And, I realized, I wanted my own recognition.
“Jane! Eric!” called another reporter, beckoning us over. This one wore a clear badge from the Post. “Who are you wearing tonight?”
“Do it,” Eric urged.
I took a deep breath. “It’s codesigned. By Lake McHugh…and me.”
34
Approximately two hours later, we had finished mingling and were locating our table along with many other invitees who had slowly made their way through the press corridor, into the museum, and through the exhibit carefully planned for the event.
“That was incredible,” Eric congratulated me again. “I can’t believe you did all of that. I legitimately feel like I just moved through your brain.”
I shook my head. “Most of it was planned before I even came on board. I just…helped where I could.”
Truthfully, I was shining with pride. This was one of the most exciting nights of my life. For the first time, I understood what it meant to feel truly passionate about something I had accomplished. I wanted to have that again. I wanted it for the rest of my life too.
“Jane! Eric!” Heather approached us from across the ballroom, where other guests were pouring in from the exhibit and finding their seats for the dinner. It was hard not to be starstruck among all of the celebrities and outlandish costumes—one musician actually had a mohawk that stood nearly two feet tall—but Heather still managed to shine.
I froze, immediately looking for her “date” for the evening, but she quickly grabbed my hand.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Johnny didn’t show. I arrived stag just after you two did.” She shrugged. I had a feeling she wasn’t terribly disappointed.
My stomach calmed almost immediately. There was no way Carson was getting past all the security surrounding this event without his date. Maybe it was for the best that we couldn’t manage to catch him here. Now we could just enjoy the evening.
“It’s okay,” I agreed, looking up at Eric. “Right?”
He blinked. “Right. Hi, Mom.”
Eric greeted his mother with a kiss on the cheek, seemingly unsurprised to find her alone. I frowned. Wasn’t the entire point of inviting her that she would be the bait for someone else?
“Hello, darling. My, don’t you both look dashing.”
Heather’s voice was cut with longing, and as she looked us both over, I wondered if she didn’t see shades of her dead husband in her son. How many of these sorts of events must they have attended together. I had seen photos of the man who, yes, looked a lot like Eric. Together, Jacob and Heather would have cut quite the figure.
“You look beautiful too,” I told her.
She really did. Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t really taken up the theme, opting instead for a black dress with a few perfunctory safety pins at the shoulder. It was more Park Avenue than punk, but I supposed that was Heather too.
“Oh, thank you,” she said. “Vicki made it up for me last minute. I’m so lucky. She almost always keeps things for me.”
I blinked. I was pretty sure she was talking about Victoria Beckham like she was a next-door neighbor who loaned her some sugar, but you never really knew with the de Vrieses.
“Well,” I said as equally nonchalantly as I could manage, “that was incredibly nice of…Vicki.”
Heather beamed. “It was, wasn’t it?” She peered up at Eric again. “Will you save me a dance?” she asked shyly. “Do you remember your old dance lessons?”
Eric opened his mouth, looking very much like he wanted to say no, but before he could, I cut in.
“Of course he will,” I said, earning a sharp look from my husband. I winked at him, and his stolid expression softened.
He sighed. “Yeah, sure, Mom. I’d love to.”
“Good,” Heather said softly before someone caught her eye over my shoulder. “Oh! That’s Helen. I should say hello.”
And with that, she darted through the crowd to greet someone who looked a lot like venerated actress Helen Mirren. But again, I couldn’t be sure. This was a member of the de Vries family we were talking about. They could be friends with anyone.
Just like me now, I supposed.
“You’d better give me a dance too,” Eric murmured as he wrapped an arm around my waist. “Or ten.”
I looked up under a sweep of lashes. “You just need to say the words.”
“What’s that? Pretty girl?”
My belly clenched deliciously at the phrase. “Exactly.”
Eric didn’t even try to mask the naked hunger on his face. Slowly, he leaned down so that his cheek, slightly stubbled, brushed over mine. “You can count on it,” he rumbled in my ear. “And for the record, those shoes are making me want to do a very different dance with you later. You better keep them on when we get home.”
I smacked his chest. “You are such a cornball.” I was joking, of course. When he looked at me like that, I fucking thrilled.
Eric’s mouth just quirked in a slick smirk.
“But first, let’s eat,” he said. “I’m fucking starving.”
We found our table somewhere near the middle of the room. I’d already been briefed on my tablemates: a socialite and her husband, a pair of designers and their dates, and Nina and Calvin Gardner. To my surprise, however, instead of Calvin, I found Nina sitting next to Matthew Zola. He looked particularly rakish in a plain black suit, his dark hair slicked back and a red rose tucked jauntily into his lapel.
They were in very, very deep conversation.
“I am not doing this right here,” she snapped—well, as much as Nina ever snapped. It was really more like a kitten’s mewl.
“Please, doll,” Zola said in a low, languid voice that made me almost uncomfortable with its intimacy. “I think you and I both know that under the right circumstances, you would do whatever I told you to do.”
“Matthew, please.”
“Shit,” Eric muttered, and it was clear what he was referring to.
I had to agree. Whatever was going on between Nina and our handsome Italian prosecutor clearly wasn’t the result of a casual connection.
“Well, hello!” I was overly jubilant, hoping to cover in case Calvin was returning. I had no lost love for Eric’s brother-in-law, but if this was what I thought it was, I wasn’t interested in getting Nina into trouble, especially considering how much she had helped us.
Eric, however, wasn’t bothered by such considerations.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Eric asked Zola directly.
“This isn’t over.” Zola eyed Nina once more, then stood to speak to Eric. “I couldn’t let the cops have all the fun, could I? Granted, I’ll have to watch, but Nina was nice enough to help me in.”
“You couldn’t just wait with the squad cars? Don’t you think being here would give the game away?”
I blinked. “Eric, why does it matter? Carson isn’t coming anyway.”
“He isn’t?” Nina asked. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Zola met Eric’s level gaze, and for a moment, the two of them engaged in a strange little stare-off I couldn’t quite read. Nina studied her wedding ring intensely, perhaps looking as if she wanted to rip it off.
Zola cleared his throat. “I…no, you’re right. I should probably go.” He glanced at Nina. “See you, doll.”
Eric and I immediately turned to his cousin.
“Nina, what the hell?” Eric demanded.
She still would not make eye contact. “Calvin didn’t want to come, and to be honest, I was fine with that. He’s a terrible date at this sort of event anyway. Since Matthew is helping to put John Carson behind bars, isn’t he, shouldn’t he have come in? I was just helping.”
“Matthew? Come on, Nina…”
“I’m going to the ladies’ room.” She stood up and smoothed her dress, which, I noted with appreciation, was made almost entirely out of something resembling chain mail. She looked absolutely gorgeous as she wove in between the growing crowd, tall and graceful in that way on
ly the de Vrieses could manage. You can’t fake that level of aristocratic breeding.
“Should I go with her?” I asked. I wasn’t going to lie. I really didn’t want to. I liked gossip as much as the next person, but I had absolutely no interest in meddling with the personal affairs of my cousin-in-law.
Eric sighed. “You know what? I don’t even care. It’s her mess, if there is one at all. Let her clean it up.” He swallowed heavily. “I’m going to get a drink. Do you want a cocktail?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
He looked me over, and his gaze fell to my lips, which were a particularly vibrant shade of red to match my dress.
“Damn,” he murmured regretfully. “I’ll be right back.”
I blushed under the heat of his gaze. “Soon, I hope.”
But it wasn’t soon. I waited at the table, making chitchat with the other guests for nearly thirty minutes. Waiters started to deliver food, and just as a plate of salmon tartar was set in front of me, I decided to get up to find my errant husband, and then my mother, who was probably torturing all the stylists and celebrities with critiques of their avant-garde wear. We were running out of time to show her the exhibit, and I wanted Eric to come too.
“Did you see him leave?” I asked Emily Beckett, a pregnant socialite at our table with her husband, one of the biggest hedge fund managers in the city. All of our cell phones had been checked upon entrance to maintain then event’s exclusivity.
She looked up dreamily, despite having drunk absolutely nothing. Her husband seemed more interested in his cell phone. Then she grimaced and grabbed her belly.
I immediately bent down. “Are you okay?”
She gave me a grim smile. “Oh, sure. Just a little Braxton-Hicks. I had them with the last one.” She let out a long breath.
“Hon? Do you need anything?” her husband finally asked.
“Some ice water would be lovely,” she told him, and he immediately left to retrieve some from a passing waiter.
“Do you have any kids?” Emily asked, turning to me.
“I…” Oh, God. Would that question ever not hurt? “No. No, we don’t.” I paused. “We just got married last November, actually.”
“Well, it does kind of ruin your figure,” she joked. “I’ll never get my waist back without some help from a surgeon.”
“Here’s your water, hon.” Her husband returned, and Emily took her drink gratefully. It was sweet, really, the way he hovered over her like that.
“Shit,” I muttered, suddenly feeling cold. I pressed a hand over my very flat stomach. Fuck a nice figure. I’d take a baby.
Whoa. I would?
The heart wants what it wants, kiddo.
I warmed. Dad again, imparted his clean logic from the grave. I ached. No, I wasn’t ready yet. Not right this second…but maybe…in nine months?
I reached out for Eric’s knee, but only found chair instead. Goddammit. Where was he? Suddenly, all I wanted was to find him. To look into his eyes and see his blind faith in our future together. I needed it.
I stood up. “I’m…I’m just going to go find my husband.”
It took me a while to spot him at the far side of the exhibition hall. I was stopped by several other guests congratulating me on my work and admiring my dress. But find him I did, just as he had stopped by one of the exits.
He checked his watch. And then he darted away into a darkened hall where tonight’s guests really weren’t supposed to go.
“What the hell?” I checked the room to make sure none of the museum’s security was watching me. And then I followed Eric into the museum proper.
He walked quickly, with obvious purpose, nearly losing me as he twisted and turned through the halls of the Met, directly through several darkened rooms. For a while I lost him, following the sounds of his footsteps on the stone floors. He must have known I was behind him—my stilettos were even louder.
And then his footsteps stopped. I wandered into the darkened wing where the Roman statues loomed like ghosts. “Eric?”
There was a long, audible sigh before he stepped out from behind one of the statues. “Hey, gorgeous.”
I crossed the gallery to where he stood next to a large sculpture of Diana towering over an indoor fountain. “What are you doing here?”
He sighed again. “I just needed a break. A bit of quiet.”
I frowned. “Already? We barely got here, and you just disappeared.” Something in his voice didn’t quite sound right.
His gaze sparked in the night.
“Oh.” Now I understood. “You’re upset that Carson’s not here. Look, I get it. But honestly, maybe it’s for the best. This night is so special. We can figure something else out tomorrow.”
Eric just shook his head. “Jane, it’s not that. I…”
His despondency killed me. Suddenly, I felt terrible. He had been doting over me for months, making sure I was healing properly from the traumas we had suffered. He was seeing a therapist, yes, but was I really taking care of him enough? Doubtful.
Well, I could change that.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re not alone in this.”
Eric looked up, a note of warmth brightening his sad gray eyes. “I’m not, huh?”
I walked close, then wrapped my arms around his solid waist. Fuck the taffeta. We needed to be close. I tipped my face up for a kiss. “Well, you do have me.”
“And me.”
Eric and I both started apart at the sound of the familiar droll voice. My eyes widened in panic, since the last place I had heard that voice, of course, was when I had been held captive.
Eric, however, just rolled his, then stamped a brief, thorough kiss to my still-open lips.
“You’re a fucking day late, Hermes,” he said before turning toward the voice.
“Since when are you one to follow the rules, Triton?”
And there, the only sign of his discomfort the way he shifted from foot to foot, was Jude Letour. Rich kid. Cocky bastard. And right-hand man to John Carson.
35
“Late?” I asked, turning so fast that my bouffant almost fell out. “What do you mean, ‘late’?”
Eric turned to me with a tight jaw. “Jane—”
“Where’s my mother?” I hissed. “Tell me she’s safe.”
“She’s got four different security with her plus twenty stylists. I just texted Tony. She’s fine.”
“All right,” I said. “Then what the fuck is this asshole doing here?”
“What’s this, you didn’t tell your courtesan about our plan?”
Jude approached, looking more like a cartoon devil than ever in a black cashmere sweater and sleek black pants, his irritatingly smug face still lined with a chinstrap beard. What did the man actually do again? Eric had mentioned something about imports and exports, but Jude dressed more like someone walking off a 1970s GQ shoot.
“You don’t really want to try me like that, do you?” Eric stepped forward like he wanted to punch the man again, but held back.
Jude touched his nose briefly, then held up his hands in surrender. “Jokes, jokes, Triton. I come in peace, young Skywalker, remember?” He smirked at me. I honestly wondered if he had another expression. “Or maybe that applies more to you, doesn’t it, princess? Daughter of the dark father and all. Besides, you need me.”
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I spat before Eric could reply.
A hand at my wrist stilled me. “Give it a moment,” Eric murmured. “He’s right. We need him.”
I jerked back. “What?”
There was no way he didn’t understand my shock. This piece of shit was part of a group that had abducted both of us, forcibly aborted our child, and murdered his fiancée. And now he wanted to work with him?
But Jude, too pleased with the spotlight to give it up, continued. “I’m his second, my little dim sum.”
“Jude!” Eric snapped.
“What?” he said. “Dim sum is delicious.”
“It’s also
Chinese, you racist prick,” I said.
Jude clicked his tongue, but to my surprise, Eric didn’t tell him off.
“Jude’s here on my request,” he said.
Eric’s grip on my wrist was iron. Trust me, he said wordlessly.
I took a deep breath. And then another. And then, somewhere deep inside me, I found the ability to stifle every nasty comment and threat I had. Because if I couldn’t trust Eric, I couldn’t trust anyone. Right?
“He’s right, tigress,” Jude said. “The list of people Carson trusts is shorter than your marriage, Cio-Cio San. And I happen to be on it.”
“Does he know you’re here?” Eric asked.
Jude nodded. “Of course he does. I’m his ‘scout,’ after all. He wanted me to watch you to make sure everything was safe.”
“Does he make you taste his food too?” I snapped.
Jude rolled his eyes. “Why? Should he?”
“Well, it’s convenient, at any rate,” Eric cut in. “Gives you a reason to be here.”
“That it does. And to that effect, I was sent with a message, which I’m obviously delivering now.” Jude’s dark eyes sharpened. “You’re to meet him right here, in the Greek and Roman Art room.” He scoffed visibly.
Eric didn’t answer the question. “What does he want?”
“Good God, Triton, what do you think he wants?” Jude snapped. “The same thing he’s wanted since before you and I barely existed. Heather, the DVS shipping contracts for the Koreas, and, of course this one.” His cold gaze flickered at me with something that approximated sympathy. “I suspect that when you’re caught again, princess, you won’t get out.”
“How would he know where to find me?” I asked, and in answer, Jude pushed up the sleeve of his sweater and shook the small gold bracelet at me—the one bearing a familiar gold coin. Suddenly, the strange nature of the conversation became clear. Both men were well aware of the fact that we were being monitored. Fuck.
“Well, you can pass on my answer,” Eric said, perhaps a little too loudly. “My answer is no. More like a fuck no, actually.”
The Love Trap (Quicksilver Book 3) Page 33