Page 34 of Twisted Truths

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“If I find out you’re lying…”

I throw up my hands. “You’ll what?”

We stop at a red light, and he uses the opportunity to look at me, his gaze intense. “You don’t want to find out.”

That makes me a little nervous. “Well, it’s a good thing he wasn’t hitting on me then, I guess.”

The light turns green, and he speeds away from the intersection.

I study myself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom and can hardly believe it’s my own reflection I’m looking at.

A professional hair and makeup artist came to the suite to help me get ready. According to Obsidian, that’s how things work in their circles. My hair has been swept up in a loose, low bun except for two pieces that frame my face, and my makeup is heavier than normal but not too much. The pink on my lips matches my dress, and the cat eye she gave me makes me look sultry.

And the dress… wow. I thought it was too much when I tried it on at home, but Marcel assured me I would fit in with everyone here. I don’t know though. There’s more cleavage than I’m used to showing. It’s bright pink silk and strapless with a dip in the center that reminds me a little of something you might find in the fifties, except that it hugs my curves past my waist, and there’s a slit over my right leg.

An impatient knock sounds on the door, and I grab the evening bag off the dresser and stride over to the door. When I open it, Obsidian takes me in from head to toe. His gaze feels like he’s brushing his knuckles down the valley of my breasts.

His eyes heat for a moment before he covers it up with indifference. “Ready?”

I hate that seeing him appreciate the way I look sends a flare of desire through my limbs. What is wrong with me that I’m still attracted to this man? Why do I yearn to please him?

“Yup, let’s go.” I walk past him toward the door of the suite. I turn to hold the door open for him, but he still stands at my bedroom door. His eyes are closed, and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you coming?”

His head snaps up, and he glares at me, then stalks toward me in his tuxedo. He looks like the epitome of a powerful, rich, hot as hell man, and I suddenly understand what people mean when they say the man wears the suit, the suit doesn’t wear the man.

It’s an effort to keep the lust warming my veins from showing on my face. Instead, I mask it with irritation. “You’re the one who wanted to go, so let’s go.”

He comes to stand with me, too close, reaching over my head and holding the heavy door open for me, then gestures out into the hall. “Ladies first.”

He’s morphing into the charming version of Obsidian. Shaking my head, I step out into the hallway. This man, I swear.

A couple hours later, I stand at the edge of the dance floor with a glass of white wine in my hand, watching as Obsidian dances with some woman he was talking to earlier. She’s clearly a fan.

When I went over to try to relieve him earlier after he’d been talking to her for longer than his prescribed five minutes, he ignored my invitation to get out of the conversation and continued speaking with her.

Whatever. He’s on his own for the rest of the night.

Her head falls back in laughter at something he says, and my hand tightens around the glass.

So far, tonight has been a fancier version of all our meetings in DC. People make promises to each other in a “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” sort of way. There are lots of talks about investments, the economy, and the occasional moments of gossip.

If I thought I might enjoy tonight because I’ve never been to anything like this, I was wrong. Obsidian has entirely ignored me and that rubs on the old wound left after my mom’s abandonment. Which is completely ridiculous being that I barely know the man.

“Good to see you again.”

I turn to my left and see the aide I spoke with earlier today, Brandon.

“Hey, how are you enjoying yourself?” I sip from my wine.

He shrugs. “If you’ve been to one of these, then you’ve been to them all. But my evening would get better if you gave me that dance.”

His eyes are glossy, as if he’s had too much to drink.

I’m not sure if I should dance with him. Not sure if I’m allowed to. Obsidian didn’t say whether I was actually able to enjoy myself this evening.

As soon as that thought registers, I snarl in my head. One glance at Obsidian makes my decision for me. The woman he’s dancing with whispers something in his ear, and I watch as his hand slips lower on her back.

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