Page 4 of Bloody Lace

“What about you?” I ask, trying to quickly change the subject. “What do you do?”

For the first time, I see him hesitate. “You could say I’m in—upper management,” he says finally.

“Secretive. And suspicious, that you can’t just come out and tell me.”

“A little mystery is sexy, I hear.”

Not to me.In my experience, mystery means secrets, things that will come out and bite me later. I’d rather know who a person is, what they want, what I’m dealing with, up front. I don’t want to be surprised by who a person is, far off down the line. In fact, that caginess is exactly what I need to remind me that no matter how handsome Dimitri is, he’s someone I shouldn’t get involved with even for a night.

“You haven’t told me where you work,” he says. “Or what fashion house you design for.”

“You could find me, if I did.” I look up at his gorgeous blue eyes, a tiny flicker of regret flashing through me as I think of never seeing him again. But I know where my poor decision-making when it comes to men has gotten me in the past, and I’m determined not to go down that road. “And I think this is where our conversation ends, Dimitri. Thank you for helping me earlier, but it’s time we go our separate ways.”

The music is slowing, and I can see the disappointment in his eyes. “I was going to ask for your number. I’d love to take you out. I know this time of year can be busy, but?—”

“No.” The word comes out more harshly than I mean for it to, but if I give him even an inch, I’m afraid I’ll give in altogether. I can still feel the heat of his hand against my spine as I step away, and I take a slow breath, reminding myself that chemistry is just that. A spark that is easily doused. “I’m afraid not. Good night, Mr.--”

“Yashkov. Dimitri Yashkov.” He smiles at me, but there’s a hint of sadness to it now, too. “Evelyn?—”

“Good night,” I blurt out again, spinning on my heel, half afraid that it’ll fly off in my hurry and I’ll leave it behind like Cinderella, a way for Dimtri Yashkov to find me after tonight. But both of my shoes stay on my feet, and when I make it back to my table, my heart hammering, I no longer see him on the dance floor.

And as far as I know, I’ll never see him again.

2

EVELYN

ONE YEAR LATER

Icheck my watch surreptitiously as the woman sitting on the other side of the oval table between us fills out a check. I can’t remember ever having actually written a paper check in my life, but the woman who just approved the last stage of her dress fitting is seventy if she’s a day, so I expected it. She’s one of the clients I picked up from the Christmas party at the Met last year, and I’ve been more than happy with her business. Tonight, we finalized a New Year’s dress for her, which happens to be her fiftieth wedding anniversary, and she was thrilled with it in every aspect.

But, much like last year, I have a party to get to tonight. And, while it’s nowhere near as prestigious as Dahlia’s award’s gala last year, I don’t want to be late to this one, either.

The bell above my door rings, and I wince. I thought I’d locked up—Angela is my last client of the night—but I must have forgotten, or not turned it all the way. The lock has started sticking, and I’ve been so busy that I keep forgetting to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, getting up. “I’ll be right back. Someone just came in, and I should be closed for the night.”

“No worries, dear. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

The small parlor-style room we were sitting in is just off of the main space of my shop—which isn’t all that large. I see the person—theman—who walked in, and immediately stop in my tracks, frowning.

He doesn’t look at all like the sort of client who usually comes in. He’s wearing loose black cargo pants, a tight long-sleeved shirt with a slim-cut leather vest over it, with fingerless gloves and heavy combat boots, a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm. As he shifts, I think I see a bulge at his back, and my heartbeat speeds up just a little. I don’t run in the sort of circles where I see people carrying guns, but I have a suspicion that’s what that is.

“Hi—I’m sorry, but I don’t carry or design men’s clothing,” I call out, as politely as I can. “If you’re here to ask about a commission for someone else, I can give you my card, but you’ll need to come back in the?—”

“I’m not here for a commission.” His voice is gravelly, as if he smokes, too old for his face, which I see now looks to be the face of a man in his late twenties at best. My age, but he carries himself as if he’s much older, too, a threatening tilt to his posture that puts me on edge.

“What can I help you with, then? I’m afraid I’m actually closed, the door should have been?—”

He chuckles. “Locks don’t mean much to me, lady. I’m here for business.”

“I’m not sure what sort of business?—”

“Money.” The man steps closer, close enough for me to see his features in the low light, which frightens me. All of my internal alarms are going off, and I don’t think a man like this wants me to see his face unless he intends for me to do exactly as he’s asking.

“I don’t keep money here. Not more than incidental cash. No matter what you threaten me with, that’s the truth?—”

“I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here to offer you protection.”

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