Page 15 of The Heiress

Oh my God.

What have I done?

I snatch my hand out of Lorde’s pants. The closer my hand gets to my face, the more I smell her natural scent. It’s so heady that my instincts tell me to fall face-first into her lap and go for it for all we’re worth. What the fuck!

“You okay?” The spark is gone from Lorde’s eyes. “Did something happen?”

Yeah, I let you finger me, asshole!

Holy crap. Holy shit. In a theater? At her mother’s movie premiere?

What the fuck am I doing!

“Daisy?”

I fix my clothes before standing up. Before Lorde can ask me what’s wrong again, let alone attempt to take me by the hand, I’m gone from the balcony and taking off for no place in particular.

You’re a bad girl and you should feel ashamed!I’d tell my conscience to take a hike, but I have no business telling that piece of shit anything right now.

Chapter 8

Lorde

Did that happen? Did I finger Daisy DeMonte in plain sight? Furthermore, did she give me a few complimentary touches for my diligent efforts?

Ho, boy.

It takes about five seconds to realize she’s run out on me. Well, me and my unzipped pants, which I quickly fix so I won’t embarrass myself when I race after her. Which I do, by the way. I catch glimpses of her brown hair and pink dress as it disappears around corners and past guards.

“Daisy!” She never responds. “Hey! Wait a sec! Let’s talk!”

Me? Talk? I must be high on her pheromones because Lorde Sheen doesn’t talk unless it’s dirty foreplay.

Daisy bursts into the lobby and stalls outside the main entrance. She probably doesn’t know where to go or if she should contact someone.

As I’m about to approach her and suggest we find somewhere private to talk, I bump into the one person I was hoping to avoid for a while.

“Lorde! Well, fancy that!”

I grimace, eyes darting between Daisy’s faraway figure and the woman now standing between us. “Mother,” I say with a sour grin.

Daisy turns around, gasping at the sight of my movie star mother and me conversing not too far away. I count my lucky stars that she’s not running away in terror.

“So good to see you here again.” My mother pats my arm and catches where I’m staring. “Who’s that? Some charming friend of yours?”

My throat is so dry that it feels like swallowing sandpaper whenever I try to speak. Here’s the thing: I have never, ever brought a girl home for my mother to meet. I have never voluntarily introduced her to a girl I’m sleeping with, or even casually dating. Nope. Not ever. It’s never been any of her business. Besides, I don’t want to get her hopes up. She would never understand that the women I’m with are nothing more than temporary acquaintances.

Sure, she knows that I have quite a voracious appetite and reputation. She’s even bumped into some of the girls I’ve dated and had flings with, but I’ve never introduced her to a girl I’m currently pursuing, let alone the girl I just fingered. Hopefully, she can’t tell what I’ve been up to. I woulddie.

“Mom,” I try to stay gracious as I suck Daisy into this terrifying fold. “This is Daisy DeMonte, of the department store chain.” I step aside, and my mother instantly gravitates toward the woman I would call my date. Run, Daisy. Why did you ever stop running? “Daisy, this is my mother… Camilla Sheen.”

Daisy shakily raises her hand for a friendly greeting. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Sheen. I love your work.”

“No, pleased to meet you, sweetheart.” My mother’s eyes narrow as she scrutinizes Daisy’s appearance, from her coifed brown hair to her powdery pink dress. What ensues is one of the most awkward minutes I’ve ever endured around my mother. This is a woman who has read all about my exploits in the tabloids and I’m sure has heard some naughty things on the grapevine. My mother is sexually liberal – how else do you think I came about? – but it can’t be pleasant to hear these things about your flesh and blood that you birthed during the peak of your acting career. What’s killing me is that Daisy isn’t anything like the other girls I’ve dated. There’s no reason for my mother to tear her apart with a mere glance. Yet here we are, and all I can do is rehearse how I’m going to apologize to Daisy later. If she’ll even talk to me, that is.

“I like your style, Ms. DeMonte,” the venerable Camilla Sheen says after that agonizing minute. “Fresh, but elegant.”

I sigh in relief. Daisy manages a small smile of appreciation. She has no idea what bullet she’s dodged by not making my mother think she’s some flashy heiress who barely knows how to slap together an outfit.

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