Page 18 of Skeletons in the Closet

“Good.” I spun and marched away, using the swagger Diem had requested, knowing where his eyes were the minute a string of nonsensical words fell from his mouth at my retreat.

I chuckled. I was strong and powerful, and most people underestimated me. I loved being in control. I especially loved ensuring men with macho attitudes knew I wasn’t someone they could manipulate. Diem fell into that category.

Most of all, I loved it when men wanted something they couldn’t have.

The event had opened its doors less than twenty minutes before we arrived. With the early hour, only a trickle of people flowed through them. A couple more had gathered on the street to chat or finish cigarettes they couldn’t bring inside. Most attendees wouldn’t arrive until at least half past or even closer to four. Fashionably late was the in-thing, so I anticipated that the real Xavier Downing from Critique Magazine had yet to make an appearance, which suited my plan.

As we crossed the street, I got into character, picking up my pace and letting Diem flounder to catch up. I hadn’t explained my method to the poor guy, but I was banking on him reacting appropriately enough to sell my story without coaching.

Two suited men with tablets were staged inside the front doors, checking tickets, ticking them off on a virtual list, and welcoming guests. The high-ceiling foyer was brightly lit, and fashionably dressed men and women mingled as they chatted. Luxurious lounge areas were spread throughout, and a cloth-covered table off to the side was set up with hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne. Freestanding banners occupied every nook and cranny, displaying new fashion designs I couldn’t wrap my head around. Memphis would have loved this.

I scanned the crowd as Diem and I approached the suited gentlemen, but I didn’t see the blonde beauty who was the focus of Diem’s investigation. Either Olivia Lansky was in another area or hadn’t arrived.

The tall gentleman on the left held out a hand when I drew closer. “Ticket, sir.”

Chin high, I spun on my heels to face Diem. “Find my ticket.”

Diem darted a panicked glance in my direction before surreptitiously eyeing the man working the door. Grunting questioningly, right on cue, Diem’s exclamation said everything and nothing, and it took effort to stay in character and not chuckle at his obvious discomfort.

“I need my ticket,” I said with an ounce of annoyance. “I gave it to you before we left the office. Get it.” Snapping my fingers, I pointed at the shoulder bag.

Diem blinked, scowled, and remained immobile and confused.

“Good grief.” I approached my adequately befuddled assistant and tore the shoulder bag from his arm, rooting inside as though searching for the nonexistent ticket. After a suitable amount of time had passed, I shoved the bag against Diem’s chest and lowered my voice for effect. “Where is it? Do you think Annette will be pleased when I tell her you fucked up and I couldn’t attend the show? This was supposed to be a featured piece. Now where is my goddamn ticket?”

Catching on, Diem shook his head and shrugged his shoulders simultaneously.

Feigning annoyance, I turned back to the tall gentleman and gave him a winning smile laced with embarrassment. “Apologies. They gave me a pit bull for an assistant. My usual guy is off sick. I told them I’d come alone, but no. Annette would rather make my life difficult. Now look where we are. You’ll find my name on your list. Xavier Downing. Critique Magazine. Or call my boss. Annette Blaise. She’ll tell you I’m supposed to be here.”

I subtly scanned the suited ticket-taker, trying to get a read on him. A high percentage of men in the fashion industry were gay, and if I sensed a pull in that direction, I might flirt to help my case, but the tall man in the suit was not giving off gay vibes, so I geared back.

The man studied Diem, shared a commiserative look with me, and scrolled through the list on his tablet before hitching his chin and inviting us inside. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” I said to the man. “Again, I apologize.” Then, to Diem, I snapped, “Come. Try not to trip on your feet or break my camera.”

I strutted beyond the ticket line, admiring the room, nodding and smiling at a few guests as though I knew them. People smiled back, likely assuming I was someone of importance they had yet to meet. I sauntered to the spread of snacks and secured a flute of champagne, sipping and sighing.

“Benefits of the job. Delightful.”

I smirked at Diem, who was giving me a death glare.

“Who’s Annette? Did you make her up?”

“No. She’s the editor in chief at Critique.”

When Diem looked almost impressed—a feat since his facial expression barely changed—I shrugged. “I did my homework. Don’t be so shocked.”

We mingled for a few minutes, and I mentally overlaid the floor plan I’d studied the previous night with the space we were in. Once I had it sorted, I found somewhere quiet to chat with Diem. The inconspicuous alcove was still in view of the guests but far enough away our conversation wouldn’t be overheard. Also, it was adjacent to the hallway leading to the janitor’s supply room.

“You did well.” I sipped more champagne, enjoying the fizzy bubbles as they danced over my tongue and tickled the back of my throat. When I offered Diem a sip, he shook his head.

His attention was on the crowd. “The minute the real Xavier shows up, your cover will be blown. We made enough of a scene that the door guy will remember us.”

“I’m aware. That’s why I’m tagging along with you.”

Diem’s head snapped around, and his gray eyes, tiny storms brewing in his irises, burned a hole through me from under the brim of his ball cap. “Excuse me?”

I set the flute aside on a decorative table. “You heard me.”

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