Icy Pretty Love

by L. A. Rose

  “Let me show you.”

  And he does show me. He lifts me up and carries me into the kitchen, sitting me on top of the table. He pushes my dress up as high as it will go, and begins to bend down.

  “You’re going to eat me out here?” I laugh.

  “What else are you supposed to do in the kitchen?” he asks wickedly.

  He’s got a point there. But I forget about it as soon as his tongue finds me. I let my head fall back, breathing heavily.

  “You taste delicious,” he murmurs into me.

  I want to say something back, but he finds my clit and then I can’t say anything.

  It doesn’t take long for him to drag a moan out of me that rises into a cry as I explode. I curl over onto him, against his back, panting.

  He leans forward and breaths into my ear. "Thank you."

  "No," I manage, still utterly out of breath. "I should be the one saying thank you."

  "I mean..." He hesitates. "Thank you. For saying what needed to be said. Earlier."

  "Ah. Right."

  "For a long time, I felt that I had no need to try and stop, as long as I could still function normally during the day."

  I doubt the way Cohen acts—or used to act—during the day could be categorized under normal functioning, but I don't say anything.

  His mouth still close to my ear, he says, "But now I feel like I have a reason. So thank you."

  "Careful," I say, to cover up the fact that his words went straight to my heart. "Those aren't the words of someone just in this for the sex."

  "Aren't they?" he says quietly, and then rolls over, so all I can see of him is his back.

  "Renard!" I yell into the hallway through the crack in the door. "I need your advice again."

  A bald, butler-esque sigh echoes outside the apartment. "Yes, miss."

  I push the door open wider. "What do you think about this dress instead? It's pink."

  "I believe the term for that particular shade is peach, miss."

  "Do I want to look like a fruit? No. Just tell me if you like this one or the green one better."

  He studies me for a moment, and I'm gratified to see a glint of actual consideration in his eyes instead of the usual exasperation. "The green, miss."

  "Oh, God damn it, I refuse to change for the millionth time tonight. I'm wearing the pink. Er, plum."

  "Peach, miss. And why ask for my advice if you're not going to use it?"

  "Renard, when a lady asks you which piece of clothing she should wear, she wants to be told that she looks amazing in both. That way she can choose for herself and feel good either way." I lean on the door frame, the fabric of the dress rustling.

  "Of course, miss." Renard dabs at his scalp with a handkerchief.

  The LeCrues are having a giant rich-people party in their fancy French mansion tonight, and we're all invited. Well, Renard isn't, sadly enough. I'll bring him back a truffle or two. No, it's just Cohen and I tonight, adrift in a sea of absurdly expensive clothes and flutes filled with champagne made of golden grapes grown in Cupid's asscrack. Nothing less for the upper echelon of society.

  Cohen's already there. He went early to talk shop with the older LeCrue. Apparently, now that Cohen and I have been engaged for a full three weeks with no sign of me running for the hills or hiring a body double to take my place, he's getting closer and closer to selling. Tonight means making nice with his crazy son and daughter-in-law, and if that gets Cohen his life's goal, then I'm willing.

  It also means I get to stuff myself with the world's fanciest appetizers, but I barely thought about that at all. Naturally.

  "The car is waiting, miss," says Renard, inching further and further down the hallway as if he hopes to escape my general aura of fabulousness. As if that could ever happen. The world is encased in it.

  I snatch my funny little clutch purse off the table, lock the door behind me, and plant a lipsticky kiss on Renard's cheek, pulling back to admire the mark. "That is some fabulous pink lip-shaped handiwork."

  "Peach, miss," he sighs, wiping away my art with his handkerchief.

  Nerves flutter in my stomach all the way to the party. This will be my first time seeing Annabelle since our bizarre disagreement. I haven't forgotten that she promised to dig into my identity, either, and it hasn't stopped stressing me out. Even though Ashworth Sr. swore he'd covered his tracks, there's something about Annabelle that makes me think she could sniff out a snowflake with five prongs in a blizzard of six-pronged flakes. I'll have to be on my top game tonight.

  One more week and I'll be home free.

  Although that thought doesn't give me the same solace it used to. Now it's followed by a mean little voice in my ear:

  One more week and you'll never see Cohen again.

  The thought ties my stomach in knots. Who's going to make sure he stays on track? I'll have to talk to Renard. Maybe the man will be willing to start sleeping in Cohen's bed every night, in my place. I can only imagining how threatening that shiny bald dome must look in the moonlight. Definitely an efficient drugs-deterrent.

  I have about half an hour to worry about it before we get to the mansion. I immediately understand how much LeCrue's company must be worth, and why Cohen wants it so badly. Only someone who'd sold their soul to the devil, or to the gods of ludicrous amounts of money, could afford a mansion like this. It seems to go on for miles, with an emerald-green lawn peppered with naked statues and perfectly circular fish ponds. On the massive porch, I can see people milling about, men in suits and women in gowns, chatting in what's doubtlessly elegant French that I won't understand.

  I close my eyes, and when I open them again, I'm Georgette Montgomery. I tuck my purse under my arm and get out of the car.

  If you look like you belong, no one will question you. I could be sneaking into this party and nobody would notice, thanks to my designer heels. Even though I was invited, it still feels like I'm sneaking in. I guess because Georgette Montgomery was invited. Rae Grove was not.

  I meander around, trying to look composed while also searching for Cohen. No sight of him yet.

  A distinguished-looking older gentleman with a mustache that could make Santa Claus jealous taps my arm to get my attention and says something in French. I put my hand in front of my mouth and feign embarrassment.

  "I'm so sorry, sir, but my grasp of French is admittedly weak."

  "No problem, no problem whatsoever," he says, switching to English immediately with an accent like heavy cream. "I merely asked if the young lady had sampled any of the stuffed olives yet this evening. They're to die for."

  "Not yet, but I most certainly will," I promise.

  He puts out a hand. "Jean.”

  "Georgette Montgomery," I say, shaking his hand gingerly.

  His eyes grow so wide I'm worried they might pop out. "Surely not the same Georgette Montgomery engaged to our Cohen Ashworth?"

  I try not to laugh. I didn't know he was anyone's Cohen Ashworth. "Yes, the very same! Do you know my fiancé?"

  "He hasn't mentioned me? I grew up with his father. Good friends, good friends. I've known the boy since he was small. The whole family. His mother too." His face falls. "Dreadful business. Dreadful..."

  I'm not sure how to navigate these waters, so I default to a demure silence. After a moment, he gathers himself. "But how lovely to finally meet you! I must confess, dear, I've wondered and wondered about the type of person you must be. Cohen is, after all, not known for his geniality." He lets out a booming laugh.

  I mirror it with a tinkling one, bat my eyes, and look down. "He's always been very kind to me."

  "As well he should be. You seem the type to inspire kindness. Ah, there he is now! Cohen, I was just introducing myself to your darling fiancé..."

  "Were you?" asks Cohen dryly, magically appearing at my side. He twirls a champagne flute in one hand and gives my wrist a gentle squeeze. A tension I hadn't known was there bleeds out of me. His presence alone puts me at ease.

  "Hello, dear
est." I peck him on the check. Jean finds this highly charming.

  "Public displays of affection, no less! Cohen, you've managed to find a pretty girl and not scare her off. A miracle I never thought I'd witness."

  Familiar storm clouds gather on Cohen's forehead, but I nudge his arm with my elbow. He clears his throat. The ghost of a smile appears on his face. "I guess you're right. I never thought it'd happen either."

  He turns to me, as if to pull me in on the joke. But all I feel is vaguely uneasy. He knows he's paying me for this act. Does he really believe no girl will stomach him?

  I loop my arm through his and say firmly, "Cohen is one of the nicest people I know.”

  "You must not have met many people then!" Jean laughs. But he pats Cohen's arm. "I'm just teasing. You know I'm happy for you. Tell your lovely fiancé to go try the mussels, they're fresh as fresh can be. Oh! Is that you, Berdite?”

  He bustles off to greet some other unsuspecting lady. I glance up at Cohen. "Seen Claude or Annabelle yet?"

  He jerks his chin in response. I follow the direction. Annabelle's in the far corner of the immense...living room? Ballroom? I don't know what to call it. She has a champagne flute in one hand, and the other moves animatedly while she talks. She looks happy. In her element. Whereas I'm a fish so far out of water I might as well be in space.

  "I should go talk to her," he says.

  "No. Why?"

  He shrugs tiredly. "Keep her from going after you any more than she already has."

  I shake my head. "That's a bad idea. Let me handle things. I doubt she wants to hear anything from you, to be honest."

  "Few people do," he agrees.

  "Where's Mr. LeCrue?"

  "Over by the fountain. He's supposed to make an announcement at the end of the evening."

  For the first time, I notice that Cohen's been clenching and unclenching one hand. There's an unsettled tilt to his expression.

  I frown. "This going to sound crazy, but you're not...?"

  "What?" He glances down at me, then laughs. "Now? No. I'm not that much of an idiot. I'm just nervous, is all. It's possible that LeCrue will be announcing the sale of his company to me tonight. He always did love the grand gestures."

  "Tonight! Really?" I exclaim.

  "Keep your voice down. I'm not supposed to know."

  "Cohen, that's great!"

  "I think he's been wanting to sell it to me for a while now." He looks down at his hands. "It would be placing a great deal of trust in me. He wanted some sort of sign that I was capable of shouldering the burden. That I'd changed. You were that sign."

  "Maybe," I agree. "Or maybe it's just the influence of my aura of awesomeness."

  But Cohen doesn't smile. "It's a lie, though. I haven't changed. I'm tricking the old man."

  "Hey. No." I grab his wrist. "You have changed. You're completely different from the person I met three weeks ago. You're nicer. Warmer. And you promised to stop—that habit."

  "It doesn't matter," he says. "It's still all a lie."

  And then he realize—he means me. I'm the lie. The us that LeCrue is banking on—it's all a lie. Whether we're having sex or not.

  I force a smile. "It's an expensive lie, so be sure to take advantage of it, okay?"

  "An expensive lie," he repeats.

  "Yup."

  "It's just odd," he says. "The idea that that's all you're supposed to be to me."

  I blink. "What do you mean by that?"

  Am I something more to you?

  But he shakes his head and pulls away. "You really should go have some of the mussels. I doubt you remembered to eat before you left."

  And then he's disappearing into the crowd.

  I head in the direction of the mussels, but I bypass them, which is a miracle in and of itself. Instead, I walk all along the food table until I'm at the edge of the small circle surrounding Annabelle.

  She's joking in high-speed French, illustrating her story with elaborate hand gestures and facial expressions. She stops talking, the laughter rising up like she wanted it to, and then she sees me. Her smile dips, and an odd expression crosses her face. If I didn't know better, I'd call it guilt.

  "Hello, Annabelle," I say politely. "Could we talk for a moment?"

  "Of course, darling, of course." And she lets me take her by the arm and lead her to a quieter section of the floor.

  "Listen," I say finally, when we're far enough away. But I'm not sure what to follow it up with. Neither is she, by the look of it. She's fidgeting like a little girl, toying with a perfect lock of the blonde hair looped over her shoulder.

  "I did look into you," she says suddenly, in a quiet rush.

  The skin on the back of my neck goes cold. I can't tell anything by her tone. I keep mine level. "What did you find out?"

  "That you're a perfectly nice girl with a perfectly nice background." She keeps her gaze pointed guiltily downward. "I...I'm sorry I told you that lie, Georgette. And I know you have no reason to believe an apology of mine would be genuine, but to the best of my ability, it is. I can promise that."

  The relief surges up so fiercely that I could hug her. Or anyone. "Don't worry about it, Annabelle."

  "It's just..." She sighs hard. "I really did...care about him. In my own way. But he pushed me away, however hard I tried, and when I learned that the girl who had managed to make it into his heart was so unassuming—I don't mean to offend—it infuriated me. Embittered me. Claude was the one who asked me to lie, the idiot, thinking it would scare you off and make LeCrue reconsider the sale of the company, but when I agreed, I wasn't thinking of that. Petty vengeance was what it was."

  She says it all quickly, like if she slows down the words will gum up and stay stuck inside her forever.

  "We all make mistakes,” I say. “I know I have."

  "It was phenomenally stupid," she adds. "Really just unfiltered idiocy—"

  "You apologized, okay? You don't have to beat yourself up anymore," I laugh. "Though it really was rather stupid."

  "You saw through it, though. Impressive, that. I've always been a dishonest person and I suppose it helps to see through lies when you don't often tell them yourself." She cracks a small smile.

  I wince. "Uh, yeah. That's me. Honesty all the way."

  She puts out a delicate hand, determined. "All that said, I truly hope we can be friends after all."

  "Of course," I say. In a week, I'll never see her again. Regret twinges in my stomach. Annabelle certainly would have been an interesting person to get to know.

  "What a relief that is, to say it all out loud!" She fans herself like we're out in the hot sun. "Confessions from the heart do make one hungry. Claude's been making comments about my waistline..."

  "Truly?" I say, outraged. Annabelle's waist is practically as narrow as my clutch purse.

  "...which is an excellent reason to eat as much as I can manage tonight."

  She waves and heads off toward the food. I want to follow her, but my stomach seems to have been filled with knots. Annabelle thinks I'm honest. What a joke. She's wrong—the people who are really good at seeing through lies are the ones that tell them, day in and day out.

  A high tinkling noise cuts through the French chatter. It's LeCrue, standing tall in a midnight suit, tapping a silver spoon against a crystal glass. He says something in French and then repeats in English, "If I could have everyone's attention, please..."

  Heads swivel toward him. He speaks in French long enough to make my eyes glaze over, but follows it up with, "I'll be repeating myself tonight, I'm afraid, for the sake of those in the room with a poorer grasp of the romantic's tongue. Specifically, I'm thinking of the fiancé of the man whom my announcement this evening concerns."

  He inclines his glass to me. Well, it's nice to be acknowledged as probably the only person here who doesn't speak two languages.

  He goes on in French for a while, clears his throat, and then says in English, "Most of you have in all probability met young Cohen Ashworth,
the son and protégé of my childhood friend. Most of you probably regret it."

  There are several chuckles. I look around and find Cohen smiling wryly.

  "Despite what many have described as a sharp tongue, I've always known him to be brilliant, daring, and creative in his business proposals. As a man getting older, I can't help but look to the future of my company, one born in a different age and therefore, some may say, maladapted to this one. But I believe the right person, with the right ideas, could bring it to the helm again."

  The old man's eyes are shining. I glance past Cohen and spot Claude, fuming in the corner with his tie disarranged. As I watch, he knocks back a full glass of wine, the first time I've seen a Parisian do anything of the sort. The French drink, but they don't get drunk.

  "Cohen Ashworth," LeCrue says, switching fully to English. "Please step forward."

  The crowd parts, and Cohen walks forward to stand next to LeCrue, his face betraying no sign of anxiety or excitement. There's only the proud angle of his shoulders and cool calculation in his eyes. I'm suddenly overwhelmed with my own sense of pride, and I don't know why. He's not mine. He never will be.

  LeCrue turns to face him, his voice growing quieter. In order to hear, I have to sneak forward and wedge myself between a tall woman in electric green and a short man in fuchsia.

  "I have always thought of you as a son to me," says LeCrue. "I know you have faced challenges. I have worried at times, Cohen. But you have proven to me that you've become a man I can truly be proud of. A man who will make an excellent husband, and - one can hope - father, someday."

  He gestures toward me again, and I smile weakly. I try to picture Cohen in a tuxedo in a church, or on a living room floor, surrounded by baby toys. I expect it to be impossible, but I'm unnerved at how easily the images come to me.

  People are smiling at me now, and I attempt to summon the proper loving blush. But it's hard. It's hard because all of these people are believing in a fairy tale that never existed.

  "So," LeCrue says, his voice growing louder again, "I have decided to put you at the helm of my company, Cohen Ashworth, as a sign of my deep trust in you."

  There's a smattering of applause that drowns out the delicate tinking in the back of the room. I look over my shoulder. Claude has broken the glass in his hand, and a waiter is fussing over him, but he's too busy staring at Cohen with pure hatred to pay the man any attention.