Georgie crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t imagine what the hell you mean by that.”
Rade waved one hand. “I don’t mean like that. I mean he won’t say shit about you.”
“Oh. Well, we’re just friends.” Georgie sat on another couch, the wide one by the window.
Rade walked around the couch he was standing behind, his loose legs gliding between the blue furniture and the purple tips of his hair swaying. “So, I’m Rade.”
“I’m Georgie.” She stood up again and stuck out her hand.
He shook it and flopped on the other end of the couch, his long legs splaying to the sides. When he glanced at her, he blinked, and his eyes were blue, very bright blue, under the lavender fringe of his bangs. Brown eyeliner smudged his lash line, probably leftover stage make-up from the concert last night.
Oh, Lord. Did Rade think that he got to share her?
Georgie scooted against the other arm of the couch, as far away from him as she could get. She didn’t want to have to pull his hair and bash a knee into his groin.
Rade leaned back and rested his arm along the back of the couch, encroaching. “So where are you from?”
Georgie shrugged. “Here and there.”
“That’s informative. I’m from Alabama.”
“Oh? I don’t hear an accent.”
“I got rid of the accent when I went to New York. Alabama is the third notch in the Bible Belt.”
It was weird that he had just invited himself in for conversation, but it was better than threatening to call hotel security on her, unlike some other band members. “Sounds like you’re proud of that.”
Rade snorted. “Proud that I escaped.”
There is a kinship among runaways. “Yeah? How old were you?”
“Eighteen.”
He wasn’t really a runaway, then. “You moved for college?”
“Yeah. I met Xan in New York through friends. I was at Columbia.”
Wow. “Yeah?”
He bobbled his head to the side. “Yeah, but Xan came along and seduced me away from higher education with liquor, women, and rock and roll.”
There was something wrong with his blue eyes, maybe something about the way they moved when he spoke to her, but she couldn’t figure out quite what. “Yeah, you look like you’re hating it.”
“How’d you meet Xan?”
“Through friends.” Understatement of the year.
“Just so you know,” Rade said, “I’m one of the wild ones. You shouldn’t be seen hanging around me.”
“Oh, no one can see us.” She swallowed, wanting to bite back her words, and she crossed her legs away from him. Rade was sprawled all over the couch, easily within grabbing distance, and he had a reputation for snorting cocaine off strippers’ asses on his tamer nights. She shouldn’t draw his attention to the fact that there were no witnesses.
She looked into his bright blue eyes, and his pupils were a little too wide for the noontime sunlight streaming outside the windows.
Probably cocaine.
Georgie recoiled, but she stretched her legs because cringing away from him must be rude.
“Whoa,” Rade said, holding up his hands. “You just curled up into a little ball. You nervous about being alone with me?”
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
He laughed, looking at the ceiling and the chandelier dripping randomly shaped crystals and silver chains. He said, “I’ll tell you a secret.”
“What’s that?” She glanced out the window, staring at the blue-mirrored glass of the next high-rise across the street.
“You’re not my type.”
She rolled her eyes. His type was probably strippers bearing drugs. “Thanks. I feel better about myself.”
He leaned toward her, looking right into her eyes. “No, you’re really not my type.”
What?
She examined him, analyzing his posture, his movements, and comparing them with Fitzgerald, her best friend in high school, and all the other gay men she’d known.
The signs were subtle, exceedingly so, mostly in his fingertips and the tilt of his pelvis, and a little in the movement of his elbows, but they were there. If Georgie had believed in auras, she would have thought that Rade’s would have glowed slightly gay near his core, but that was all.
She hadn’t noticed.
How had Georgie, of all people, not noticed the one gay man in the room?
The last few weeks had been extraordinarily stressful. Maybe she had had a minor stroke from the stress of being chased by the Russian mafia.
Plus, Rade was really hiding it.
Georgie asked, “Why is it a secret?”
He shrugged and leaned back. “Habit.”
“Does Xan know?”
Rade shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
“How about the other guys?”
“No.” He bit his lip, straight white teeth on plush flesh.
When Rade wasn’t wasted, he was startlingly handsome, with those high, chiseled cheekbones and large, brilliantly blue eyes. A lot of girls might be thinking What a waste about now, but a lot of guys would be dancing in the streets, if it weren’t a secret.
Georgie asked him, “What’s the big deal?”
Rade spied the mini-bar on the far wall. He meandered over, trailing his fingers along the furniture, and poured himself a glass of something clear and tossed it back. He kept his hunched shoulders turned away from her most of the time, shielding himself. “Just a habit.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the poor guy.
“Hey, Rade,” she said.
“Yeah?” He stared into the thick bottom of his glass, his hair falling forward around his face, brushing the hard line of his jaw.
She smiled at him. “What secret?”
He raised one pale eyebrow at her.
“I have some short-term memory problems,” Georgie said, spreading her open hands wide. “So, what secret?”
One corner of Rade’s mouth curved up, and he poured two more fingers of clear alcohol in the glass and drank it down.
After Rade left, Georgie’s phone calls went fine for a while, one easy excuse after another, quick calls and longer ones for closer friends, all easy-peasy-squeezey.
Until she called Lizzy.
“You moron!” Lizzy yelled in her gravelly voice.
Georgie leaned away from the phone to save her hearing.
Lizzy yelled, “What the fuck! You think that no one can help you? Do you realize whom I’m sleeping with? Theo can write a restraining order against anyone on the planet, and you decide to run away instead of asking for help!”
“These guys don’t care about restraining orders, and besides, Tatiana Butorin probably wouldn’t even come to the States, herself.”
“Where have I heard that name before? Nevermind. Look, Theo’s throwing a huge party this Friday, and he says that you have to be there.”
Georgie laughed out loud. “Are you serious? I’m hiding from the Russian mob, and I’m on the other side of the country. I can’t go to a party.”
“Theo has all kinds of private security, like his scary cousins, and he’s renting a private jet. Once you get here, a Russian gnat won’t be able to get to you. Be at that private terminal at the airport on Friday. I don’t care how you get there, just be at the terminal or I swear to God, I will hunt you down, tie you up, and throw you on that plane.”
“You sound like the Domme of The Devilhouse already.”
“You betcha. Get your ass on that plane or I’ll show you how we convince people to do shit in New Jersey.”
Georgie hung up dreading the calls to the rest of her list.
Maybe a night away from Xan was the right thing to do. His charisma could captivate an entire arena in minutes. If Flicka was right, maybe Georgie needed distance to see clearly.
Maybe Georgie needed some time away. The Ice Princess needed to see clearly to stay alive, and not let what might pass for a heart lead her astray
.
Georgie returned calls while she waited for Xan.
When Alex returned from the radio interview—and one glance at his straight posture, restrained hand gestures, and slow, sultry smile told Georgie that Alex had returned that morning—she asked for a moment of privacy.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and was alone with him.
All alone.
Alex stood across the room, golden sunlight falling on his blond hair and black clothes, just like how the Parisian sunlight had touched his face when he had pulled the Russian off of her, saving her.
Bullshit. There was no way that Alex or Xan or Alexandre had killed someone.
She said, “I have to go back home this weekend, just for one night.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
“You can’t. It’s Friday night. You have a concert.”
“I’ll cancel it.”
Yeah, Alex was definitely in charge. “You can’t cancel a concert, and I don’t want you to.”
“I can’t let you go back there alone.” His dark eyes held hints of anguish, and his hands curled inward into fists.
She stepped backward and leaned on the door. “I’ll just hop a flight, and then, from what I’ve heard, we’ll be taking a private plane somewhere else, and there will be security guys. I’ll stick close to Lizzy and Theo and to Rae and Wulfram, if they’re there.”
Alex paced around the bed. “This is a bad idea.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He reached around her upper arms, and his eyes searched hers. “Are you leaving? Because if you are, I can help you establish yourself wherever you decide to set up. The lawyers aren’t finished with your name change yet, so you would have to rent an apartment under your current one.”
“Oh! No. Lizzy really wants me to go to her party thing. I’ll be back the next day. I promise.”
“Good. Your piano is being delivered this afternoon.”
“What?”
“It’s just a keyboard. I can’t imagine being without a violin or a guitar. I would be missing a limb. Don’t make a fuss.”
“I don’t know, Alex.”
“If you are coming back, then it’s no problem.”
“I’m coming back the next day.”
He sighed. “You’ll take my plane.”
“I’ll fly commercial. I can’t pay you back for a private plane.”
“You will take my plane, and Adrien will go with you.”
“Yvonne keeps saying that you need at least two security guys, that you can’t spare one.”
“Then come back to me.”
“I will,” she reassured him. “Alex, you aren’t going to be weird at the end of June, are you?”
“No, but you’ll be safe then. I’ll have done all I can to ensure it. Right now, it’s too soon. There would be too many trails. They would find you in days, if not hours.”
So there was Georgie’s choice, because Alex was absolutely correct. She could hide with the man who might have multiple personalities, who might go crazy and kill her, as he was rumored to have killed someone else almost a decade before.
Or she could leave and go out into the world where dozens of known criminals definitely planned to kill her.
“I’ll come back, and I’ll be careful.” She slid her arms around his waist, feeling the hard cords of his abdominals under his shirt. “I’ll pay you back for everything.”
“No,” he said. “I’d be insulted.”
That was a conversation for later, anyway. “Can I ask you one more thing?”
“Of course.” He stroked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, smiling a little.
“You’re Alex right now, right?”
“Yes.”
Maybe she should just let this go. She didn’t want to fuck everything up, but the possibility of doing something so immoral itched at her. “Do you remember last night?”
His smile grew a little devilish, and he looked straight into her eyes. “I can’t decide what I like best, the glint in your eyes when you enjoyed performing at the club or how your whole body writhed in my arms when I made you come.”
“Okay, so you do remember.”
He dropped his head to her neck and breathed on the livid bitemark there. “Every second.”
Georgie let him fold her into his arms, and they stood there a few minutes until Yvonne rapped at the door, calling through, “Do you guys want to get some supper or what?”
After they ate in a private room downstairs and came back to the suite, Georgie’s piano had indeed been delivered. The keys on the electronic keyboard felt like real piano keys, with heft behind them. She plugged in the headphones and ran scales and arpeggios.
During the next few days, Georgie lolled in bed with Alex, played the piano, and lulled herself with the thoughts that Flicka was mistaken, or there had been a complete misunderstanding by everyone, or at least that the man she knew as Alex would never hurt her.
WHAT ALEX LIKES
Alexandre de Valentinois
Alex did everything he could to ensure that Georgie was safe on her overnight trip to Lizzy’s party, but when he unraveled that evening, Xan performed with more vitriol than usual, and Alexandre coalesced and paced far into the night, playing the manic Devil’s Trill sonata on the violin over and over, then running scales for hours, despite Adrien’s frequent assurances by phone that nothing suspicious had happened.
Paganini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata
Performed by David Garrett
As Georgie flew home on his plane the next day, Alex listened over the phone as she described Theo’s proposal to Lizzy, and he laughed as she mocked the social construct of love and marriage as outdated concepts that enslaved a woman’s reproductive capabilities.
He liked that she was irreverent.
When she walked into the hotel room that afternoon, Alex told Boris and Yvonne to bugger off for a few hours and took her to bed instead of going to the gym.
He liked the way she trembled and cried out when he made her come. Her voice felt like golden light in his head, and her skin was silk under his hands and a symphony in F-major in his mind. Her feminine scent filled him to his shivering fingertips.
As they lay in bed afterward, exhausted, he rolled over to her, trailing his fingers over her pale skin, her soft flesh eliciting chords in his ears. “I’m glad you’re back.”
She smiled up at him, that secret, unknowable smile that hid so much. “I’m glad I’m back, too.”
“The concert last night went well.”
“Oh, good.”
“I’m getting hoarse again near the end. I finished ‘Alwaysland,’ but barely.”
“That song is gorgeous. It really is.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Who is it about?”
“I beg your pardon?” Wisps of darkness threaded through him, changing him, coarsening him.
“The woman you wrote it for,” Georgie said.
“It’s just a song.” His voice shifted, more of the Northern English working-class vowels predominating.
“There was no woman? You weren’t in love with her?”
“Of course not,” Xan scoffed, reaching up to touch the enormous, nearly spherical emerald in the earring that dangled from his earlobe.
She looked away, up at the ceiling again. “It sounds like you were.”
“What is love, anyway?” Xan asked. “It’s biology convincing you that you should risk your life to fuck me, and it’s biology convincing me that I should spend all my resources on you so that your baby doesn’t die. That’s it. It’s not real.”
“You’ve never been in love.” She studied him, perhaps noting the changes.
“Of course not. I’m a filthy rich rock star and a landed duke. If I want to fuck, I can pick up any woman, anytime I want. If I want to marry and spit out a legitimate heir for social reasons, I’ll make a deal with some fertile young thing when I’m fifty.” And probably would not live to see h
is own child’s twentieth birthday, either.
Georgie rolled her eyes. “And I thought I was callous.”
“You are.” He rolled to face her on the bed, resting his cheek on his arm. “That’s one of the things I like best about you. I can be perfectly honest with you, and you are honest with me. When you strutted out of my hotel room in Paris, I almost fell to my knees and thanked God for sending me the perfect woman.”
Georgie flicked an eyebrow. “At least you understand the situation. That’s more than most men I’ve met.”
Xan settled and bled away. He reached out with one hand, trailing his fingertips over her skin. The silken texture sounded like the lush mid-tones of a fine violin in his mind.
Alex had weeks, actually months, before the end of June, when she was going to walk out of his life, and he was going to let her go for her own safety.
But until then, Alex liked having this woman in his bed every night.
He knew that her vulnerability was attractive to him. When that man in Paris had grabbed her and when those men had chased her through the parking lot at The Devilhouse, the other one had almost broken through.
Such situations had made him do terrible things.
He had channeled that violence into ambition, separating the rage and pain, but it was never distant.
The other one was always looking for an opening.
CLUBBING WITH THE TERROR TWINS
Georgie
The next weekend, Georgie was lounging on a couch in the dim VIP section of a dance club. Glittering lights sprayed sparks onto the high ceilings and walls, and the house music pounded and squealed in her ears. Xan went downstairs to meet the band playing the club that night and have his picture taken in positions that were mostly non-compromising but all were staged.
Paul and Yvonne trailed Xan as he walked away. Smoke fouled the air, and within a few yards, the air grayed their swaying forms so that they looked far away, like a thousand miles of dark, dusty desert separated her from Xan.
It felt like that sometimes, knowing that she had to leave him.
People in the sparse crowd up in the VIP section straggled past, most not even glancing at her and Adrien, who was sitting ramrod-straight on the opposite couch on the other side of the coffee table. Adrien had remarked to Georgie that the late-night appearances were his least preferred duty while guarding His Grace, and even now, sarcasm etched lines around his mouth and between his eyes, expressing his disdain for nightclubs.
Wild Thing Page 9