“Yeah, so here’s the thing,” I say, clearing my throat. “I kind of miss you smothering me. What if you just forget this pixie stuff and come to Vegas?”
“I can’t do that.”
I study the tile. “You could though.”
Since June, Rafe has been with me constantly. I didn’t realize I’d miss him, but I do.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” he says gently. “And I wish I could be there for you, but this is for the best. I trust the team to take care of you. I, however, don’t trust myself.”
And for the first time, I get it. This Obsidian magic is a heavy burden.
“Be careful, okay?”
“You too,” he says. “Don’t have too much fun.”
“I’m going to a fashion expo. What’s fun about that?”
With a laugh, he says goodbye, and we hang up. And here I am in the empty bathroom, staring at the floor, feeling more alone than ever.
A few seconds later, my phone vibrates with a text. I open it, and a smile creeps over my face. Rafe sent me a cat GIF.
I’m just trying to decide if I’m going to send one back when there’s a knock at the bathroom door.
“You have your own bathroom, Jonathan,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “I don’t have to share this trip.”
“I have coffee,” he says.
Setting my phone aside, I slowly open the door. I’m so uncomfortable; I can’t even look him in the eye, so I go back to the mirror and do damage control on the mascara smudges.
Thank goodness it’s not too bad. I’ll go for a smoky look with a little extra eyeshadow and call it good. The blueish smudges under my eyes are a different story, however. No amount of concealer is going to hide those bags—not that it matters since my good stuff was destroyed in the fire anyway.
I really need to get some sleep.
Jonathan sets the white paper cup in front of me. “Latte with an extra shot and a touch of raw sugar.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and my stomach twists.
The knight gives me a smile, but it’s sad around the edges. All I want to do is press myself against him, hold him like there’s nothing keeping us apart. Why couldn’t I be a normal Fox? The kind of Fox who could fall for her Griffon teammate. The kind who’s despised because people worry she’s going to swipe their wallet and not because they think she’s going to take over the world.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking a sip of the drink.
It’s perfect. As usual.
“Are you ready?” he asks. “We need to get going.”
I glance in the mirror, checking my makeup one last time.
“You look great,” he says quietly.
Again, our eyes lock.
“Jonathan—” I say at the same time he says, “Listen.”
“You go first.” I turn, needing to look at him even if it’s painful.
“I know we have something here,” he says, his dark eyes on mine. “And I am also quite confident in my skills as a professional knight marshal. But…I’ve been thinking most of the night about what you said, and I realized you’re right.”
Wait. What?
What?
“My duty is to protect you. If we were together, that would be a distraction.” He looks away. “I should have noticed something was amiss with Will while we were at the mansion—I should have picked up on the clues, but instead, I was too busy looking at you. I put you and the team in danger because of my negligence. And the humans…” He shakes his head, looking ill.
This is not at all how this was supposed to go. And the massacre wasn’t Jonathan’s fault—it was mine.
“We weren’t trying to find Trent,” I argue. “We were looking for a murderess.”
“But that’s the problem. I should have been looking for Trent as well. We knew he wasn’t going to give up that easily. And sweetheart, I guarantee he’s watching you still.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“So we agree,” he says, his tone sounding awfully final.
This is good, isn’t it? It’s what I wanted.
My throat begins to close, and I look away. “Yes.”
Standing next to me, he places his hand on my shoulder. It’s warm, comforting, and completely platonic. “We leave in two minutes, okay?”
Nodding, I pick up my coffee and take a sip, hiding all these stupid, messy feelings behind the cup. “Thanks again for this.”
“Always.”
He leaves, and I stare at my tired reflection in the mirror.
We flash our staff badges to the security outside the convention hall, and the smiling man points to the director of Men’s Casualwear. I blink several times, completely starstruck. Sean Luka Don Patrick is six-foot-two inches of masculine fabulousness.
And though the glorious sights of clothing, shoes, makeup, and accessories galore are completely enrapturing, Sean Luka steals all my attention. He spots us and walks our way. I watch him, my heart beating faster as he approaches.
“Are those men’s pants?” Eric asks Jonathan under his breath. “Surely he stole those from his sister.”
“Eric!” I hiss.
My eyes rapidly dart over the man’s outfit as he approaches, taking in all the details. He’s in a navy dress shirt, with the top three buttons undone to show off the dusting of hair along his lean chest. His pants are slim fit, ankle cropped trousers in gray with the slightest hint of a silver sheen, and for shoes he opted for a more casual Derby instead of an Oxford in a sable brown. He wears a simple watch in a matching shade of brown leather on his wrist, and the tether of his staff badge hangs from his front pocket—shamelessly declaring he knows he looks good, and he doesn’t have to try.
He used to model, back when he was young, but now he’s in his mid-thirties and designs. Apparently, he is also the director of Men’s Casualwear. And if he’s here, that means his wife is likely here as well. And I won’t embarrass myself by gushing, but let’s just say I’m a big, big fan of Georgette Don Patrick’s designs.
“You must be Jonathan,” Sean Luka says as he approaches, offering his hand. “And this is your team? Eric and…” His eyes move to me, and he gives me a crooked grin. “Madeline?”
Jonathan and Eric both shake his hand, and then it’s my turn. I firmly tell myself to be cool. Do not embarrass yourself.
“Mr. Don Patrick,” I say, my voice only a touch too eager. “It’s an honor to be here.”
He cocks his head to the side, taking my offered hand, studying me with a sharp eye. “You, my dear, are lovely. Is that blouse a Carla Brixon? You look fabulous in coral.”
“It is and thank you.”
Sean Luka Don Patrick likes my blouse.
“May I formally introduce you to Madeline Bennet, Lord Bennet’s daughter,” Jonathan interrupts, looking like he doesn’t particularly care for the way the man still clings to my hand.
Wait just a minute. Sean Luka Don Patrick is Aparian?
The director’s eyes widen, and he gives me a wink. “I had no idea we’d be graced with such illustrious company. Miss Bennet, the honor is mine.”
And I can’t help myself. “Is your wife in attendance today?” I blurt out.
He glances over his shoulder, scanning the crowd of fashionable worker bees as they prep to open the expo. “She’s here somewhere.” He looks back, smiling. “Would you like to meet her?”
14
Struck positively mute, I nod.
“Let’s see if we can track her down.” Then, back to business, Sean Luka turns to Jonathan and Eric. “Our local chapter of the Knights’ Guild has assured me your team is the best in the business. I’m excited to see your work.”
He releases me and waves us forward, into the heart of the convention center. I trail like an eager-to-please puppy.
“We’ve found you a suitable wardrobe using the measurements the guild sent over,” the director says to Jonathan. “You’ll have seven wardrobe changes and stage appearances each day—nothing fussy.
The rest of the time, you’ll simply hang out in Men’s Activewear.”
“Like a living mannequin,” Eric interrupts, his tone snarky enough I notice, but not quite so over the top Sean Luka picks up on it.
“Exactly,” the director says, fully oblivious.
Jonathan flashes Eric a warning look that almost makes me laugh. In fact, I might have trouble holding it in if it weren’t for the fact that we’re passing into Women’s Eveningwear, and I have better things to dwell on. We pass through several heavy black curtains that section off the restricted area and end up in a space lit with freestanding lights so bright, they make stadium lights look puny in comparison. There are dozens upon dozens of people back here, many of them models in various states of half-dress.
I turn to the guys, ready to tell them to keep their eyes where they belong, and almost laugh out loud when I see the two of them eying the floor—both looking like they’re ready to make a hasty exit. I don’t know if it’s the hustle and bustle of rolling carts filled to the brim with gorgeous clothing, the haze of hairspray that lingers in the air, or the semi-undressed women making them uncomfortable, but it’s nice to see them out of their comfort zone for once.
But I don’t have long to enjoy it because there, in black slacks, three-inch stilettos, and a sleeveless white blouse, is Georgette Don Patrick. She’s facing a seated model, her knee casually up on a stool as she speaks with a woman next to her, gesturing toward the model almost as if giving a lesson.
When the designer sees her husband approaching, she hands the eager-to-please makeup artist the brush and shadow pallet and turns our way. She’s as beautiful as you’d expect a Peacock to be, about thirty but looking closer to twenty-five, with long blond hair in perfectly behaving waves, a simple gold tennis bracelet adorning her wrist, and a lanyard about her neck declaring her designer status—setting her apart from the flock of underlings.
“Darling,” Sean Luka says, sliding his arm around her back, “May I introduce you to Eric, Jonathan, and Madeline—Gray Tate’s team. Madeline wanted to meet you.”
The designer turns her eyes on me, and her smile grows. “Did you?”
I’ve never been one of those girls who would get all fluttery and emotional if they bumped into a hot Hollywood bad boy, but can I tell you what meeting Georgette is doing to my pulse? This woman is a genius. Several of my teen years were spent dreaming about designing, and I obsessively studied her early work.
I try my best to think of something witty and clever to say, but everything that flits through my head would make me sound like an obsessed stalker.
In the end, Georgette saves me. “Would you like to see a few pieces from the upcoming spring lineup?”
Um, yes.
“That would be great,” I say coolly, while inside, I’m squealing like a groupie.
She gestures for me to follow her. We end up in front of a rack of gowns that make me want to model so badly I can hardly see straight. I itch to touch the fabric, but I don’t dare. Georgette has none of my qualms, and she takes the pieces out and tells me about each, one by one.
“Ms. Don Patrick?” the girl Georgette was speaking with earlier says, clearing her throat, sounding like she’s reluctant to interrupt. “Do you want to check Hallie’s makeup before she goes on stage? There are some areas still giving me trouble.”
Georgette gives the girl a soft smile, slips the gown back on the hanger, and waves me forward as if I should come along.
“Poor girl,” Georgette whispers so only I can hear, subtly motioning to the waiting model. “Had her magic swiped last week—she must have cried for three days straight.”
I snap my attention forward, scrutinizing the sitting woman. She still has her height, her bone structure, and her lithe figure, but there is something a little off about her. There’s the slightest hint of a shadow under her eyes, and a tiny blemish mars her jaw. No human would ever notice—but a Peacock is perfection in the flesh.
“She’s still modeling?” I ask.
Georgette hums. “She’s quite pretty, even if not as stunning as she was, and we don’t have a choice—we need these girls.” When we reach the model, Georgette offers her a warm smile. “You look lovely.”
The woman looks down, staring at her hands.
Georgette scrutinizes her, pursing her lips. “Your skin’s a bit blotchy though.”
The designer turns to the nearby table and pokes through a collection of cosmetics, tiny tubs of creams, and various bottles of lotions and sprays. Finding what she’s looking for, she ever-so-carefully dabs thick cream under the model’s eyes.
“Have you tried this?” she says to me absently, handing me the nearly empty tub when she’s finished. “It’s amazing.”
I take the jar, glance at the label—it’s a brand called Chaletta—and then sniff it. The cream has a pleasant scent, though I can’t place it. Something floral maybe. Kind of sweet. “I think I saw it in a magazine last week,” I tell her. “You like it?”
“Oh, yes.” Georgette goes back to the table and chooses a loose powder and brush. “Try some if you like—the company is one of our sponsors.”
I turn to a mirror and frown at my reflection. The skin under my eyes is several shades darker than the model’s. I wonder if this is Georgette’s subtle way of telling me I need a little help. I swipe a tiny spoon from the collection on the table and dip into the remaining cream, taking out a pea-sized amount.
It’s cool against my skin, as soothing as a spa treatment.
After I’m finished, I turn back to Georgette, who’s just finishing up with the model’s makeup.
“What do you think?” Georgette asks the woman, holding up a hand mirror.
The Peacock sighs, apparently pleased with her reflection. “Thank you so much, Georgette.” She motions toward the makeup and the cream. “Where can I buy all that?”
I let out a little breathy gasp when Georgette lowers the mirror, revealing the Peacock. The dark circles are gone, and the blemish has disappeared. The model looks as amazing as a model should.
Georgette laughs at the look on my face and points at the tub of cream. “I told you. Good, right? Supposedly, there are rare Tasmanian botanicals in there, but I think the immediate brightening effect is thanks to microscopic mica particles that catch the light.”
“Huh,” I so brilliantly say, looking at the miracle-working cream with new interest.
“There’s not much left, but take it with you if you’d like,” the designer says, waving her hand. “I have plenty.”
I glance back in the mirror. Sadly, I don’t look like a model, but I do believe my under-eye skin tone appears a little more even. “Thanks,” I say, dropping the tub into my purse.
A man with a massive watch and a scowl announces it’s time to begin the next stage show, and Georgette leads me back to Jonathan and Eric.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I tell her, reluctant to leave. Just give me a headset and clipboard, and I’ll stay right here.
Sadly, even if Georgette went for it, the guys certainly wouldn’t—thank you very much, Trent.
“All right,” Sean Luka says when I return. “Let’s get Jonathan to wardrobe.”
I give the Griffon an encouraging smile, but he only shakes his head, looking like he wishes some other team had been saddled with this case.
Just as we reach the geometric black arch that proudly proclaims we’ve arrived in the men's area, a blond-haired woman runs right for Sean Luka—an impressive feat in her four-inch stilettos. “Kenneth just fell off the stage,” she says, breathless, clutching a clipboard to her chest. “He tripped over a box of donuts and broke his leg. The paramedic took him away just a few minutes ago.”
“Who in their right mind would bring donuts into the convention?” Sean Luka demands. “Were any of the clothes destroyed, Sienna?”
“No, thank goodness….but we are down a model.”
Half a moment passes, and then, like synchronized swimmers, Sean Luka and t
he crazy woman turn to Jonathan. The Griffon takes a step back, already shaking his head. Before Sean Luka can make any suggestions, the woman’s eyes slide to Eric—and there they stay.
“Hello,” she says, her voice deepening in a lusty way that I find mighty disturbing. “And who are you?”
“Modeling agent,” Eric barks out immediately, holding his hands up in a “don’t get any ideas, lady” sort of way.
“He’s with Gray’s team,” Sean Luka explains.
“I want him,” Sienna purrs, practically undressing poor Eric with her eyes. “He’s perfect.”
“No.” Eric shakes his head. To Sean Luka, he says, “We have a job to do—you only get to dress up one of us, and that’s not me.”
The woman looks back at Sean Luka, pleading. The director studies Eric. “He could pass for a Peacock as easily as Jonathan.”
“Oh, easily,” Jonathan leaps in, his face lighting with pure mischief. “Eric is the embodiment of all things Peacock. Look at him—he’s the Grecian ideal of masculine perfection.”
“Jonathan,” Eric growls.
“And that height,” Jonathan continues, zeroing in on Sienna, schmoozing her in a way only he could pull off well.
I watch, amused by the turn of events.
“I suppose if it’s all right with the team, it’s up to you,” Sean Luka finally says, turning back to the harried woman. “Which do you want?”
“Now you wait just a minute—” Eric begins.
Before he can finish, a pint-sized woman dressed in black leggings, a gray fitted T-shirt, and super cute silver ballet flats walks up saying, “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Don Patrick, but we…” She trails off when she spots us and narrows her eyes at Eric. “You again.”
Oddly, the Squirrel from the plane doesn’t look as surprised to see us as we are to see her.
“Are you acquainted?” Sean Patrick asks.
“Not officially,” she replies.
“Then allow me to introduce you.” Sean Patrick extends his hand our way. “Jonathan, Eric, and Madeline are part of Gray Tate’s team of knight marshals.”
He says it like the guys are famous. And who knows—maybe they are. I have no idea.
Knights of Obsidian Page 11