Best Kept Secret

by Skye Warren

  “Worse, like…sex. The auction was two days ago, right?”

  “Right, but he hasn’t done that yet.”

  “He hasn’t touched you?” She sounds incredulous.

  “He’s touched me.” I feel my cheeks flame with the memory of his touch, the memory of his tongue. “But he hasn’t taken my virginity. And the way he talks about it…it scares me. Like he’s planning to make it awful. Is that crazy?”

  I want her to tell me that’s crazy, that a man like Gabriel Miller wouldn’t resort to that. That it would be too cruel, too kinky, too something to be real.

  “It makes sense,” she says, musing. “How much did your dad steal from him?”

  “I don’t know.” A lot. More than I can ever repay, even with the money from the auction—which came from him, anyway. “And it’s more the principle of it. He has a thing about people who lie.”

  “Really? Well, do you think you can get him to talk? If he has a thing about lying, he might be honest with you.”

  I’m not sure if it would be better or worse to know he has something awful planned for me. “I can try. But look, I need you to be honest with me. People say it hurts, the first time. Does it?”

  “I think everyone is probably different,” she says, but she’s hedging.

  “Harper.”

  “My first time was with the gardener. I was fourteen. He was nineteen.”

  I wince because I didn’t know that about her. It’s a pretty big age difference. “Wow.”

  “I bled so much my mom gave me this awkward talk about what periods are while she was stoned out of her mind. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d gotten my period a year ago.”

  My heart clenches. “Oh, sweetie.”

  “Here’s what I think you should do. When you think he’s going to do it, take a pill. Or have a drink. Something to dull the edge, you know?”

  Despite my growing fear of actual penetration, I crack a smile. “I already tried that. The first night. He ended up tucking me into bed.”

  “That’s pretty sweet for a motherfucker.”

  “Yeah.” My smile fades. “He can be sweet one minute. Then the next he’s dismissing me from the room, telling me he’ll call me when he wants to use me. His actual words: use me.”

  She makes an outraged sound. “Who does he think he is?”

  “My owner.” At least for the next twenty-eight days.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I don’t have to wait long to find out when he plans to use me.

  After my phone call with Harper, I leave my room and wander the large hallways, peeking into empty rooms as if one of them will hold the key to unlock Gabriel Miller. As if he’s storing all his secrets in some kind of trophy room, ideally with neon arrows and handy signage to point me in the right direction.

  All I find are endless corridors of comfortable, expensive rooms—sitting rooms, bedrooms. How many people can this place actually hold? There’s also a movie room with three small rows of leather chairs and a screen that takes up an entire wall. A large gym with a sauna attached. There’s even a small art gallery on the top floor featuring some estate pieces, some local artists, and a particularly gorgeous Sargent painting of a woman by a piano.

  I manage to avoid his office, the open door allowing his voice to carry as he speaks on the phone.

  Only one room is a mystery. Locked.

  The brass knob doesn’t turn. The rooms were filled with antique furniture and sculptures. Even the priceless paintings in the art gallery hadn’t been locked.

  At the end of my exploration I don’t know that much more about Gabriel than when I started. And my feet are aching. It takes me another fifteen minutes before I can even find my room.

  When I get there, I see a tray with lunch and another note scrawled in his square, careless script.

  We’re going out at seven. Your clothes are in the closet.

  I feel like I’m on a scavenger hunt as I peek into the closet. Hanging in front of my clothes is a black vinyl bag, floor-length. I zip it open and gasp. A stunning Oscar de la Renta dress made of some kind of white sheer fabric, layered to produce a wide skirt that ends midcalf. Flecks of gold center around the waist, making the whole thing look like a sculpture. And that’s when it’s still flat in the bag. I can only imagine how it will look when it’s on.

  On a little island in the closet there’s a black box that contains champagne-gold peep-toe Jimmy Choos. A small velvet box contains a delicate gold bangle inlaid with pearl.

  Mercy.

  Daddy was always generous with my allowance. And I realized from a young age that my appearance reflected on him. If I showed up at a society event in a clearance-rack dress, everyone would whisper that he must be struggling. Until six months ago I was able to walk into any store and pull out my American Express.

  This dress, though. It isn’t the kind of dress that you can buy off the rack. This is a dress that you need a connection to get. A connection and very large sums of money.

  This is a red-carpet dress.

  Where the hell is he taking me?

  At seven o’clock sharp he knocks on my bedroom door. I spent the past hour putting makeup on and taking it off, thinking it’s too much or too little. I need Candy to prepare me for this, but she was only my fairy godmother for the ball. I have to figure this out for myself.

  I settled on thick loose curls for my hair and a classic red lipstick.

  When I open the door, he does this little shake of his head as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s the dress of course: subtle yet stunning, intricate yet simple. Even knowing that, I can’t help the blush that colors my cheeks.

  He pauses, taking me in from head to toe. “The dress suits you.”

  “Thank you.” Of course he looks ridiculously handsome in a tux that was no doubt tailored to him, but I’m not going to admit that. “You’re looking sharp.”

  He gives me the barest of smiles. “I try.”

  “Where are we going?”

  It’s wrong to be excited about this. It isn’t a date! I have to keep reminding myself of that, because it feels like one. Especially when he says, “We could go downstairs and play a match.”

  Chess. Leverage. There’s a strange longing to play with him, to wear the prettiest dress I’ve ever worn while I play my favorite game in a beautiful library. That would be the perfect date. With the wrong man.

  I’d give anything to play another game with my daddy.

  Gabriel made sure that would never happen again. No, he’s not getting my mind. He paid for my body. I shake my head.

  “Ah,” he says as if that was expected. “In that case, we’ll go to the theater.”

  Oh, I love the theater. I manage not to bounce on my heels. “What are we seeing?”

  “My Fair Lady.”

  The story is based on Pygmalion, the myth of a sculptor who fell in love with his art. The gods granted him his wish, turning marble into flesh. “I didn’t realize it was touring.”

  His expression seems brooding. Does he see the symmetry between us? The man with all the power. The woman made real by his love for her? Of course he doesn’t love me. And more importantly, he isn’t changing me in any way. Except sexually.

  “Opening night,” he says.

  My stomach drops. Opening night. A regular theater night, it would be easy to get lost in the crowd of people. We would find our seats, the lights would lower. We’d watch the show side by side in the dark. But opening night is another beast entirely. Usually the seats are claimed by season pass holders, if there are any left after the high level donors have claimed theirs. Or they make them available for a higher price, invite only, with the proceeds going to charity. However it’s done, a few things hold true: only the most rich and powerful people will be attending. And there will most definitely be drinks and mingling before the show starts.

  He isn’t taking me to the theater so that we can enjoy ourselves. This isn’t a pretend date where we both
act like he isn’t paying for the pleasure of my company. This is a show, an example, as surely as my father’s demise. I’m going to be put on display, a bird in a gilded cage.

  “I see,” I say, my voice flat.

  He looks almost regretful. “You’ll do fine.”

  His pity burns like acid. If I have to be trapped in this cage, if I’m going to be forced to sing, I’m going to sound beautiful doing it. Somehow I smile. “Of course.”

  I hold his arm as he escorts me downstairs, as if I’m not heading to the guillotine. I find a bland expression for the limo ride to the theater, as if my heart isn’t beating a million times a minute. There are going to be so many people there. The men Daddy was friends with. They all know what Gabriel Miller did to my father. What will they think about seeing me with him?

  Some of them will know about the auction.

  Then a worse thought strikes me. Some of them could have attended the auction.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The whispers start as soon as we walk into the room.

  They follow us as we pause for pictures at the step and repeat backdrop at the end of the carpet—not actually red but purple instead. They follow us up the grand staircase. They follow us to the drink station where Gabriel asks for a glass of champagne for me and a whiskey neat for himself.

  “I could have wanted a whiskey,” I mutter, more because I need to fight back. And I can’t yell at the old women to stop pointing at me, can’t scream at the men to stop staring at my ass.

  “I’ve seen you drunk,” Gabriel says mildly. “No whiskey.”

  Yes, and that’s probably not something we need to repeat in public. I can’t deny that I’d love some oblivion right now, though, because I see several of my father’s friends approaching. One owns a large housing development corporation, the other a manufacturing plant for tampons, of all things. I only ever see them together. Daddy played poker with them all the time.

  They smile genially as the bartender finishes our drinks. “Miller! Great to see you here.”

  Gabriel hands me a flute, and I take a fortifying sip—then scrunch my nose as the bubbles tickle me from the inside. I hear the amusement in Gabriel’s voice as he says, “You too, Bernard. How’s work been treating you?”

  “Very stiff,” he says solemnly. “But we have plans to expand.”

  Do not laugh, Avery. I manage to keep a straight face as he turns to me.

  “And how has school been treating you? Are you still on leave to help your father?”

  Technically my absence is being recorded as leave by the school, but everyone knows I have no means to go back. And I’m standing here beside Gabriel Miller, which shows exactly how academic my life has become. Even the auction won’t be enough to send me back to Smith College, once the house and my father’s caregivers are covered.

  “Yes,” I say, keeping my voice polite and distant. “He’s doing very well.”

  “Good, good,” the other man says. “I hope we can resume our poker games soon.”

  I want to punch him in the face, because it’s clearly a lie. He was one of the first men to stop answering Daddy’s phone calls once the scandal broke. And even if Daddy were able to sit upright at a poker table, he wouldn’t have anything to gamble. This is the kind of bullshit that I always hated, but it strikes a little harder when it’s directed at my family.

  “Of course,” I say, teeth clenched. Apparently that’s become my go-to answer when what I really want to say is go to hell, asshole.

  Gabriel smiles as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. There’s something I want to show Ms. James.”

  A firm hand on my lower back guides me deeper toward the atrium. We’re not even two feet away when I hear those bastards snickering about the things Gabriel Miller is going to show me.

  “I hate them,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

  Gabriel pulls me along, his voice almost droll as he adds, “Fucking brownnosers.”

  I glance at him in surprise. “I thought they were your friends.”

  “They’re not anybody’s friends. If your father thought otherwise, that was his mistake.”

  My jaw clenches hard because he’s right. I hate that he’s right.

  Damon Scott breaks from a group of men and lopes over to us, all casual confidence. He’s wearing a different three-piece suit, this one with tiny gold fleurs-de-lis stitched into the blue fabric. “Good evening. And here I thought to worry about you, Ms. James. But you look radiant.”

  Radiant? I manage a thin smile. “Thank you.”

  Damon leans close. “How is Gabriel treating you? Tell me honestly.”

  The sparkle in his eye says it’s more filthy curiosity than concern for me. Gabriel makes a low growling noise that has Damon chuckling. They’re sharks, I realize. Sharp teeth. A taste for blood. And I’m wounded.

  “Is Candy here?” I ask, hoping Ivan Tabakov likes the theater. I could use more of her advice. These men might be sharks, but she’s learned how to tame them.

  “No,” Damon says with a smirk. “I think this is past her bedtime.”

  A woman waved to Gabriel—a tall and leggy blonde I didn’t recognize. I wanted to think her makeup was trashy or her dress too revealing, but she looked perfect. I hated that Gabriel gave us a curt, “Excuse me a moment,” before going to speak with her.

  I tried not to shoot daggers with my eyes. I had no right to be jealous. No desire to be jealous. This was a business arrangement, however cold that felt.

  “So how is he really treating you?” Damon asks, his voice mild.

  “Fine,” I say tightly, pretending not to watch the way the woman touches Gabriel’s arm. I look up at the balcony instead, catching a few people staring at me.

  “Don’t tell me I need to ride to your rescue. I’d hate to have to return my percentage of the money. And my armor is all rusty.”

  My laugh feels raw, my eyes strangely stinging. “No, I’m fine. I guess I should thank you. If you hadn’t done all that I’d have lost my family’s house.”

  He ducks his head, looking almost boyish. “I’d say anytime, but I guess we already popped the cork on that champagne bottle.”

  A startled laugh bursts out of me. What a comparison. If I had to be champagne at least I’m a bottle of Moët et Chandon, the kind Daddy got for my graduation party.

  Of course, technically the cork hasn’t popped.

  My cheeks heat with the realization. “Right.”

  “I have to admit I was a bit nervous when Gabriel suggested the auction. And definitely when he bid on you. But it seems like it’s working out.”

  Why was he nervous about me with Gabriel? Another head turns in my direction, only to quickly look away when we make eye contact. “Everyone’s staring at me.”

  He scans the room. “To be fair, they’d do that for anyone on Gabriel’s arm.”

  “But they know. At least some of them have to know about the auction. So many people were there. And that’s not even counting the pictures.”

  He quirks a brow. “Pictures?”

  “You know, the pictures you took to generate interest for the auction. The photographer at the Den.”

  There’s a long pause where he looks quizzical. He speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “There weren’t any pictures, Ms. James. Gabriel said you bailed on him, that you couldn’t go through with the shoot. Is that true?”

  My heart thuds, a worried beat. Why did he lie? No one saw those pictures. I try to keep the relief from my face. No one except for Gabriel Miller. “Yes.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up. “No, I guess I’m not worried about you.”

  Just then Gabriel returns to us, his mouth set in a hard line.

  Damon takes the opportunity to slip away, giving us a jovial wave. “Now I have more people to talk to, more men who desperately want to part with their money.”

  He strides away, waving to another group of people. He’s clearly using this evening for
business. Is that what Gabriel is doing? Except he doesn’t seem interested in talking to anyone but me. And he lied about the pictures.

  “If you want to mingle, you don’t have to take me along,” I say.

  He cocks his brow. “Why would I want to mingle?”

  “I don’t know. Business.” A shrug. “For the same reason Damon’s here.”

  “He’s here because he’s lusting after a certain dancer in the show. And I don’t do business at the theater.”

  “Where do you do business, then? A back alley?”

  As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I could take them back. That’s not an arrow I meant to fling. And no one gets away with insulting Gabriel Miller like that.

  He laughs softly. “What makes you think I’m a criminal?”

  But then this is Gabriel Miller, who values honesty above everything. And I remember what Harper told me, that he would be honest with me too. He might evade the question, he might refuse to answer, but whatever he said would be the truth.

  “You’re friends with Damon Scott.”

  “Ah, that.”

  “And you’re a member of the Den.”

  “A founding member, actually,” he says. “But your father did business with me. How bad can I be?”

  His tone is blithe because we both know that my father was involved in a lot of underhanded dealings. I’d never have guessed it, but it all came out in court. The bribes, the dummy corporations. God. Of course Gabriel Miller managed to keep his name completely out of court documents, only supplying the evidence that the prosecutor needed to begin his investigation.

  I take a step forward, moving out of range of his hand. Then I turn to the window, looking out over the city. A storm has crept across the skyscrapers, catching the spires and stair-step slopes in its gray net. It will be raining by the time we leave.

  “I buy and sell things,” he finally says. “Like most businesses do.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Other businesses, mostly.”

  But not entirely. “Drugs. Guns?”

  “If the money is right, anything is for sale.”