I laugh. "Reminds me of those ads where they say they sell real estate on Europa or something."
Aiden leans his head against his shoulder. "I still have the ticket. I packed a bag that night. I have that, too. Too bad nothing in it will fit anymore."
"That's cute."
"The airline that sold them went belly up years ago. It's worthless now. I still look at it from time to time, remembering the awe I felt. So I'm going to bring that wonder to people, for real. We're developing a space plane."
"Space plane?"
"Like the space shuttle."
"I hope it's a little safer."
He frowns. "It will be. I could bore you with the details of why the shuttle had so many accidents but—"
"It's not boring. Tell me."
So begins a long, detailed discussion of O-rings and ceramic tiles. By the time he's done it's well into the night, the soup is cold, and I'm on his lap, my head pillowed on his shoulder.
Aiden
I steal a kiss. A thief in the night, I touch my lips to hers. There will always be lust in it, but the heat of her lips and the soft sigh she offers in response before she wakes is more than erotic. It's like touching an angel. She fell asleep on my lap, watching the flames dance. She was interested the entire time, but after a while it just felt right to stop talking. The crackle of burning logs and warmth put her to sleep.
Even now she only stirs. One arm lies lazily draped across my stomach as her head moves closer to my neck, rising and falling with my breath. I know she's awake, but I don't call her out on the deception. Instead I toy with her hair, gently curling it around my fingers.
At last, she lifts her head and shakes loose. "Early morning," she says, yawning. "See you then."
She stands. I never miss an opportunity to watch her leave. A flash of her blue eyes watching me, and she's gone.
I sprawl across the couch and let out a slow breath. I rest my head on my palm and fight the unease coiling in my stomach. This is how it starts. The crawling fear digging its way out, like a long-forgotten parasite emerging from secret cocoon. Before I begin to dwell I rise from the sofa and go up to my room.
The lights flick on when I enter, then adjust to my specifications, cutting out blue wavelengths. Everything in the apartment adjusts automatically to avoid interfering with sleep cycles. It's not for my benefit, it’s for the boys. Sleep and I have long been bitter rivals.
I run on the treadmill, I lift and use the weight machines until I work up a lathery sweat, all trying to force my body to accept that it needs sleep. Under the hot shower all I can think of is Lilah and the desire to devour her. I want her under the spray with me, hot water skimming over her body, wet skin gliding against mine as I press her to the cold tiles and make love to her in the steam.
When I emerge into the cool, dry air of my room the lights come up again, dimmer now as even the house itself urges me to sleep. The rooms are not large; I've never been partial to the ostentation of large spaces. The bedroom feels emptier now than ever as I sink into a cold bed that's too large, too empty, and too without Deliah.
I wake well before anyone else. My mental rebellion against sleep burns at both ends, and I snap awake before sunup. I stand from the bed and begin a series of stretches. Today feels like a good day for a swim. I pull on a pair of trunks and pad over to the glass doors, ready to head out through the garden to the pool.
My breath catches when I find Delilah sitting in the garden, arms resting on her tucked-up legs. She stares out over the pool, lost in thought. Frowning, I wish I had a paint, easel, and canvas. The nymph at rest, I'd call it. I don't want to disturb her. It feels wrong.
I do it anyway.
She hears the soft sound of my bare feet on grass and looks up at me.
"Morning," she says.
I sit down a foot or two away, facing her. "Something is bothering you."
She shrugs her delicate shoulders and glumly rests her head on her arm.
"I'm just overwhelmed, I think."
It takes me a long time to think of something to say. I prefer to watch her. Silky legs, perfectly sculpted arms, the face of a woodland goddess. I rise to my feet. "Another day begins. I should find you some real work. Why don't I start you on a tour of the different departments? Find what interests you, and you can settle in."
She stands next to me. "I thought I could be your assistant. Learn from the master." She savors the last word, peeking over her glasses.
"So you want to be around me all day?"
"Maybe," she says, casually.
"You have grass on your knees."
She glances down and giggles. "I'll go get ready."
Leaning against the tree, I watch her walk off toward her bedroom. The boy's rooms light up, and I sigh, heading back to mine to dress.
This is the first time in an eternity I haven't felt the urge to rush out of the house. Quite the opposite.
Today I go casual. I tell myself it's for comfort. It's because I like the way Lilah looks at my arms. I feel stronger when she notices. She emerges with her hair bound at the nape of her neck, wearing a pale green sundress that bares her shoulders. I stare at her approach until I smell the eggs starting to burn and turn back to cooking.
The boys give me annoyed looks at the overcooked eggs, and Lilah smiles.
Lilah
"Pick something," Aiden says.
"Pick what?"
"Come close," he says.
I tuck myself against him, and he slips his arm around my waist. Some part of me knows what he's about to do, and I brace myself. It doesn't help. I cry out anyway as the floor turns to glass and I find myself staring past my feet at a two-hundred-foot drop straight down.
It flickers, and then it's a screen. Camera views.
"These are all the different projects headquartered here in the tower, plus all the others. I'll give you a teleconferencing room if you'd like to speak with one of the offsite teams."
Tentatively—I can still see past the feeds to the enormous drop—I step across the screen and look down. "What's this?"
"I thought you might find that interesting. Agrosciences. If we can make it grow on Mars, we can make it grow on Earth."
"Is that here?"
"Would you like to find out?"
"Another day. Where's the space stuff?"
He smiles. "I knew you’d ask. Maria!"
Maria, real assistant, strides into the room.
"Follow me," she says in a flat monotone.
The floor turns black after a brief flicker of transparency, and my heart slows town by ten beats per minute or so. I glance back at Aiden, my frustration at his playing tricks with his fancy floor melting.
Maria looks at me only briefly, the way she might look at something she peeled off her shoe. Her tone turns to suppressed exasperation. "This way. Time for the grand tour."
What’s her problem?
Chapter Seven
Lilah
Butterflies swirl in my stomach. It's tonight.
I find Aiden in the hall when I knock at the door. My reaction is completely unexpected and new. He makes black tie look good. His tuxedo is immaculately fitted and tailored, and he looks like he's moving when he's standing still. When he takes a few strides into my room wearing his white dinner jacket, he might have just stepped off the set of a James Bond movie. He has a big box tucked under his arm, which he rests on my bed.
"I have a request," he says, turning.
I feel wildly underdressed in a hoodie and yoga pants. I've been poring over the clothes he bought me for an hour, and I’ve realized I don't really have anything formal.
"I've brought you something. I’ll take the boys and head over to the gala now. I'd rather you not put this on until I've left. Maria will be driving you over to the museum."
"Why?"
"I'll meet you there. Just trust me."
My stomach sinks. "It's because this is public."
His expression turns neutral. "I can't pull up
to the red carpet with a hundred light bulbs flickering and draw my business partner's daughter out of the car. I can't spin you and show you off to the world, and it hurts."
"I'm sure," I say, colder than I mean to.
I know he's right. If he tried I'd protest and offer the same reasons.
God, I saw the guest list. My father will be at this thing. If he saw us like this…
As Aiden leaves, I catch his arm. "Wait. You're right. I'm sorry."
"So am I," he says, kissing my cheek. "I can't wait to see you in that."
I open the box and lift out my evening gown. Shivers pass through me when it unfurls in my hands, rich blue silk the color of a stormy night. There are matching gloves and shoes.
I lock the door. I shimmy out of my clothes, and I slip into this. There's a short zippered section behind my neck that holds the whole thing closed, baring my back, shoulders, and arms. The gloves go up just past my elbow.
When I look in the mirror I see someone else, the heroine of some noir thriller in a slinky, form-fitting dress. My heart speeds up a little. Is this how he wants to see me?
I wonder if he'll know I'm not wearing a bra. Obviously I can tell, but… And then there's the underwear. Black lace. Silk stockings. I've never worn a garter belt before in my life, until tonight. The shoes have modest heels, not enough to make me feel wobbly but enough that when I walk around, I feel like I'm on borrowed legs.
This feels like being myself and not myself at the same time. I touch up my makeup and lipstick—a cool, bluish-red tone—and put on the choker necklace. The jewelry and makeup have a strange effect in the mirror, like my eyes are glowing.
Leaving takes more effort and time than I expected. I have to suck up my courage before I meet Maria outside in the hall.
She looks at me as she might a sack of potatoes. A smelly, rotten sack of potatoes she has to drag to the garbage, then come back and clean up the icky, black, rotten potato gunk from the floor.
I shouldn’t care what she thinks, but I feel more than a little deflated.
"Time to deliver you."
"Okay," I say, still nervous.
Maria is silent in the elevator as we descend. She doesn't say a word on the way out either, and opens the car door without comment. A little awkward in this dress, I have to rest my hand on the doorframe as I lower my butt onto the seat.
She snaps the door shut so fast I barely get my legs and hand inside, like she’s trying to break my fingers. I open my mouth to say something, but stop myself. The idea makes me nervous, churning my stomach. Did I anger her somehow?
Is there a growing sense of hostility between us, or is it me? It's probably only my nerves. I dismiss it and sit back for the ride.
Maria sits next to me, working on her phone as if I don’t exist.
A sudden nervous energy descends as I watch the city sliding by. It's sundown and everything is painted in red and gold, long shadows clinging to the feet of passers by on the sidewalk. I still feel like an alien here, a stranger in a strange land.
My stomach tightens and tightens as we near the museum. It's not like before. It's not empty. There are people. I need coffee. Lots of coffee.
The car stops, and I find myself staring through the window at the steps, lined on either side by photographers pressing against the velvet rope. My heart catches in my throat when I see the other guests ascending, stopping to pose in front of the cameras. Am I supposed to do that?
There are movie stars here. I think I know the woman in the black dress at the top of the stairs. Not personally; I've seen her in movies. Trembling, I reach for the door.
Maria opens it, stone-faced as ever. I step out, and the flashes go off. I can see the photographers looking at each other, wondering who the hell I am. I force myself to go slowly—no mean feet when my legs feel like cement, but my heart feels like a pump that's been cranked up to eleven. I fight the urge to hide my face, and the rising pit of nausea in my stomach, and stride up the stairs.
I stop at the top, and the flashes go crazy. I'm not posing, just waiting behind everyone else as they're checked off the guest list. This is what Aiden meant by the public eye, and this is only a little taste. My guts twist. What if he’s right and I can’t handle it?
Remember to smile.
Smile, you little bitch, my father hisses. Remember I paid for those teeth.
I step up, and a hostess in a costume that reminds me of a magician's assistant takes my name and crosses me off a list, like any other guest.
Relief washes over me as I step inside, but the nausea doesn't fade.
Aiden turns and catches a glimpse of me, then does a literal double-take. He stares, his face going pale as his eyes rake me up and down from toes to eyes, lingering on every curve. The silk felt too sheer already. Now I feel naked.
He senses my unease and strides over, a flute of champagne in hand. He offers it.
"I'm not old enough."
"Ginger ale. I don’t drink."
"Oh," I say, slugging some back. He's right. It's just soda.
"It makes you look calmer. Don't worry. You belong here."
"Thanks." I sigh.
"You are absolutely gorgeous."
"The dress makes me look nice, I suppose."
He smiles. "No. It's the other way around. It looks good on you."
"I thought I hated blue, but I should have trusted you."
"Come with me."
I take his arm, and he leads me inside. The information booth in the grand lobby is draped in white silk. In front of it is a scale model of the entire city. Aiden leads me up to it and passes his hand through it.
A delighted smile lights up my face. I stick my arm through the light, amazed.
"It's a hologram or something," I say.
"Neat trick, eh? Let's go look at the architectural models."
Draped tables display Aiden's plans all along the staircase and the landing. A model of the redevelopment project takes center stage below the bronze statue. Admirers already surround it, murmuring to each other.
Aiden has more staff, all women in leggy magician's assistant costumes, wandering around with glass globes collecting donations. Some have little signs promising the money to the museum, others to the homeless.
"This is wonderful," I tell him. "You're doing a lot of good with this."
"Good doesn't pay the bills," a familiar voice grumbles.
My father took the elevator. He's not truly confined to his wheelchair but he's in it anyway, a sleek, self-propelled model with gaudy gold plating on the obnoxious wheels. If there's anyone who could make a conveyance for the handicapped seem gaudy and ostentatious, it's him. I'm surprised he didn't work some marble onto it somewhere.
He's dressed in a black tux, a silk blanket draped over his legs. He glares at us as he glares at everything, with dark circles around his too-sharp eyes, the only young feature in the face of a man who's old enough to be my grandfather. Almost great-grandfather. His nurse, a busty blonde of dubious medical credentials, hovers behind his chair in a sleek white evening gown.
He looks at me. "Aiden, what is this? I thought you'd hired an escort."
He says it loud enough that several other people turn their heads, then quickly find something else to occupy their attention.
I can't. It hits me like a slap, making me wobble on my heels.
"I sent you here to further your education, not play dress-up," he snaps.
"Did you just call me a hooker?" I blurt out.
"When I want your input, I'll ask for it," he hisses, dismissing me.
Aiden steps between us. "She set all this up, Roland. Give her a night to shine."
"Shine," Roland snaps. "Funny word for dressing like a tart."
Aiden bristles. I can almost see his body changing. He looks suave in his tuxedo when relaxed, but now his muscles bulge under the silk. Even his neck tightens.
"What will they think of me when they see my daughter—"
"Dressed like every
woman here?" Aiden says, glancing around. "Rather modestly by comparison, I think, and much more elegant."
Roland eyes us both suspiciously. "I don't like her showing herself off."
"Not unless you do the showing, apparently," Aiden cuts in. “She mentioned something about serving drinks.”
I shudder. Don’t do this, Aiden. He’s too important. I reach for his arm to try to pull him away before they break out in an argument.
"Hi!" a fourth voice chirps. A petite redhead in a black gown slashed with gold cloth struts up to us carrying a glass of champagne, ignoring Roland entirely. It takes me a few blinks to realize that the gold parts of her dress must have real gold thread woven into them. The diamond necklace around her throat puts mine to shame, and she wears a tiny tiara that somehow doesn't look absurd.
"You're Aiden Byrne, right? My husband and I are huge fans."
Roland wheels off, his nurse glaring at me, while this stranger grins at Aiden. I take a spot next to him.
"Oh, hi," she says to me. "Oh, crap, I didn't introduce myself. Persephone Marshall. Call me Penny."
"Persephone?" I blurt out.
"Sorry." She shrugs her narrow shoulders. "My parents were hippies. Cruel hippies."
I laugh. "You think that's bad, try Delilah."
"Oh, this must be your Samson," she says, patting Aiden's chest.
A tall, dark-haired man sweeps up behind her.
Aiden…bows. He bends at the waist, just so. I stand there, wondering if I should do the same thing. I tip my chin forward a little and cough.
"Your Grace," Aiden says.
"Aiden."
"Your what?" I blurt out.
Aiden gestures. "Prince Kristoff and Princess Persephone," he offers. "This is my…ah…this is Delilah."
The man looks at me. "Your Delilah. Very well. May I borrow Delilah's Aiden?"
"Lilah, we have to talk. Do you mind?" Aiden says.
"I, uh," I start.
Penny finishes. "She doesn't. Come on."
She grabs my wrist and leads me away from the men, up to the third floor.
"Are you his girlfriend?" she asks me when we reach the top.
Man of the House Page 9
