The Girl Who Wasn't Page 21

  “You work with Mr. Rogen, is that right?” he asks halfway into the third course. Several of the guests halt their conversations to listen.

  “Yes, sir, that’s right,” Linc says.

  “And what’s it like working for such a visionary?”

  “Well, sir,” Linc says slowly, “I can honestly say it’s like nothing I’ve ever imagined.”

  Senator Whitcomb smiles but there is a gleam in his eye that doesn’t match his expression. “I’ve no doubt about that, son.”

  Abrupt laughter by another guest diverts his attention and conversations resume without us. I reach underneath the table and squeeze Linc’s hand. He squeezes back.

  By the time dinner ends, my head hurts and whatever piece of Authentic Raven I’d mustered is gone. I can feel myself scowling as we make our way back to the car.

  “You okay?” Linc asks.

  “So much hot air,” I mutter.

  He doesn’t reply except to help me into the waiting car. When we’re seated and moving, he opens a side panel along the wall and pulls out a long-necked bottle. He pours a glass of the clear, fizzing liquid and hands it to me.

  “What is this?”

  “Champagne.”

  I open my mouth to protest, thinking of my experience in the coatroom with Taylor and all it led to, but he presses the glass into my hand. “It’s just one glass. And we still have the fashion show to get through. It’ll help,” he says.

  I take a sip to appease him. The bubbles feel funny in my stomach. “When can we take a look at that address Obadiah gave?” I ask.

  “I won’t have a chance to go until later tonight,” he says.

  I don’t miss that he’s changed “we” to “I.”

  “Linc, I want to go.”

  He shakes his head, cutting me off. “I’m not going to remove you from one danger only to introduce you to another. I’ll go alone first. If there’s anything there, I can bring you back when it’s safer.”

  “But Anna could be there—”

  “I’m not bringing you. Not tonight.”

  I scowl and down the drink. Linc is right about it helping. I am relaxed again after so much tension building under the impossibly shallow conversations dinner provided. I know the fashion show will be just as bad—possibly worse as there is no pretense of helping the less fortunate.

  “Do we have to stay the entire time?” I ask.

  “No. But you should at least make an appearance.”

  Our eyes meet and I wish the car were smaller. That Linc had been forced to sit closer. This backseat is huge; each of us has an entire bench to ourselves.

  As if he’s read my thoughts, Linc leans forward in the seat across from me and lets his hands dangle. Slowly, he inches his elbows forward. I do the same until our fingers brush and then intertwine. I look up and find him staring at me with the hint of a smile pulling one corner of his mouth. It’s such a simple, barely there expression but it sends a jolt of heat through me—a lightning bolt straight to my gut. It is an excruciating, lovely feeling.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  I hesitate because my answer is truthful to the point of ruining the moment. “It is amazing how real I feel when you touch me.”

  His expression darkens. “Then I never want to let go. You should feel real. You’re real to me.”

  I smile but it feels sad on my lips. “Just because you think I am doesn’t make it true.”

  “Just because you think you aren’t doesn’t make it true, either.”

  I have nothing to say to that. Or nothing that won’t lead to an argument.

  I watch as Linc twirls and twists the tips of our fingers together. When our eyes meet again, energy sparks. It’s a humming in my veins not unlike the pipes overhead in Twig City, a conduit for the overwhelming life force between us.

  Without turning, Linc’s hand finds the button to darken the window that separates us from the driver. When our privacy is complete, his lips quirk upward in silent suggestion. My pulse accelerates. The bubbles in my stomach thrum wildly, shooting lightning bolts of desire through me.

  Before I know it, I’m leaning, closing the distance. Linc’s hand snakes around my waist, guiding me closer before lowering me underneath him.

  We end up on the floor between the bench seats. The carpet is rough where it rubs the back of my shoulders. I don’t care a single bit as I wind my arms around him and meld my mouth to his.

  Our kisses are frenzied, heated and fast and hard in a way I haven’t experienced yet. His mouth is insistent, his hands determined to find exposed flesh. I rip the hem of his shirt free from his beltline and rake my nails lightly down his torso.

  Linc growls and redoubles his efforts to find his way inside my dress. I squirm underneath him, working to free us both of the fabric that separates us. He yanks my dress up so hard I think it might rip. I unknot his tie with quick movements, pulling it free of his collar and tossing it aside. One of the buttons pops free from his shirt when I tug too hard against it. I force myself to be more careful as I unbutton the rest and slide it away from his arms.

  Linc’s hand slips underneath my dress, caressing the curve of my hip, and goose bumps break out over my body. He maneuvers my corset top aside and cups my breast, his fingertip flicking my nipple. I shudder. “Linc,” I whisper around his mouth.

  His hips thrust forward, driving a hardness into the soft space between my thighs. I find the bulge with my hands, caressing and stroking it through the fabric that separates. With closed eyes and panting breath, I imagine what his shaft would feel like against my palm. I want his pants gone but I can’t bring myself to do anything that will make his hands leave my body.

  He trails kisses down my neck and chest. The shifting of his body is a delicious thrill against my hips and, this time, I meet his thrust with one of my own. When his mouth finds my exposed nipple, I cry out.

  “Sshh,” he says, but it’s half-hearted. He seems to enjoy the noise I make. I writhe and whimper as his mouth captures each breast. His tongue flicks over my taut skin. Heat builds below my stomach and I yank on his belt loops with my hands, thrusting and twisting against him.

  His hand drops lower, skimming over the edge of my panties before slipping inside them. His hands brush over the sensitive edges of my clitoris. I push against him, eager for more. He slides a finger up and down over my folds. My breath catches in anticipation. In one swift motion, he captures my breast with his mouth and slides a finger inside me.

  I squirm underneath the magic of his touch. It’s excruciating, this teetering balance between torture and satisfaction. My back arches and my head tips back. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip, barely holding in the soft scream that threatens to escape.

  The hum of the engine vibrates against my back. The hum of Linc’s touch eclipses it.

  He shifts again and pulls his mouth away. I am disappointed but it doesn’t last. He slides his body down mine, his bare chest smooth and hard where it drags gently against my hip, and trails kisses over my thighs. I still and suck in a breath. He slides his fingers inside me and then out one last time and pulls my panties aside. His tongue touches me, sliding and licking and exploring, and I’m carried off in a haze of bliss.

  In an instant, the heat coils and builds to a raging inferno. I grab fistfuls of his shirt and bite down on my lip, a sharp cry on the tip of my tongue.

  His mouth is relentless as it pushes me closer to the edge. I can’t hold on much longer.

  “Linc,” I manage as I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding. Release follows and my next breath is ragged as I inhale and exhale swiftly. My hips buck and rise. His hands cup my waist and he rises with me, never breaking the delicious rhythm of his tongue.

  When my legs stop trembling, he lowers me down and lets go. My breathing is still ragged as he places a final, lingering kiss at the edge of my panty line.

  He shifts and props himself on his elbow next to me, taking in my dazed expression with cur
ved lips.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I tell him when I find my voice.

  “Don’t say anything,” he says. “Otherwise, I might not stop.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He smiles. “We’re almost there. And while I know the paparazzi would love a shot like this one, it probably wouldn’t be good for your image.”

  I don’t ruffle at his reminder of our purpose tonight. My contentment is too complete, too thick to be ruined by reality just yet. I stare up at him, my lids heavy, my body sluggish. “Does it feel like that for all humans?” I think of the hardness I felt through his pants before he moved away from me. “Can I do it to you?” I add shyly.

  His eyes darken to something that reminds me of a swirling ocean storm. “You have no idea the things you do to me,” he says.

  I smile and reach for him but he stops me and sighs. “Unfortunately, you don’t have time to discover what those things are. At least, not tonight. We’re nearly there, angel. We better fix ourselves.”

  I scowl and Linc drops a peck on my cheek in consolation. He helps me adjust my dress and I watch him re-button his shirt while I smooth my hair into something presentable.

  By the time we arrive at Grundy’s, we’re upright in our seats, all evidence of our intimate encounter removed.

  Before the car even stops, flashes go off. The paparazzi are thick here too. Now that it’s dark, the sight of them reminds me of the night of Melanie’s assault in the alley, how I passed by all of those flashing cameras barely able to walk. Seeing them flashing like strobe lights, all trained on me, makes the bubbles in my stomach swish and swirl. Suddenly, the buzz caused by the champagne is not so enjoyable. The afterglow of the last few moments with Linc dissipates as reality sets in.

  This was a bad idea.

  Behind the safety of our tinted windows, Linc slides his fingers free of mine, reaching up to run them over my cheek in a quickly affectionate gesture that goes a long way in calming my anxiety.

  “How do I look? Is my dress in one piece?” I ask. His gaze sweeps me from shoulders to toes, taking in the slinky fabric that is rouched and printed with jungle vines to match my tattoos.

  “You look perfect. My Amazonian angel. And my shirt?”

  I inspect the space where a button used to be but it’s barely noticeable with his jacket positioned just right. The wrinkles are evident but it’s all we can do. “Just keep your jacket buttoned,” I say.

  “I wasn’t the one that unbuttoned it,” he points out. I try to smile but it falls short. “Are you ready?” he asks quietly.

  “As long as you’re beside me.”

  “In that case, we’re ready for anything.”

  He climbs out, holding the door open and extending his hand. I take it, careful to keep my contact light and strictly business, but still not willing to let go as he leads me past the buzzing and flashing.

  The cameras continue to click as we make our way inside and I’m not sure if it’s because of who I am or just who they think I am. The guest list for the show will no doubt include much more important people than me—even the Authentic version—and I can’t imagine they’ll waste digital storage space on me once the high profile players get here. But what do I know? Everything that should be important in this world isn’t—and everything that isn’t, is.

  “You’re doing great,” Linc says when we’re inside the elevator.

  I give him a grateful smile. “I’m glad you’re coming inside with me.”

  “Me too.” He squeezes my hand. “I enjoy being your plus one.”

  I make a face. “Even if it means answering idiot questions from senators?”

  “Even then.”

  “Be careful, bodyguard. You’re making this sound an awful lot like a date,” I warn.

  Linc’s expression registers surprise at my rare attempt at teasing. “Well, damn. Look at you. One vehicular orgasm and you’re talking trash.”

  I smile ruefully as the doors open. We step through and I’m swept up in the hustle and bustle of the show. We follow the crowd into a ballroom that has been transformed for the occasion. Billowing white sheets hang from the walls and move back and forth like ocean waves. I assume there is some sort of breeze being manufactured but I can’t find the source.

  White garland lights wind around vertical columns that have been erected in the aisles. To my left is a long runway raised several feet high with rows of chairs set around it. The walkway is lit with exposed bulbs on either side, each one a different shade of blue.

  Guests mill about, wandering to and from their seats and exclaiming over each other’s inspired wardrobe choices. The bar along the wall is surrounded by people knocking back drinks and inspecting the rest of us in a serious sort of way. Men and women in black pants and white button-up shirts dart around glancing wild-eyed at clipboards and speaking hurriedly into their two-way earpieces. The overall vibe is harried.

  “It’s crazy in here,” I say.

  Linc makes a grand sweeping gesture with his hand. “Welcome to the world of fashion.”

  “You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Come to these often?”

  “More than you have.”

  I poke him in the ribs.

  Linc leads us to our seats on the edge of the stage on the far right. Within moments of sitting, the lights dim and people scurry to sit. I look over to see the chair next to me being taken by a woman with bleach-streaked hair and a dress that looks a lot like cellophane.

  “Well, hello, Raven, darling,” she says with a smile that is full of sugary fakeness.

  “Hello.” I return her smile, hoping she doesn’t expect me to remember her name.

  “It’s me, Floriana Duganfell? From the charity board? We worked together on last quarter’s polling dinner for Senator Ryan?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s nice to see you out again. I trust you’re feeling better from your recent … experiences?”

  I can tell by her open-ended sentence she is fishing but I refuse to take the bait. I say only, “Yes, thank you.”

  She purses her lips, squinting at Linc as if trying to place his face against the list of names of who matter in her head. “And you are …?”

  “No one,” he assures her with a brilliant smile.

  The woman leans away, confusion dotting her features, and frowns. Before she can formulate a response, someone taps a microphone, the sound echoing, and the crowd hushes. I smother a giggle and in the darkness, I take Linc’s hand, tucking it discreetly between us.

  On stage, a slight man in tight pants and a too-small sport coat smiles at the crowd. His yellow-blond hair glows in the stage lights. “Can I have your attention, please?” he says, his voice nasal and high. “My name is Egleston Hawthorne. On behalf of Jorge Estrada and myself, I’d like to welcome you to Grundy’s for the annual summer collection preview. I think you’re going to love what Jorge has done this season. His theme this season is entitled ‘Sexentricity.’ Now, without further ado, the summer collection …”

  The man scoots off the stage as pulsing music begins and the first model appears from behind the curtain. A tall statue of a woman who’s only proof of mobility is one foot in front of the other. Her face is a controlled mask. Uncaring, devoid of life. But her face isn’t what they’ve come to see. It’s her wardrobe everyone applauds for.

  I can only stare in amazement. The woman on stage is decked out in some sort of metal contraption. It is strung around her body like rings on a planet. I can’t even see where they attach to her. The only fabric she wears is a piece of material stretched tight and thin over her chest and a pair of fitted shorts, equally small and snug, that barely cover her hind parts. Her hair is done in an elaborate twist with more metal rings floating around her head.

  “Whoa,” I say.

  “Ditto,” Linc whispers back.

  Beside me, Floriana claps excitedly, her attention glued to the contraption being modeled onstage. It shouldn’t surprise me
considering the cellophane dress. I have a feeling this woman will be first in line when the metal-ringed outfit goes on sale.

  The first model finishes her walk and disappears backstage. Right on cue, the next girl steps out. The applause pauses long enough for people to take in her ensemble. “Oohs” and “aahs” vibrate around the room. Then the clapping resumes and the words are drowned out.

  This girl is slightly less over the top, but it’s still ridiculous to me. Her hair has been somehow plaited and set in place to look like a fan sticking out of the back of her head. Her outfit, done in white and shimmering gold, has the same shape. A large tail protrudes behind her, thick and stiff so that it is a plaited fan that wraps around her waistline from left to right. Her shoes are platform sandals that give her at least another eight inches of height.

  “How can she walk in those things?” I whisper.

  “You don’t like the shoes? I thought for sure you’d want a pair.”

  Even in the darkness I can see his teasing grin. I stifle a giggle and catch my cellophane-clad neighbor giving me the evil eye. “Sshh!” she hisses.

  “Come on.” Linc rises from his chair and motions for me to follow.

  When we reach the end of our row, he pushes open an unmarked door and we slip through. The hall is dimly lit but empty. To the right, I can hear the hum of voices and assume it must lead backstage. Linc motions me left. We go a short distance before he pushes through another doorway. This one leads to a stairwell. As we climb, the layer of dust and grime coating the floor mutes the click of my heels. I am careful not to touch the railing.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.”

  We keep climbing until we run out of stairs. At the top, Linc opens a heavy door and ushers me out. I wait while he wedges something in the opening to keep it from locking.

  “What are we doing up here?” I ask.

  He shrugs as we wander the space. “I couldn’t take much more of plastic-wrap Medusa. I figured you could use a break too.”

  I curl my fingers around his. “It seems rooftops are becoming our thing.”