easily, not stopping to talk to any of the many people who are clearly trying to get his attention. When he reaches me, he strokes my cheek with the back of his hand and I find myself closing my eyes and leaning into it like a kitten.

  “You look,” he breathes, and then stops as if he can’t find the words.

  “I look?” I ask, egging him on. “I look like what? Like I’m in costume? Like I’m playing dress-up? Like I’m—”

  “Beautiful,” he says.

  In my entire life I’ve never heard anyone say the word beautiful quite like that, not unless they were talking about God, or a Fourth of July fireworks display, or a Van Gogh masterpiece. Never about a person. Never about me. I feel the warmth spread to my cheeks. “It’s just a dress, Lander.”

  “No,” he says quietly, his eyes still holding me, “it’s you.”

  The comment makes me happy, and then incredibly sad. It’s the same kind of sadness that hit me when I lost hold of my bridal fantasy. “You’re wrong,” I say solemnly, taking his hand. “I don’t know who I am tonight, but it can’t be me.”

  “Here he is!” Edmund Gable’s hands are on Lander before we even fully register his presence. He grips Lander’s shoulder firmly, jovially demanding his attention. “So glad you decided to come, my boy!” Edmund says, giving Lander a little shake. “And Bell.” His eyes rest on me a little longer than I’m comfortable with. It’s not an entirely approving look. “I haven’t seen you since we met in Travis’s office. What a wonderful coincidence that you met my other son as well.”

  “It wasn’t a coincidence,” Lander says smoothly. “We met at Travis’s.”

  “Yes, yes, so I hear.” He’s still looking at me. More than that, he’s studying me . . . almost like a poker player looking for a tell.

  It’s amazing how much danger can be hidden behind a hearty smile.

  “Serendipity aside,” Edmund continues, “you really do look exquisite.” He tilts his head to the side, just a little. “Last time we met you swore it was for the first time, that we had never met before.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Gable,” I say, hiding behind a smile of my own.

  “It’s odd. There’s something so familiar about you.”

  It’s very close to what I said to White.

  A man with thinning hair and impressive girth moves over to us. “Edmund, how the hell are you?”

  “Not too bad, not too bad at all. Lander, allow me to introduce you to Peter Turan, CEO of Wonder Nation. Pete, this is my youngest son, Lander, and Bell Dantès, his date for the evening.”

  It’s a telling introduction.

  Edmund continues to drone on—about Highkin, about the market, about the ineptitude of Washington—all the while carefully excluding me without ever being overtly rude. It doesn’t bother me. I listen carefully, trying hard to pull out bits of information that might be useful, but there’s nothing. When Edmund finally goes off to chat with the other donors, Lander lets his irritation show. “I can’t wait to bring that son of a bitch down.”

  His voice is so low, so serious. We have the same goal, of course, but looking at him now makes me wonder. Did I ever look that angry when I was talking about my mother? Back when I thought she was guilty? When I visited her in the prison, did she look into my eyes and see that kind of disgust?

  The thought gives me a chill. “Come,” I say, pulling gently on his arm. “Let’s get a drink.”

  We only get through half a glass of wine each before it’s time for us to be seated. I lead Lander to our table (I know the seating chart by heart at this point) while scanning the faces in the room, only looking for one person. One person who needs to be here, and isn’t.

  Our table is in front, near where Highkin will be speaking. Edmund is already there. He has no date for the evening. Travis and Jessica are making their way to the table now from the opposite side of the room.

  I crane my head to look toward the table where she should be. But her seat is empty.

  This could be it. Without Cathy I may have no option but to be up-front with Travis, tell him the deal’s off. He’ll fire me; my advantage will be destroyed.

  Jessica and Travis reach the table first, although they continue to stand, hovering around Edmund as if they need his permission to sit. Lander apparently doesn’t think that we do. He pulls a chair out for me, and when he does, I think I see the momentary flash of disapproval cross Edmund’s face. But it’s so fleeting I could be wrong.

  Besides, it’s hard for me to really worry about whether or not Edmund dislikes me. Cathy’s not here. By the end of this night I will have lost Travis’s trust, unless of course I do the unthinkable . . . which I can’t, because it’s unthinkable. But to throw all my work away . . . How can I do that? What if . . .

  “Oh my God.”

  This from Jessica. The words come out a little louder than I think she intended, because not only did everyone at our table hear her, a few people at the next table did as well.

  Confused, Travis follows her gaze to the door.

  And then, in a moment of true beauty, all the color leaves his face. His eyes grow to a different size and his whole body seems to almost weaken . . . the way Jessica’s does when she’s anticipating his abuse.

  Lander and I, Edmund, everyone around us looks to the door. And there she is. Cathy Earnest Lind, walking right into the banquet room with an odd mixture of defiance and trepidation. By her side, Robyn is gently directing her to her table.

  Cathy doesn’t look like the other guests. She’s wearing a cocktail dress, not an evening gown . . . and it’s a showstopper. Sporadically placed silver beads spin a sparkling and delicate web from the illusion neckline to the above-the-knee skirt. Under the beading the fabric is a perfect shade of nude, so perfect that it’s hard to tell from a distance that there’s anything at all beneath those beads . . . particularly when she walks near certain lights and you can see how very sheer the fabric is. If you look very closely (which we all do), you can make out the faint silhouette of her legs as she walks across the room. Her hair is slicked back and pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck. She could be a model;
she could be a guest at the Great Gatsby’s party.

  Or she could just be Cathy, the woman who is already bringing Travis to his knees.

  Robyn finally gets Cathy to her seat and I watch as three men jump up to pull her chair out for her. She rewards them with a flirtatious smile as she lowers herself into her seat.

  “Sit down, Travis,” I hear Edmund hiss. Edmund’s lost his happy exterior. He looks like he’s about to go on a shooting spree. But as Travis looks down at him he doesn’t seem to register that. He simply looks back up at Cathy and then finally he falls back to his seat, next to his wife.

  How many times have I seen Jessica in ruins because of her husband’s actions? But I’ve never seen her quite like this. She looks utterly and completely defeated.

  Tonight is going to be fun.

  chapter sixteen

  * * *

  The politician’s speech is by far the least consequential part of the evening.

  As Highkin drones on and on about financial policy, regulatory agencies, and the “people who are destroying this country,” Travis looks like he is about to jump out of his skin. He cannot take his eyes off Cathy. Jessica, on the other hand, is no longer the elegant, sophisticated socialite. She is now the depressed, desperate, browbeaten wife . . . who has been drinking an impressive amount of wine.

  When Highkin starts to talk about domestic energy production, Jessica finishes her fifth glass. “Travis,” she says quietly. “What does this mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Travis replies as his father simultaneously shushes her.

  Lander waves over the busser and asks him to fill Jessica’s water goblet.

  “I’m serious, Travis,” Jessica continues. She’s holding on to the edge of the table so tightly her fingertips have gone white. “I have to know what this means.”

  “I just told you,” he snaps, although his voice remains hushed. “I don’t know. I didn’t even invite her!”

  Highkin moves on to another subject, although it doesn’t appear that anyone at our table is paying enough attention to actually know what that subject is.