Page 38 of These Thin Lines

But Chiaradidsee it, Vi was certain of it, because she still read Vi like an open book, and instead of skimming the surface, this time the amber eyes were delving in all the way.

And so Vi took off in the direction of the small alcove again, her outer thigh smarting with whatever bruise was forming from the fall and providing a welcome distraction from all the potential pain she didn’t want to think about.

* * *

When she emerged,the night was settling heavily outside the windows and the suspended lights of the studio came on. In a familiar pose, Chiara was bent over the workstation, the line of her neck and shoulders open to the cool air. Vi realized she must have lost a shirt button or two in their collision. It was transfixing, light and shadow playing on those chiseled collarbones, over the smooth blades of bone and sinew under translucent skin.

Chiara raised her eyes to Vi, lips wrapped around a pencil, and suddenly it didn’t matter that the gown was absolutely wrong for her, and that despite fitting perfectly, the color still washed her out.

It was the wrong gown, the wrong ball, the absolute wrong time. But this was the right woman. The only woman, and Vi looked away, if only to not allow the tears that were burning her eyes to fall. Love hurt.

10

ONCE UPON AN UNWELCOME REVELATION

Genevieve Courtenay usually could control her reactions very well. Especially on the day of a major event, such as the Blackthorne Ball on Lake Como. And especially when one was raised by Charles Courtenay, whose temper was explosive and often resulted in being grounded or dismissed from his attention for weeks, for those who dared to show any kind of emotion he disapproved of. So Vi knew how to school her features.

Thanks, Dad.

However, even years of humiliating remarks from her father did not prepare her for acting like a Sphinx when certain things were on display right in front of her. Like a half-naked model in an ivory gown Vi herself had worn many times—since she’d been the original mannequin—that was practically sewn on and who was splayed on Neve Blackthorne’s Louis XIV dining room table, with three of Frankie Lilienfeld’s fingers knuckle-deep, pumping inside of her.

Vi dropped her clutch and was eternally grateful the precious camera was hanging off her neck, because surely she’d have smashed the lens. Her stomach dropped, as usually happened to her in situations of heightened tension.

And there was a lot of tension, judging by the corded muscles and tendons on the long neck of the still-nameless model. She was clearly very close, and in observing said rapture, Frankie was equally distracted. But not distracted enough, because the second the clutch hit the floor, she turned, her handsome face undergoing quite a transformation from ecstasy to shock to fear and then to absolute rage.

Well, rage Vi was very familiar with, as well as screaming. Because a lot of it followed. Both from Frankie and from the model, as her lover wrenched her fingers from her.

“Frankie! For fuck’s sake!” The woman wailed, hands immediately clutching her underwear. She would have probably rounded on Frankie, but the latter was already in motion, wiping wet fingers on her purple corduroy trousers and striding towards Vi, who was standing petrified.

She only marginally registered the model, still ivory-clad and wincing in pain, flee through the opposite door. Vi had no time for other observations of any kind. She stood terror-struck, unable to move, like a deer in the headlights, even though Frankie was so very close now.

“I will end you, Courtenay!” and, “here you are, kiddo,” sounded at the same time, one from her front and one from behind her, drowning each other out. Vi suddenly found herself sandwiched between the enraged Frankie, who was desperately trying to reel it in, and a concerned and harried Aoife.

“What are you doing here?” and, “what is going on here?” were uttered similarly simultaneously, and now Vi wanted to laugh.

Aoife’s arrival had probably interrupted a scene that would have had disastrous results for all involved, because the remnants of Frankie’s earlier encounter were smeared all over her pants, and the remains of that insane rage were only now leaving her face. Aoife would have either witnessed the sex or the violence.

What would have happened, Vi couldn’t begin to guess, and she peripherally wondered if Frankie had known herself. Her anger was blistering, her fists clenched, and Vi doubted her mind had been fully engaged. Frankie had gone from lust to fury to now trying to hide the results of both.

Aoife, on the other hand, clearly had been rushed and busy and panicking over something or other related to the impending first-ever showing of the Lilien Haus Spring Collection, but now her eyes took on that absolutely focused sheen. They looked from Vi, pale and trembling, to Frankie, face and neck blotched, and back again to Vi, who was desperately attempting not to let her fear show, before finally zeroing back in on Frankie.

She pushed her way into the room, along with the still shaking Vi. With all the doors closed, including the one which the aggrieved model had used to flee, they were now in relative privacy.

In the silence, Frankie’s breathing was particularly loud, and Vi refused to look at her crotch to see if the zipper was down. But Aoife gave Frankie, who now hastily retreated to the bar and busied herself with pouring a rather large drink, a long, thorough once-over. Since she didn’t immediately tear into her, Vi assumed nothing was out of place. She wanted to sigh in relief.

“Now, Sully—”

“Spare me. Spare this kid, too. From whatever was about to happen here. Or has it already happened then?” Aoife’s accent was suddenly a lot more pronounced as her voice rose along with the question.

“No, Aoife—” Frankie took a long gulp of what looked like straight up vodka and Vi almost winced. That had to hurt.

“Shut up. Shut up, because I cannot deal with this now.” Aoife tossed her hands up in the air and walked back and forth across the room. She stopped, stomped her foot, gave Frankie a decidedly nasty glare, then looked at Vi. “Chiara needs you, Vi. They are about to start the preparations, and some of the models are already dressed. She said you should be out there since she wants backstage shots.” Vi almost collapsed from sheer relief, the weight of the impending confrontation suddenly lifting.

She took the camera strap off her neck and, brandishing it in front of herself, wanted to skip out of the room when a movement next to her caught her eye and she collided with Frankie. Hard. For once, it wasn’t her fault. In fact, she was absolutely certain Frankie had put her whole frame into it, into hitting as much of Vi as possible, and since she was sturdier, although also shorter, Vi felt every single one of those collision points.

Shoulder to clavicle, arm to sternum, hip to thigh... She staggered back and only belatedly realized that the whole front of her gown was now wet and so was the one item that was precious beyond all others. The camera was drenched.

“Oh, sorry, Courtenay! You should really watch where you’re going, even if you’re running to my wife.” Frankie laughed, and the sound of that pure, malicious glee, of that cheap shot, hurt more than whatever new bruises would bloom on Vi’s skin.

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