Seduced

by Susan Arden

  He smiled, clasping my fingers, and helped me stand. I must have had quite the expression—I don’t know, wide-eyed shock perhaps—but he leaned closer for an instant.

  “Smile,” he whispered as he buttoned his jacket, and I faltered under the realization the muscles of my face were rigid. I could hear Marie’s reminder to practice smiling in front of a mirror and me snorting in her face over the idiocy. Guess who was the idiot now?

  My first glimpse of organized chaos taking place behind the velvet ropes and red carpet and I shuddered. Graham waited, his hand extended, reaching for me as I stood stiffer than a plank of wood. His name was called along with the name of a woman I didn’t recognize. Suddenly, there was silence before a rapid succession of bursting lights as though the media’s cameras were dispensing artillery rounds.

  “Graham! Who is she? Where’s Vinia?”

  “Miss, this way. C’mon, just one. Together. Stand together. Turn this way!”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Gordon.” A woman wearing a dark suit walked up to him, microphone in hand, press pass on a lanyard, and a severe expression which morphed into a plastered-on grin. She didn’t resemble the other gossip columnists or reporters. “Still have women and children sweating away in foreign factories?” She delivered a sucker punch pointblank. “Don’t you believe others like to eat as much as you and your…friend?”

  Graham’s fingers tightened around my arm. He’d heard the woman, everyone had, but he steered me across the carpeted area between the barricades, and my feet had no choice but to follow along.

  He leaned over, the satin-smooth skin along his jaw skimming my cheek. “Just ignore her. And smile,” he whispered into my ear, and another round of flashes burned my retina.

  He grinned at the press opposite the reporter, and I smiled tightly, not knowing where to look or what to do besides stand there next to him. Graham guided me forward, and I glanced back at the reporter; our eyes met, and she dropped her media blitz smile. Her face became pensive as she directed her cameraman. We moved past her and more pops and flashes ensued. Graham lifted his hand, waving as we neared the entrance. I wouldn’t say he worked the crowd so much as he employed a type of robotic technique to deal with the barrage of comments and queries.

  It happened all too fast. I hardly had time to ponder the blinding moments surrounded by the press. Inside the museum, Graham greeted a dizzying number of people who vied for his attention. Voices boomed, echoing off the tall walls that rose within the massive interior. He steered me through the crowd while jazz played in the background. His fingers pressed along my lower back a few times, and he leaned over to whisper a comment. The droning voices, feet slapping the tile floor, and the music made deciphering his words a challenge.

  Waiters circulated with trays of champagne, and a man dressed in a chef’s uniform appeared at Graham’s side. He smiled broadly at a comment from Graham about the fare, then frowned and began speaking in a low voice. I tensed for a second. It bothered me that I couldn’t understand much of what they said. All I could grasp was the upcoming ceremony was one Graham was supposedly hosting next month. From the chef’s frown, I surmised there was a problem.

  Graham turned to me, “Eliza, this is one man you can trust in New York to deliver what he promises. Joel Feinstein. And this is Eliza Hillwood. She’ll be with me to keep things running smoothly.”

  “Ah, you enjoy hosting dinner parties for foreign dignitaries. That is rare.” The chef’s eyes flash-sautéed me, drizzling curiosity paired with the impression he was taking stock of what he observed. He picked up my gloved hand and pressed my fingers. “My pleasure, Miss Hillwood.”

  Graham clapped him on the back. “No worries, Joel. Do your thing, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

  He winked at Graham, nodding to me. “Impressive,” he said before leaving.

  “What did you mean—”

  He silenced me with a dark stare and curt shake of his head. “Not here. I’ll explain later.” More people approached him with an outstretched hand and a question or request. It was tiring to stand and watch the interplay. I marveled at his ability to maintain an appearance of being highly interested in each of his guests, conversing easily, and employing his astounding recall of details. Did he understand his encyclopedic knowledge placed him in the genius range? I’d have tossed back a slew of shots if I were him and told the DJ to start cranking the music. But not Graham.

  A few weren’t the run-of-the-mill guests. For those, his expression changed, his hand squeezed my fingers or arm, and he gave me a flash of his dark eyes or a raised brow. His face tensed, stilled as he focused on the person or couple. I understood and tried to pay attention to the person of interest, recognizing them from the media kit Graham had provided and requested I memorize. I could silently spout off names and facts, sometimes surprising myself. But I didn’t feel comfortable addressing any of these big wheels. They didn’t know me—didn’t appear interested in doing any more than shaking my hand and exchanging a vague greeting. Each time, Graham drew me close, inviting me into the conversation with a brief introduction of my name and no more. I wasn’t his friend or lover or assistant…just the assumed date for the evening. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  I doubted any guest would remember my name two seconds after Graham introduced me. It made no sense why he had me accompany him here. In my mind, it made more sense for him to have someone from his PR team here, standing next to him and schmoozing…Ridiculous to risk high stakes business gambits conducted within a charity event. On that thought, I reached for a flute of champagne offered by the waiter at my side and raised my brow at Graham.

  Sipping, I had to keep my jaw from dropping. Apparently, arriving fashionably late meant something here. The previous guests I’d met paled with the stream of the diplomats, business execs, politicians, socialites, and celebrities who now stopped by and kibitzed with Graham. We stood there, poised in the main museum room, and continued to meet and talk while my feet started to ache. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, wishing my killer shoes weren’t cutting off the circulation in my toes. I couldn’t wait to call Carmen and relay the long list of famous actors from Broadway and Hollywood whose hands I’d shook.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When the line of guests dwindled, I whispered to Graham, “Excuse me while I visit the ladies’ room.”

  “I’ll take you. You did marvelous,” he commented, raking his fingers through his hair and leveling me with an intense stare. “Perfect.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” I said, taking hold of the arm he offered and biting my lip with each step. Note to self, never wear brand new shoes to a charity event.

  We moved through the throng of people to the second floor that was corded off with a velvet rope and a museum guard. I recalled the last time we’d gone upstairs behind a velvet rope a little less than a week ago, and how different my life was then compared to now.

  The man nodded to Graham, and we walked silently, my head buzzing from the conversation. There was hardly a soul on the second floor, and I watched the profusion of colorful gowns with the dots of black tuxes below.

  “I’ll be back. Understand? I don’t want anyone we’ve spoken with to try and get a hold of you, believing you have some influence with me. They’d sell their mothers if they thought it might help their cause. Wait for me here. There are some men I want to catch before they corner us. Let me deal with them, and then we can enjoy an unencumbered evening.” He rubbed his knuckles under my jaw, inhaling deeply, and murmured my name.

  A guard approached with a piece of folded paper. “Mr. Gordon?”

  He read the note and his brows furrowed. “I’ll be right back.”

  I nodded, confused and convinced he was mistaken that anyone would confront me. “Don’t worry, I’m more than happy to hang out here for some alone time. There are several of my favorite artists featured. This is a treat.”

  “See you in a little while.” He kissed my cheek, and I watched him
retreat downstairs. No one would corner me. Who did he imagine from the guests below would even remember me if I wasn’t standing alongside him? Umm, let’s see that number would be…zero!

  Grateful I wouldn’t have to stand and smile and nod my head to whatever was being said, I would gladly hide out on the second floor all night. My face hurt from fake smiling. Up here, there were works of art to enjoy without having to feign rapt attention at someone’s golf score or a production line opening or a new investment opportunity.

  For him, coming to the Museum of Modern Art was no big deal. I relished a few moments to waltz around the small gallery room. Vincent Van Gogh’s work had drawn my attention, and I found myself staring at brilliant blues and a fireball of an evening sky. A few people sipping cocktails and champagne came and went around me, softly discussing everything from art to politics to dog walking and prescriptions.

  “Can you believe the textures up close? So different from what you might see online or in a book.”

  At first, I paid no mind to the woman’s voice, thinking she wasn’t talking to me. Turning, I gasped, staring into the face of the woman from the magazine cover. The woman I’d observed laughing and smiling with Graham. Suddenly, the paintings, the people, the buzz eroded, leaving me alone with her. My heart hammered in a way that made talking sensibly a divine act. I bet she knew the effect she had on me, and it pissed me off.

  She swished her long dark hair away from her flawless rice-paper skin, and her fine features reminded me of a modern geisha in how she spoke, or rather expressed herself. Her hands moved like snapping ivory fans each time her nails clicked together. Her catlike almond eyes flicked from side to side as she glided over the floor. I had to give it to her in how she gracefully moved in a pale pink gown that hugged her willowy curves. Her features and mannerisms spoke of wealth, position, and status. Everything I’d imagined was confirmed. Her gown had to be a one of kind, made with her body in mind. If anyone present were a work of art, she’d win hands down.

  “Are you speaking from experience?” I asked, well aware of being in shark-infested waters, as Marie and Graham referred to mixing the press with business.

  The woman affixed a tight smile to her face as her eyes moved slowly, shifting as though she had something to share but needed to find the perfect moment. Music drifted up to where we stood. She turned and made as if to study the painting in front of us.

  “So, you’re Graham’s new flavor of the month.” When she spoke, her smile broadened for a second as though she were amused with herself. “How long has he arranged for you to stay with him? A night, the weekend? He likes his girls to stay a weekend. I guess it’s easier that way.” She finished her jab with another wide smile, revealing small white teeth.

  “Why do you ask? Are you a journalist?” It was the only rebuttal that came to mind. I knew she wasn’t, but if the privileged despised the press, then it was a backhanded comeback.

  “Excuse me?” she retorted, her smile faltering and her eyes widening.

  Ah. Better when her reaction revealed she expected me to know her. “Do you work for one of the local newspapers?”

  Her winged raven brow accompanied a silent gasp. “My father is the Chinese Consul General and my uncle is the commercial attaché to Hong Kong. Both are friends of the President. Potential business allies of Graham’s.”

  “Is that a yes or no to my question?”

  “Would you like Graham to know you have just cost him a contract?” Her tone attempted to slice through me. I saw no reason to be a doormat to a woman seeking to maim. But why was she so hostile to me? What had Graham done to her to have her seeking me out and then so rapidly baring her claws when I’d just seen her laughing on the street with him not even forty-eight hours ago?

  “Why are you so consumed with him and yet speak to me? Who are you?”

  “I’m surprised one of Graham’s girls is so unsophisticated. Wherever did he find you? I’m Vinia.”

  She’d said her name slowly, making the syllables hang in the air as she stared at me, probably gauging my reaction. “And your father and uncle are diplomats. Well, I guess that’s something to talk about.” I went to move past her.

  “Don’t be so simple,” she snapped. “I don’t need my father to garner Graham’s attention. I’m finishing up my law degree at Georgetown and am considering coming back to the city on weekends. I know Graham would enjoy the idea. Does he still keep his bedroom doors locked?”

  “Why do you ask?” I stared at her, my pulse racing. I told myself not to react and keep cool.

  “Who do you think showed him how to play with the toys he keeps hidden away? So, no, I’m not one for a regular job. Or a regular relationship. I spent earlier this year with him until things became complicated. His business interests run deep in the East. And you? Where do you fit in? Do you specialize in migrant workers’ contracts or legal wrangling across diplomatic lines? What do you have that Graham needs at the moment?”

  She strove to claw her position into me with half-truths—the worst type of lie. I understood immediately; saying nothing was my best defense to a woman bent on making certain she wreaked unrest with a string of dirty insinuations targeting Graham. The idea of silence and taking her jabs just didn’t come across as the right touchy-feely moment I normally gravitated toward. Now bitch-slapping her, that idea held promise. Don’t do it, Eliza. Control!

  “I don’t kiss and tell. Why do you care, if your relationship is over? Shouldn’t you be moving on and letting go?” I retorted.

  “No one said anything about my relationship with Graham being over. I’m back in the city—a surprise neither he nor I expected. It’s probably why you were solicited. I suspect you’ll be let go soon and sent back to where you came from, unless you’re open to me coming over tonight. We’re both big girls, and he enjoys trios. A lot. Ask him. But better take care, he also likes to change the menu, even when you think he’s yours. Believe me, he enjoys meeting women in unusual places.”

  I raised my hand. “Stop. You have an issue and not one I’m interested in listening to further.”

  “Still hung up on every word Graham whispers. I pity you. If you don’t believe me, all you have to do is ask him. Or his stepsister.”

  “Stepsister?” I shook my head.

  Vinia laughed shortly. “Marie. If you haven’t met her, you soon will. Then the fun begins. They’ll get inside your pretty little head, twist it until all you know is Graham or Marie. Their words, their ideas, and their excuses. Better watch yourself. You seem too naïve for this lifestyle.”

  “I don’t agree, and here’s another factoid. I’ve never heard of you from him or anyone else, so get over yourself.” A lie, but I didn’t care as I sucked in my breath.

  “Vinia Leung, sweetheart. Mention my name and see the reaction on his face. Why are you here alone? You should go downstairs. Come with me. I’ll introduce you to the amusing people—all four hundred of them.”

  I’d lifted my hand with the intent to…I wasn’t certain, but I stopped when she mentioned her full name and a niggling prickle tore through me. Fuck, I had to get away from this bitch.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine right here.” The magazine cover now had an identity. My breathing came out in fast puffs as I fisted my fingers, and my nails stabbed my palms. I had no idea what she meant, nor did I care—I kept telling myself.

  “Oh,” she exhaled the word in a long steady streaming laugh followed by a wink. “I get it. He told you to wait here, and you’re being a good girl. Do you always do what you’re told?”

  “Goodbye, Vinia. I hope your broom isn’t double-parked.” I reached into my bag for my cell.

  Her eyes widened, and she narrowed her gaze at me. Pressing her perfect red lips into a grimace, she kept silent, raising her chin, clearly perturbed. I looked away, feigning to check my messages. From underneath my lashes, I noticed her swing around fast enough to make her dress and hair go airborne into a spiraling pirouette as she strode away, n
on-stop down the stairs.

  Crud, I sunk down, feeling utterly depleted after pretending everything she’d said meant little when in fact she muddied the issues I already had on a slow simmer. Minutes passed and still no Graham. I jiggled my leg, staring at the painting in front of me and no longer seeing the lines of color. Vinia’s voice needled me, pinpricking stabs that knotted my thoughts and the muscles along my shoulders. Minutes dragged by and still Graham failed to appear.

  I decided enough was enough. I descended the stairs and followed the crowds of people to a glass wall, partitioning off the dance floor. As a waiter passed by, I snagged a flute of champagne, and then I saw them. Graham and Vinia were across the floor. Not dancing. Not exactly. His hand was pressed to the wall above her head, his head lowered to hers. Their cheeks looked too close for my comfort. I crossed the dance floor, uncaring that I bumped into two couples.

  Vinia’s eyes sparkled as she gazed up at Graham’s face. His profile was to me. Chiseled. Tight.

  “Oh, did you get lonely waiting upstairs? No escort to come and fetch you?” she asked, seeing me approach. Her hand was pressed to his chest and she darted her tongue across her lips.

  Graham pushed off the wall, his expression saturated in dark tones as he moved back, far enough that Vinia was forced to drop her hand. “Eliza isn’t alone. She’s with me.” His gravelly voice filled the space in less than pleased tones. I searched for his eyes, but it was difficult to make eye contact as he stood in the shadows. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Vinia stepped forward and curled her hand curled around his arm. “She doesn’t follow instructions very well. You must be slipping.”

  “I wasn’t talking to Eliza. You’re the uninvited guest here,” Graham snarled, stepping away from her but not her grasp on his arm. “Vinia, accept that what we had is done.”

  “I have an invitation. You don’t own Manhattan. Or me.” Vinia straightened and appeared to tighten her grip on his jacket. “That invitation was sent to the Consulate. Not to you as I have already stated. And since you brought it up, I do have an order signed by a New York County judge stating you aren’t to come anywhere in the vicinity of my business, home, or person.”