Page 39 of Power and Possession

Finally, my curiosity got the better of me. “Where are we going?”

Steele didn’t even glance over at me. Instead of his eyes on me while he drove, like past times, he focused on the road, like a racecar driver presented with a difficult course.

“The opera.”

That piqued my interest immediately. I hadn’t been to the opera in years, not since I was in high school. I loved everything about it, from the flawless singing to the tragic characters to the beautiful costumes.

I tried to contain my excitement, but it was hard. I’d had few pleasures since my imprisonment—one category aside—and it sounded like this could be an enjoyable night out.

“What opera is it?”

“La Bohème.”

Fitting. An opera set in France. But one that I loved dearly. A small smile played on my lips, and Steele looked over at me just as it flashed. He relaxed noticeably, and I did as well, even though I didn’t mean to. It was if we were a mirror image, both of us projecting on to the other, desperate to find our own reflection.

I did nothing to fill the silence on the way to the opera house. We pulled up to the parking garage, and Steele parked the car on the top level.

“Why did you park way up here?” I asked, a bit annoyed at the thought of having to walk down so many stairs. My feet weredoing better, but the high heels did not do them any favors.

“Security. It’s easier for my team to monitor from up here. They have the opera house surrounded, so don’t even think about trying to run.” He made a motion as if to grab my hand, but then flexed his fingers and anchored his arms to his side.

“Don’t you ever wish for a different life? One where you didn’t have to strategically park? No security team?”

“Miss Phillips, no matter what you do, you’ll be looking over your shoulder. Thanks to your father. At least right now I’m doing it on your behalf.”

“I refuse to accept that.”

“Denying it doesn’t make it go away.”

We made our way to the front of the opera house.

I walked in, and my breath was sucked out of my chest. The painted ceiling, the architecture, the carvings, the flooring…it was magnificent. Everything was either cream or gold, and the famous grand staircase loomed before me. The marble gleamed in the light, and my heels tapped gently on the steps as we made our way up to our seats. The second we got into the theater, Steele laced our fingers together. When our hands touched, I felt longing all throughout my body. Was this normal? Did I just miss the passionate sex we enjoyed?

Steele’s jaw tightened and he seemed to shift uncomfortably as we approached his private box.

“You have this all to yourself?” I looked around, red velvet and gold everywhere. It was like I was transported back to the 1800s.

“Let’s just say I can use it whenever I want. I have some very appreciative customers in the right places.”

Customers. I tucked the knowledge away for further use, but my suspicions about his occupation were confirmed yet again.

Steele guided me to a seat, and then sat next to me. The second he was in his chair, he placed my hand on his knee, the engagement ring on my hand sparkling in the light.

“Wethers!”

A gentleman dressed smartly in a tuxedo sat down on the other side of Steele. He was easily in his sixties. He started speaking to Steele in rapid French, and I understood a few words, but they both spoke so fast that it was hard for me to keep up. The man asked Steele about his plans for Friday, and I thought that the Louvre was mentioned. Was Steele going to take me to the famous Louvre on Friday?

The man’s eyes suddenly landed on me. From his quizzical expression, I knew he was asking Steele who I was.

“Forgive me, Masten, this is my fiancée, Ashlynn Phillips.” I held out my hand to shake his, but the man closed my palm and kissed the top of my hand. I could feel Steele’s body tense next to mine, and I watched the vein in his neck expand as he held his breath. As soon as Masten dropped my hand, Steele resumed breathing. It was hard for me to imagine Steele, who had everything, jealous over a simple greeting.

“Ashlynn Phillips? Are you related to Topher Phillips?” The man spoke in English, switching seamlessly.

“I am,” I said carefully, not sure how or why this man knew of my father. He was well known in New York, but here, in Paris? Just how far was my father’s reach?

Masten gave Steele a fleeting look, and I was instantly aware that there was some kind of shared knowledge between the pair. Before I could be so bold as to ask how Masten knew my father, he mumbled about leaving his wife unattended and bustled out behind the curtain partitioning our seats.

The house lights dimmed, signaling that the opera was about to start. Steele put his hand protectively around the back of my seat, and the smell of his cologne swept over me. His arm was so close to my shoulder that I could practically hear his Omega watch ticking.

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