"Life is unfair," she said,
quoting Gautier. "Get over it."
"You make a mistake, Geneviève,"
Jacques called.
"You're the one who made the
mistake, Jacques, by assuming I'm Janine's and your daughter."
"But of course you are."
"No." She shook her head.
"I'm Yvette de la Roche's granddaughter."
She swore she could hear her
grandmother clap for her as she left the patio.
Eve met her with worried eyes and a
glass of champagne. "I didn't know where you went. Are you alright?"
"I'm perfect." She took the
champagne, saluted up toward her grandmother's perch in Heaven, and downed the
whole glass.
"Okay, then." Eve refilled
her glass. "You're doing okay. Good."
"Except for your shoes. They're
killing me." She shifted her weight from foot to foot. "How do you
wear them all day?"
"There's a price to looking
fabulous."
The price was too high for her. She
was taking them off first opportunity. After she took care of one little
detail. "Can I use your kitchen for a phone call, Eve?"
"Of course." Her friend
waved her away. "Go ahead."
Nodding, she strode into the kitchen,
pulling her phone out of the hidden pocket of her full skirt. It took a moment
to connect overseas, and then another minute to get past the receptionist and five
assistants to the person she wanted.
There was a second of disbelieving
silence when he came on the line. Then he said, "Geneviève?"
"Hello, Roger." She took a
deep breath. "We need to talk, please."
It was a sea of people, none of whom
Camille knew.
She did recognize some of them from
her mother's parties, but she was usually flying so far under the radar that
none of them remembered her. But tonight they were all here for her—to
celebrate her triumph.
She hated it.
She hated the people and how they
were all fake. She hated the way they groveled and kissed her mother's ass. She
hated the hubris that radiated from them.
Elizabeth was eating it up, though.
She flitted proudly from group to group, sipping her wine and smoking her
cigarette, greeting everyone with a falseness that set Camille's teeth on edge.
Had this scene always been so superficial?
Or was it just because she had comparison between the genuine caring Gwendolyn
had shown her.
She nibbled the edge of her nail,
looking around for Dylan. He'd promised to come tonight. At least in an email. She
could tell from the tone of the email he hadn't been excited about it, but he'd
promised, so she knew he'd show up.
She missed Dylan.
He hadn't talked to her since he'd
called to give her his CIA contact's information. She knew he was disappointed
in her. Truthfully, she knew where he was coming from. She was disappointed in
herself.
But she was going to change things.
Starting with tonight.
If—
when
he showed up.
"Camille." Elizabeth
swooped down on her, frowning. "Stop biting your nails and come meet my
friend, Jason Craven. He's the publisher at Hyde Street Books."
She let her suddenly proud mother
drag to meet the guy. At first glance, he looked skeezy, like he was only there
hoping to score with her mother, which had a high ick factor.
He shook her hand, too
enthusiastically. "I didn't realize Elizabeth had a daughter."
She wanted to assure him no one else
attending tonight did either, but then she saw Dylan's head and all other
thoughts flew from her mind.
The entire evening transformed.
Suddenly she felt like she had space within her to breathe.
Then she noticed the tall blonde next
to him. She couldn't miss the woman, not in that flaming red dress that hugged
all of her long sleek curves. Camille would have dismissed her except that Dylan
put his hand on her back.
The blonde shifted closer to him,
smiling the kind of private smile you gave your lover.
Intimate
.
"Camille, you're dripping on
me," her mother's harsh voice cut into her misery.
She looked down to see that her drink
was tipping over. She murmured something and returned her attention to Dylan
and the blonde, in time to see him kiss her cheek and walk to the bar.
He'd gone to get his date a drink.
He brought a
date
. To
her
party.
It was like a cold splash of water on
her face.
Camille tried to think about it
rationally. She hadn't told him he couldn't bring someone. It wasn't like they
had
that
sort of
relationship—they'd never actually had that date.
Her fault.
Then why did it feel like he'd
betrayed her a little bit? And why did she feel this angry hopelessness, like
she was about to lose something more important than anything she'd ever wanted?
Her mother's laugh jarred her out of
the moment. The sound was abrasive. Too loud. She looked over at her. Elizabeth
wore head-to-toe black, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other. She was smiling,
but her eyes were flat.
Camille blinked. Were her mother's
eyes always like that? She looked...
Unpleasant
was
the word that came to mind.
Was that what she wanted to become? It
made her feel itchy and uncomfortable on the inside.
What Gwen had said to her had weighed
heavily the past few days. Camille had been rethinking everything, really
thinking about what she wanted out of life. If she could be free and be
anything or anyone?
She'd write stories that made people
feel
, not articles no one cared about.
Dylan had been right.
Only she hadn't said
anything—to anyone—because she didn't want to rock the boat.
Elizabeth had arranged this party, and she hadn't wanted to upset her mother.
And when she tried calling Dylan, he hadn't answered the phone. She'd figured
she'd have time to tell him tonight.
But then he showed up with that
blonde...
Scared that she'd messed something
up, Camille shoved her glass at a waiter passing by and charged for Dylan.
She'd tell him, and everything would work out.
He turned right as she approached
him, as if he sensed her. Before he could say anything, she surprised them both
by grabbing his collar and kissing him.
When they finally parted, he looked
dazed and confused.
That made two of them. She touched
her lips, which still tingled. She'd had boyfriends since she was in high
school, but she'd never been kissed like that, and Dylan had been ambushed. How
would he kiss when he was completely into it? She licked her lip, imagining.
His gaze flicked to her mouth.
"Camille?"
Right. There was time for
daydreaming—and more—later. "I need to talk to you."
"That was an interesting way of
opening a conversation."
"That's what I want to talk
about." She stepped closer, pushing her nerves aside, and put a hand on
his sleeve.
Dylan squeezed her hand and then
lifted it from his arm. "Tonight's not a good time."
"You were right," she said
quickly, knowing that if she didn't say it all now, the moment would be
lost—Dylan would be lost to her. "You were right about everything.
About Elizabeth, about my writing, about my career. I should have listened to
you."
He nodded solemnly. "You should
have."
She heaved a deep breath. "But
I'm listening now. I'm listening to everything now."
He stared at her. Then he glanced
over her head.
She looked behind her shoulder. The
blonde watched them warily, question and confusion in her eyes. "Who is
she?"
"Lola? A friend of mine. She's
an author," he added.
And probably super-successful. Camille
felt both jealous and guilty simultaneously. She didn't want to hurt the woman,
but neither was she going to back off. She faced Dylan again.
He was staring at her. For once, she
could read his expression, and it didn't bode well for her.
"I'm sorry, Camille," he
said finally. He squeezed her arm and walked to the blonde.
Camille turned, watching him walk
away. He took the blonde's hand and said something to her as he led her out of
the bar.
Camille hadn't known he'd held her
heart until that very moment when she let him hand it back to her.
"
Camille
." Her mother's talons gripped her arm. There was a
smile on Elizabeth's face, but her eyes were cold with displeasure. "This
is an important night for your career and you're underperforming. You need to
focus."
"I'm going home."
She wasn't sure who was most startled:
her or Elizabeth. But her mother recovered first. "You can't go home. If
you leave, you might as well quit being a journalist."
"Okay." She turned to
leave.
Elizabeth grabbed her arm. "What
are you doing, Camille? Is this some stupid plea for my attention?"
"If I wanted your attention I'd
keep backstabbing people who've been nice to me and publish stories about them
in the paper." She extracted her arm. "But I don't have the stomach
to do that, even if it means you won't love me."
Elizabeth blinked but didn't say
anything.
Tell me you love me
. Camille waited, mentally urging her mother for something—any
little acknowledgement. But it didn't come. She wanted to kiss her mother's
cheek and tell her it was okay—that she understood—but she really
didn't. She just felt sad.
"Thank you for the party,"
she said politely, wishing she could say
I
love you. Please love me too
.
If wishes were horses, she thought as
she watched her mother whirl and return to her adoring friends.
Lola's idea sucked.
Gwen tugged the tight skirt down for
the hundredth time. She was sure she flashed at least half a dozen people as
she got out of the cab. Why would they think she'd be okay in a dress that was
shorter than most shirts, much less heels so high?
Granted, she looked fantastic. Her
body looked like it had curves that'd make the autobahn jealous. The red dress
was tight and left little to the imagination. She had her hair pulled back into
an elegant twist, and there was more paint on her face than on some of her
gourds.
She wasn't wearing underwear.
Taking a deep breath, she strode with
determination, up the two flights of stairs, down the hall, to the entrance of
Clancy Private Investigators. She stopped in front of it, her hand on the
doorknob.
What if it didn't work?
Lola had assured her it would. The
heroine always got the hero in the end, her friend said, as long as the hero
really loved her.
That was the part she wasn't sure of.
Olivia assured her he did, but you could love someone and be in denial.
Or it could have been about the sex,
which, admittedly, had been fantastic.
Or he could have decided she wasn't
worth the trouble.
"Stop," she hissed at
herself. She opened the door and strutted in like she owned the world.
Technically, she did.
Mamie Yvette had left her more than
her fair share of the de la Roche Corporation. When Gwen had talked to her
brother, he'd told her that Jacques wanted to sell the company and all its
subsidiaries to another conglomerate, and that he and Gautier were the only thing
keeping it from happening.
Did she have proof that what Roger
said was true? No. But she instinctively believed his version of the story.
She'd given him controlling rights to
her shares outright. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that Mamie Yvette would
have wanted that.
She'd actually
talked
with Roger, for the first time ever. It'd felt good. She'd
told him about her life and her art. She'd even mentioned Rick, and how she'd
messed things up but was going to rectify it. Roger had told her he had every
confidence in her. Apparently he'd met a divorcee who he wanted to marry.
Janine and Gautier didn't approve of her, of course. Roger said he didn't care.
Loving was rare, he'd said, and when you found it you held on with both fists.
That was what she was doing.
She closed the door behind her. Then
she locked it, just to be safe.
"Hello?"
His voice gave her goose bumps of
anticipation, right along the jangle of nerves in her belly.
She could do this. Nodding, she
walked into his office and leaned in the doorway, the way Lola had told her to
do. "I want to hire Sam Spade," she said in an especially husky
voice.
He didn't say anything.
At first she didn't notice, she was
so happy to see him. He looked tired but so...
So
hers
.
But then it registered that he was
watching her with a guarded look. She was starting to get worried when he said,
"Sam's taken."
"And you?" she said, hoping
she sounded hot instead of desperate like she felt.
He leaned back, his long legs
stretched on his desk. "Depends."
She leaned in, knowing her dress was
riding up her legs. "I think I've something that'd interest you."
"Really."
She stepped into the office and her
ankle turned. "
Fille de bordelle
,"
she yelled as she grabbed for a chair to steady herself.
Something in her snapped. She felt
the rage of having to hide herself for so many years, the disapproval and
ridicule from so many people.
That was it. From this point, she was
going forward the way she wanted, to hell with what anyone thought. Even Rick
Clancy—because if he couldn't love her for who she really was, then he
wasn't right for her.
"Are you okay?" Rick asked,
standing up.
"No, I'm not." Scowling,
she waved at herself. "This isn't me."